The voicemail was left with an odd combination of reluctance and concern.
Mongo, give a shout when you get a chance. Just wanted to check in.
Whispers had been circulating that Chicago Bears great Steve McMichael was coming apart physically and struggling to understand why.
What exactly was going on? Was there reason for worry? Any validity to fears that McMichael suddenly was face to face with a bleak diagnosis?
This was in February 2021, during a spike in the COVID-19 pandemic. Thus McMichael’s uncharacteristic absence from public view had gone mostly undetected.
For some in his inner circle, though, McMichael’s disappearance triggered uneasiness. He had been telling his closest friends more frequently about the problems he was having with his neck, his shoulders, his arms. Even when opportunities for autograph signings or on-air analyst roles were available, he declined or stepped away.
By that point, McMichael had been told by multiple doctors and specialists that he was almost certainly staring down the barrel of ALS. Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Lou Gehrig’s disease.
That was why his arms were tingling, doctors at the Mayo Clinic, Rush University Medical Center and UIC Medical Center explained. That was why his shoulders had been aching so badly. Why, at 63, his strength was diminishing much faster than it should have been.
That — and not a lingering neck issue related to his football and pro wrestling days — was why he was struggling to twist the caps off Coke bottles, why he was holding his silverware with a caveman’s grip, why his legs sometimes felt such intense fatigue.
McMichael’s brain and lower motor neurons already were losing their ability to communicate with his muscles. In the cruelest fashion possible, his body was powering down.
As that uppercut connected, McMichael wasn’t ready to accept or face his new dizzying reality, much less let the public in. His return call on that Tuesday night during Super Bowl week was made mostly out of courtesy with a touch of annoyance.
“Does it sound like there’s anything wrong with me?” he asked with that recognizable Mongo boom. “I’m thinking pretty clearly, baby. Certainly clearer right now than back (in the day) when I was letting the beast roam.”
McMichael said he appreciated the concern. He also wanted nothing to do with any of it.
Asked again about the severity of his ailment, he barked: “If this was something serious, wouldn’t you think that would be private to me and not anybody else’s (bleeping) business?”
That could have been it. With an abrupt thumb press, the call could have been over. Message delivered.
This doesn’t concern you.
Instead, McMichael stayed on the line and chose to grab the steering wheel. Like always, he wanted to talk. About anything. About everything and nothing all at once.
Even if this was just an audience of one, who was Steve McMichael to let an opportunity to entertain and preach and pontificate pass? Thus for 45 minutes, he sped through his stream of consciousness, driving the conversation through a hyperspeed bumper-car ring.
Gas pedal. Accelerate. Boom! Abrupt change of direction.
One minute McMichael was sounding off about the Jan. 6 insurrection in Washington. The next he was hammering former Bears kicker Cody Parkey for unwittingly putting himself in an express lane toward his infamous “double doink,” the biffed 43-yard field-goal attempt in the playoffs that ended the Bears’ 2018 joyride.
“That kid went on the ‘Today’ show and told the world: ‘Football is just what I do. It’s not who I am,’” McMichael said, clearly still exasperated more than two years after the kick. “Tells you a little something about what it really meant to him, doesn’t it?”
Then McMichael was swerving again. Another topic. Another tangent.
He ripped the usefulness of the NFL scouting combine. He talked with pride about the glorious rise of the 1985 Bears and the secrets to their success. He offered his pick for that week’s Super Bowl: the Kansas City Chiefs over the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.
“But,” he qualified, “if Patrick Mahomes grew up hero-worshipping Tom Brady? Ohhhh, boy. It’s hard to stick that knife into your hero’s heart now, isn’t it, baby?”
He laughed.
“God, I’m being philosophical tonight.”
Mostly, McMichael was doing what he loved to do. Opining. Holding court. Offering his unique brand of wisdom.
Deep down, he admitted a few months later, he also was avoiding what he suddenly hated — his cruel new reality and an intense and unfamiliar helplessness.
On that night, he would neither confirm nor deny his ALS diagnosis.
“Why don’t you call up the rest of my ’85 teammates and ask them, ‘What’s killing you?’” he said. “All of them will have their story too.”
Before ending the call, McMichael promised an update — at a later time.
“Don’t worry about me, baby,” he said solemnly. “Everything is going to be all right.”
He knew, though, he was lying.
II
Just a few months later, from a chair at his kitchen table, McMichael lamented his worsening condition.
“This?” he said. “This isn’t living, baby.”
On that spring afternoon, McMichael had decided to pull back the curtain on his battle with ALS, finally letting the public see what he was going through. He no longer had use of his arms. He needed assistance to use the bathroom. He had to crane his neck forward to suck sips of coffee from a straw.
“This,” he repeated, “isn’t living.”
Somehow that brutal acknowledgment didn’t carry an ounce of self-pity. It was a reality spoken out loud, the significance dropping with the weight of a 1,000-pound anvil.
- Former Chicago Bears player Steve McMichael gets help from his wife Misty eating lunch, April 22, 2021, at their Romeoville home. McMichael recently lost use of his arms after being diagnosed with ALS. The new ramp to the garage behind them was built by former teammate Dan Hampton. (Brian Cassella/Chicago Tribune)
Former Chicago Bears players Steve McMichael, center, and Dan Hampton, right, laugh as they greet each other before the ALS Walk for Life at Soldier Field, Sept. 18, 2021, in Chicago. McMichael, who was diagnosed with ALS, received the Les Turner ALS Foundation Courage Award during the opening ceremony. (John J. Kim/Chicago Tribune)
Steve McMichael is displayed on the video board as he is inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame during the enshrinement ceremony at Tom Benson Hall of Fame Stadium on Aug. 3, 2024, in Canton, Ohio. (John J. Kim/Chicago Tribune)
Misty McMichael raises Steve McMichael’s gold jacket during the Pro Football Hall of Fame Enshrinees’ Gold Jacket Dinner at the Canton Civic Center on Aug. 2, 2024, in Canton, Ohio. (John J. Kim/Chicago Tribune)
A Bears fan wearing a Steve McMichael jersey celebrates during the Pro Football Hall of Fame enshrinement ceremony at Tom Benson Hall of Fame Stadium on Aug. 3, 2024, in Canton. (John J. Kim/Chicago Tribune)
Steve McMichael and his wife, Misty, along with former teammates, are displayed on the video board as he is inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame during the enshrinement ceremony at Tom Benson Hall of Fame Stadium on Aug. 3, 2024, in Canton, Ohio. (John J. Kim/Chicago Tribune)
Kathy McMichael, sister of former Chicago Bears player Steve McMichael, shows off the gold jacket he received Aug. 3, 2024, at his Homer Glen home. (Chris Sweda/Chicago Tribune)
Bears great Steve McMichael in 2005 with his dog, Chula. (Charles Cherney/Chicago Tribune)
The big screen shows images of Chicago Bears great Steve McMichael as players head to the locker room at halftime of a game against the Tennessee Titans at Soldier Field in Chicago on Sept. 8, 2024. (Chris Sweda/Chicago Tribune)
Drummers and bagpipe players from the Emerald Society of the Chicago Police Department perform Aug. 3, 2024, outside of the home of former Chicago Bears player Steve McMichael in Homer Glen. (Chris Sweda/Chicago Tribune)
Malia Mrozek, 4, wears a a Bears jersey adorned with the name Mongo along with the number one as fans gather Aug. 3, 2024, outside the home of former Chicago Bears player Steve McMichael in Homer Glen prior to McMichael being inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame. The Mrozek family live in the neighborhood. (Chris Sweda/Chicago Tribune)
Former Bears player Steve McMichael stands at his Romeoville home April 22, 2021. McMichael had recently been diagnosed with ALS. (Brian Cassella/Chicago Tribune)
Former Bears player Steve McMichael on April 22, 2021, at his Romeoville home. McMichael had been recently diagnosed with ALS. (Brian Cassella/Chicago Tribune)
Steve “Mongo” McMichael at his Mongo McMichaels restaurant in Romeoville on April 25, 2019. (Zbigniew Bzdak/Chicago Tribune)
Steve “Mongo” McMichael at his Mongo McMichael’s restaurant in Romeoville on April 25, 2019. (Zbigniew Bzdak/Chicago Tribune)
Steve “Mongo” McMichael at his Mongo McMichaels restaurant in Romeoville on April 25, 2019. (Zbigniew Bzdak/Chicago Tribune)
Steve McMichael performs with other members of “The Chicago 6” in Grant Park on July 25, 2019. (Armando L. Sanchez/Chicago Tribune)
Former Bears football great Steve McMichael, who was running for mayor of Romeoville, in his campaign office on April 2, 2013. (Chuck Berman/Chicago Tribune)
Steve “Mongo” McMichael at his Mongo McMichaels restaurant in Romeoville on April 25, 2019. (Zbigniew Bzdak/Chicago Tribune)
Steve McMichael has a laugh before battling Corey Wootton in a mechanical bull riding competition at Union Station in Chicago on March 4, 2011. The event was held to kick off the Professional Bull Riders’ inaugural Chicago Invitational this weekend.
Former Bears quarterback Jay Cutler, left, talks with former Bear Steve McMichael before the Bears host the Green Bay Packers at Soldier Field, Sept. 5, 2019. (Armando L. Sanchez/Chicago Tribune)
Steve McMichael at Bears Camp in Lake Forest on Aug. 28, 1990. (Charles Cherney/Chicago Tribune)
Steve McMichael enjoys a respite on the Bears bench, circa 1991. (Bob Fila/Chicago Tribune)
Former Bears quarterback Mike Tomczak (18) is greeted after a game at Soldier Field by the Bears’ Steve McMichael (76), who tackled Tomczak several times during a 27-13 victory over the Packers on Dec. 8, 1991. (Bob Fila/Chicago Tribune)
Steve McMichael gets his arms around the legs of Packers quarterback Jim Zorn during the Bears’ 16-10 victory over the Packers on Nov 3, 1985, at Lambeau Field in Green Bay. (Ed Wagner Jr./Chicago Tribune)
The Bucs James Wilder is stopped by the Bears Steve McMichael (76) and Wilber Marshall during a game in Oct. 1987. (Ed Wagner Jr./Chicago Tribune)
Steve McMichael lights up in a smile as he and Jay Hilgenberg leave the field after a Bears victory over the Buccaneers on Dec. 14, 1991, at Soldier Field. (Nancy Stone/Chicago Tribune)
The Bears defensive tackle Steve McMichael (76) in action during the Bears vs Green Bay game in Wisconsin on Nov. 5, 1989. (Bob Langer/Chicago Tribune)
The Eagles’ Anthony Toney runs with the ball, attempting ot evade the Bears’ Steve McMichael during their game at Soldier Field on Dec. 31, 1988. (John Dziekan/Chicago Tribune)
The Bears’ Steve McMichael bears down on Tampa’s Steve DeBerg on Sept. 20, 1987, at Soldier Field in Chicago. (Ed Wagner Jr./Chicago Tribune)
Steve and Debra McMichael sit in the living room of their home in Mundelein on July 22, 1987. Debra won the Mrs. Illinois contest and will go on to represent the state in the Mrs. U.S.A. contest in Las Vegas. (Ron Bailey/Chicago Tribune)
Defensive tackle Steve McMichael takes a breather on the sidelines during a Bears game, circa 1989. (Chicago Tribune historical photo)
Bears’ defensive tackle Steve McMichael, center, is back and ready to play against Seattle at Soldier Field on Sept. 9, 1990. (Bob Langer/Chicago Tribune)
Defensive tackle Steve McMichael is one of 12 Bears who have a legitimate spot at making the NFC Pro Bowl team this season, circa 1985. (Ed Wagner Jr./Chicago Tribune)
The Bears’ Dan Hampton exchanges high-fives with Steve McMichael after Hampton stuffed San Francisco fullback Tom Rathman 44 in the second half. (George Thompson/Chicago Tribune)
Defensive tackle Steve McMichael as quarterback for the Bears? No, but coach Mike Ditka, whose imagination knows no bounds, did mention William “The Refrigerator” Perry as an emergency QB, circa 1985. (Bob Langer/Chicago Tribune)
Steve McMichael laughs during Bears practice at Platteville, Wisconsin, on July 22, 1993. (Nancy Stone/Chicago Tribune)
The Bears’ Steve McMichael in an undated photo. (Chicago Tribune archive)
The Bears’ Steve McMichael, from left, Ron Rivera, Mark Bortz, Tom Thayer and Kurt Becker work out, circa 1987. On Sunday they’ll be idle for the second straight week. (Chicago Tribune historical photo)
The Bears’ Steve McMichael sacks Lions quarterback Eric Hipple on Nov. 10, 1985, at Soldier Field. The Bears won 24 to 3. (Bob Langer/Chicago Tribune)
The Bucs’ Steve DeBerg looks for a receiver, but all he sees is Bears’ Steve McMichael closing in on him in during game play in 1987. (Charles Cherney/Chicago Tribune)
Steve McMichael reacts after the Bears stopped the Miami Dolphins on Nov. 24, 1991, at Soldier Field in Chicago. (Hung Vu/Chicago Tribune)
Steve McMichael shows off a copy of his book on the 1985 Chicago Bears during the Chicago Tribune’s Chicago Live! event at the Chicago Theatre Downstairs on Feb. 10, 2011.
Steve McMichael mugs with Mike Ditka at a Bears event in Rosemont on Aug. 1, 2005.
Former Bears player and Romeoville mayoral candidate Steve McMichael waits to give a TV interview moments after giving a concession speech after losing to incumbent John Noak on April 9, 2013.
Former Bears defensive tackle Steve McMichael arrives at an advanced screening of “The “85 Bears” documentary about the Super Bowl XX champions on Jan. 27, 2016, at the AMC River East 21 theater in Chicago. This year marks the 30th anniversary of the Bears’ win.
Steve McMichael chats with Police Chief Mark Turvey as McMichael attends a Romeoville village board meeting on Jan. 2, 2013. McMichael has announced that he is running for mayor.
Steve McMichael joins fellow Bears teammates as the Chicago Bears honored the 1985 team at halftime of a game against the Ravens on Oct. 23, 2005.
Former Bears defensive tackle Steve McMichael with his wife Misty at an advanced screening of “The “85 Bears” documentary about the Super Bowl XX champions on Jan. 27, 2016, at the AMC River East 21 theater in Chicago. This year marks the 30th anniversary of the Bears’ win.
Steve McMichael salutes the fans during the 6th Annual Bears Fan Convention at the Hilton Towers on Feb. 21, 2003.
Mortality had its grip on McMichael and, contrary to his entire life, he couldn’t wriggle free.
That’s the astonishing cruelty of ALS, a disease harsh enough to floor the charismatic and seemingly indestructible McMichael. It withered away his hulking frame and robbed him of his Texas amble. It muted his booming voice and infectious laugh and even stole his ability to swallow.
ALS left him immobile, bedridden and mute for the final years of his life and ultimately escorted him to his final breaths this week. After 67 years, 6 months and 6 days of a remarkable, rollicking, hard-working, laughter-filled existence, McMichael died Wednesday.
Instantly, his oft-suggested approach to life seemed to echo through Chicago and beyond. In that deep and authoritative tone, of course.
Your journey is your reward, baby.
McMichael’s journey seemed like it had been dreamed up in the pages of a tall tale, an extraordinary story about a kid from southeast Texas who became a fascinating, rowdy and widely beloved character across many forums.
He was a football legend, first at Freer High School, then at the University of Texas and, most notably, as part of the 1980s Bears, a key piece in one of the most feared defenses the NFL has ever seen.
Former Bears quarterback Mike Tomczak (18) is greeted after a game at Soldier Field by the Bears’ Steve McMichael (76), who tackled Tomczak several times during a 27-13 victory over the Packers on Dec. 8, 1991. (Bob Fila/Chicago Tribune)
He later became a professional wrestling showman, a member of the Four Horsemen on the WCW circuit.
He was an Emmy Award winner — and quite proudly too — for his obnoxious early 1990s postgame appearances with Mark Giangreco on NBC-5’s “Sports Sunday,” an unrestrained carnival that was somehow bawdy and witty, calculated and disorderly all at once.
Most of all, McMichael wanted it known, that show was entertaining. And that was part of his self-appointed mission. To take every opportunity he could to entertain.
He later molded himself into an excitable radio analyst, a published author, a sports bar owner and a guitarist/vocalist for The Chicago Six, the band he performed in with former Bears teammates Dan Hampton and Otis Wilson.
To the end he was immensely delighted that he was, in his self-confident words, “blessed with such wonderful range.”
McMichael emphasized in just about every conversation that he did things because there were things to be done. Around every corner — after each sunrise and many times before — there were moments to enjoy, experiences to be had.
Anyone who spent even five minutes with McMichael knew he would have kept life’s party going forever had he been given full authority. No flicker of the lights. No closing time. Just an endless supply of laughter and revelry.
Yet even when ALS showed its cruelest intentions, McMichael worked to ease the grief of friends, family and random strangers.
“I’ve already lived 10 lives,” he would say.
Then he quickly would launch into another story from one of them.
III
On the afternoon McMichael publicly revealed his condition and prognosis, he worked as hard as ever to keep the mood light, to combat the tears with punchlines, to replace the worry of those around him with his unmistakable positive energy and his deep vault of stories.
Perhaps you had forgotten that one of the most menacing defensive tackles in NFL history excitedly took on a role as an arena football coach — for seven seasons. From 2007-13, McMichael shared his enthusiasm and football knowledge with players grasping for opportunity with the Chicago Slaughter.
In 2009 he helped that team win the Continental Indoor Football League championship. The next year, in a bid to win the Indoor Football League title, McMichael’s team was back on the playoff stage in South Dakota. Before a do-or-die game against the Sioux Falls Storm, the jitters were pulsing through him.
Kickoff was nearing, yet McMichael was still in the visiting locker room trying to gather himself. Slaughter running back Jarrett Payton looked with confusion when he heard the showers running and noticed a dense fog rising.
“I had the steam turned on high so no one could see me in there,” McMichael said. “Smoking a cigarette. Just puffing away.”
As the last player out of the locker room, Payton smiled at his coach, then laughed.
“He looks at me and says, ‘Let’s get this “W,” baby,’” Payton said. “And I run out onto the field smelling like smoke.”
“The damn nerves, brother,” McMichael added. “Those kids scared the (expletive) out of me.”
Even with all the struggle McMichael was enduring, you could have stayed all day and listened to his stories, reflections and jokes.
“You’re certainly welcome to,” he offered.
Then he broke into a wide grin.
“Stick around. You can help wipe my ass later.”
His eyes were bulging and his grin was almost mascot-sized. Naturally, McMichael had made himself laugh again.
“Woooooo!” he said. “This is a humbling thing, brother.”
Even in a state of overwhelming vulnerability that day, McMichael felt an obligation to retain his presence, to be the emcee and the mood-setter. That’s who he always had been, not only capable of commanding attention but thrilled to do so.
He reveled in the company of others, especially those who looked at him with admiration.
“If you think I’m something special, I’m happy to agree with you,” he used to boast.
Sure, that was said with pride and self-confidence. But McMichael also had a disarming way of communicating that showed he truly enjoyed the company.
When he was with strangers or even casual acquaintances, he recognized that, for them, it was often a moment, something they likely would tell their friends and family about. Thus he wanted them to remember the experience in the most positive way possible.
McMichael rarely just crossed paths with a stranger. He left an impression. That’s why Chicago will remain filled with stories from Average Joes and Ordinary Janes who happened to run into McMichael at a bar, a golf fundraiser or a sports memorabilia show.
Maybe it was at a fantasy football convention or at the airport. Or after McMichael’s band had finished a concert and he was guzzling a few cold ones and holding court, telling off-color jokes and sharing embellished stories from the gridiron and beyond.
IV
On a Thursday night in 2019 at McMichael’s sports bar in Romeoville, after first sharing a plate of nachos and then conducting a lengthy interview, we returned to the display case near the main bar for an informal homily on the paths life can lead a man down.
What a menagerie that was.
Behind the plexiglass were symbols of McMichael’s versatility. A framed certificate acknowledging his enshrinement in the College Football Hall of Fame hung not far from a box of plastic WCW figurines: McMichael, Ric Flair, Chris Benoit and Dean Malenko.
Steve “Mongo” McMichael at his Mongo McMichael’s restaurant in Romeoville on April 25, 2019. (Zbigniew Bzdak/Chicago Tribune)
A commemorative Bears Old Style can from the 1980s — with Walter Payton pictured on it — sat next to a coffee mug with the scores of the 1985 team’s games. Even with 18 victories listed, McMichael singled out the one loss: Miami Dolphins 38, Bears 24 on “Monday Night Football” in early December. Almost 34 years later, that one blemish on an iconic season still gnawed at McMichael.
Only partially joking, he suggested that Dolphins coach Don Shula ordered the grounds crew to soak the Orange Bowl field that night to slow the Bears’ vaunted pass rush. How else could anyone explain a defense that posted 64 sacks that season taking down Dan Marino just three times?
“We were running in mud!” McMichael bellowed. “Listen, baby, I was out all night on South Beach the night before. It didn’t rain a drop. Then I walk out on the field and my cleats are sinking into mud?”
Wait … was McMichael insinuating Shula was capable of dirty pool? His smile grew.
“I’m not going to disparage the incredible character of Don Shula,” he said. “But I do know what goes on in the minds of men.”
The results on that coffee mug, of course, ended with the Bears’ 46-10 thrashing of the New England Patriots in Super Bowl XX on Jan. 26, 1986. That prompted McMichael to point to a photograph of the ’85 Bears’ 2011 visit to the White House, just a couple of dust swipes from a replica of the Lombardi Trophy.
A case could be made that McMichael symbolized the ’85 Bears as well as anyone, arguably the most colorful character on the most celebrated team in Chicago sports history. On game days, he was a tenacious, in-the-trenches brute, strong and spirited and, most of all, determined.
Away from the field, he was a hellion, a mid-20s party boy — often obnoxious, sometimes crude and always looking to be a source of entertainment and comedy.
McMichael appreciated the gift of being surrounded by Hall of Famers: Payton, Hampton, Mike Singletary, Richard Dent, Jimbo Covert and Mike Ditka. He also loved that he found a way to keep up and become a tone-setter himself.
“In 100 years (of Bears history),” he said, “I’m one of the ones who enjoyed it the most.”
And lo and behold, McMichael, too, was selected to the Pro Football Hall of Fame. That honor became official at the NFL Honors event in Las Vegas during Super Bowl week in February 2024. McMichael watched from his bed in Homer Glen, surrounded by a small group of family, friends and former teammates.
His younger sister, Kathy, insisted in that moment that she could hear the echo of their mother, Betty Ruth, shouting like she always had from the stands when Steve made a big play.
That’s my baby!
“We waited for this for a very long time,” Kathy said. “And it’s just amazing that he gets to be a part of this. That’s all we wanted was for him to know that he was going to be in the Hall of Fame and live there for eternity.”
Steve McMichael is displayed on the video board as he is inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame during the enshrinement ceremony at Tom Benson Hall of Fame Stadium on Aug. 3, 2024, in Canton, Ohio. (John J. Kim/Chicago Tribune)
Six months later, McMichael was formally enshrined during ceremonies in Canton, Ohio. At his bedside, McMichael was draped in his gold Hall of Fame jacket and surrounded by loved ones.
His wife, Misty, did the honors of unveiling his bust.
“That’s you,” Misty said. “Forever. … So proud of you. That jacket fits you nice.”
Beside her, fellow Hall of Famers Singletary, Dent and Covert offered congratulations.
“You’re in football heaven,” Dent said. “Forever.”
V
As the conversations multiplied and our relationship deepened, McMichael often accompanied his football stories with unsolicited tidbits of life guidance, followed by random Mongo-isms.
“Sometimes a man is faced with a choice,” he would say. “Does he want to be famous? Or does he want to be infamous? Either one will get you the cover of Time magazine. Think about that.”
And you’d be lost in deeper thought until the next witticism came.
Bears great Steve McMichael in 2005 with his dog, Chula. (Charles Cherney/Chicago Tribune)
“That ’85 Bears defense instilled fear, baby,” he’d proclaim. “You hear me? We had that fear factor. We were ferocious. That’s why we’re in the conversation as the best of all time.
“But listen, brother. If you really want to see the biggest, fiercest people on the planet, go to the midnight feeding on a cruise ship, baby!”
And then you were just laughing.
As a reporter, McMichael frequently reminded me, there was a time in his life when he probably would not have been as warm and engaging. Had we been contemporaries in the mid-1980s, odds are good he might have insulted and offended me at some point. Probably more than once. In those days he had a reputation for being, well, a bit edgier and more hostile toward media members.
“Reporters would get their feelings hurt when they’d come into the locker room right after a game and get snapped at,” McMichael said. “What the (expletive) did you think was going to happen when you come to a dogfight and jump into the ring right after it finishes? That’s what you’re going to get. Just realize that.
“Now, the next day after the dogfight, after that vicious dog has been fed, you might just be able to pet that (expletive).”
VI
Whenever McMichael put himself back in the most exhilarating moments of his football life — pregame, walking out of the tunnel and onto fields in the Southwest Conference and later the NFL — his reaction was almost Pavlovian.
His eyes bulged like a surprised cartoon character. The hair on his arms stood up. The volume of his voice rose as he remembered the maniacally driven state he would reach.
“Walking out of that tunnel to the roar of that crowd,” McMichael said, “I know how a Roman gladiator used to feel.”
He would shake his head and take a deep breath.
“That,” he said, “is when you’re really alive, baby.”
Nothing got McMichael’s juices flowing like football, baby. It was the one craft that pressed his competitive buttons while teaching him about the addictive pursuit of excellence. It was the sport that activated his intense drive and showed him the value of a group’s unity.
It also offered him a stage. And, damn, did he love that too.
McMichael often pointed out that 33 of his games with the Bears ended with him receiving a game ball.
“As a defensive tackle!” he would exclaim. “I’ll make the claim that there has never been a (expletive) defensive tackle who has gotten that many game balls, brother.”
One of them came on Nov. 4, 1985, the day after the Bears rallied to beat the rival Green Bay Packers 16-10 at Lambeau Field. McMichael’s fourth-quarter sack of quarterback Jim Zorn for a safety provided the momentum swing.
Steve McMichael gets his arms around the legs of Packers quarterback Jim Zorn during the Bears’ 16-10 victory over the Packers on Nov 3, 1985, at Lambeau Field in Green Bay. (Ed Wagner Jr./Chicago Tribune)
While Ditka didn’t recognize that contribution immediately after the game, defensive coordinator Buddy Ryan singled out McMichael in the next day’s defensive meeting.
“You earned this, son,” Ryan said, flipping him a ball.
For McMichael, whose quest to impress Ryan and earn his trust provided the ultimate fuel, there was hardly a more invigorating four-word compliment.
That’s some of what he was chasing during those 191 consecutive regular-season games plus 12 playoff games he played for the Bears from 1981-93. He played through cracked ribs and on sprained ankles and once fought through a hyperextended elbow.
Tapping into that combination of toughness and pride and team dedication, he said, provided some of his greatest rushes.
Being part of the iconic ’85 Bears, of course, elevated McMichael’s fame and gave him staying power in the public eye. He never took that for granted. But he frequently bristled at criticism that the team was a one-hit wonder, that it should have accomplished much more.
“Who said?” he would contest. “Some mother(expletive) who has never done it themselves?”
The Bears, McMichael proudly pointed out, won the NFC Central six times during a seven-season span while he was starting. From 1984-88, they won 62 regular-season games and played in nine postseason games. (For comparison, over the last 28 years, the Bears have won five division titles and played in only nine playoff games.)
For anyone who griped that the 1980s Bears captured only one Lombardi Trophy, McMichael always had his retort.
“How many did you win, big shot? You really want to talk about the rise and the fall of the ’85 Bears? Son of a bitch, you never rose!”
VII
As ALS weakened him with one demoralizing defeat after another, McMichael realized he was in a battle he could prolong but never win.
“I promise you: This epitaph I’m going to have on me now ain’t what I ever envisioned,” he said.
Still, he promised to dig in and find every ounce of effort he could lend to the struggle. He knew no other way.
“That’s that ‘it’ they’re always looking for at all those scouting combines,” McMichael said. “The fight. I ain’t ever going to stop giving that.”
At some point, however, McMichael’s waking hours became the ones he frequently dreaded, wanting in the most un-Steve-McMichael way to hurry up and get back to sleep.
“I don’t dream as a cripple,” he explained. “When I’m dreaming, I still have the use of my arms and my legs. So that is my new reality.”
For those close to McMichael, the initial diagnosis proved confounding. Having to watch his rapid deterioration became emotionally taxing. The loud, burly raconteur who always filled a room with his size and his voice, with his presence and his desire to be the center of attention, now couldn’t use his arms or legs. McMichael was vulnerable and frustrated.
In the early months after the diagnosis, Hampton admitted the roller coaster was disorienting.
“We’ve gone from being incredulous to mystified to feeling sorry for him,” Hampton said in the spring of 2021. “My goodness. This is Steve McMichael. Larger-than-life Mongo. Sacking quarterbacks, in the wrestling ring, yelling at people on television. … For 40 years, I’ve known Steve as the loud, bawdy hell-raiser who was the life of the party. He was always the first one you’d notice.”
And then, almost overnight, McMichael was bedridden and falling apart.
“The cruelties of life,” Hampton said. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”
Hampton never did fully wrap his brain around it, through years of watching his close friend deteriorate, even through countless trips to McMichael’s bedside to keep him company and evoke a smile. With every visit, Hampton felt how engaged McMichael was, how cognitively sharp he remained, how conscious he was of everything happening around him and to him.
Former Bears players Steve McMichael and Dan Hampton talk before the ALS Walk for Life at Soldier Field on Sept. 18, 2021. McMichael received the Les Turner ALS Foundation Courage Award during the opening ceremony. (John J. Kim/Chicago Tribune)
“It’s incomprehensible,” Hampton said in the summer of 2023. “To be so aware of everything and yet you have virtually no ability to affect it, it’s crazy. And think about it. A normal person might take their physical (capabilities) for granted. But as athletes, we had to hone ours.
“That is what is incomprehensible — how you could go from where, on a chart (of physical prowess), you’d be at the very, very tippy-top. And now your body is essentially useless. It’s a shame. It’s hard to believe.”
Added Covert: “It’s really hard to describe your feelings. Because prior to this, he was such a strong personality and such a physically strong person. Then when you see him like that, it’s just heartbreaking.
“Yet he’s still there (mentally). He’s still all there. You can see it in his eyes. You can see he’s the same person. Steve always had a strong will, a strong personality, a strong mind. That’s the difficult part.”
In a word, Hampton said, it was all so surreal.
“When you’re a little kid and you’re seeing your grandparents and they’re old and feeble and at the end, that’s kind of the way you remember them,” he said. “But I don’t remember him as the guy in the bed. I remember him as the guy who was in the huddle or we were having fun on the golf course or playing in the band.
“I lament everything. It’s incomprehensible what has happened.”
At the start of his battle with ALS, McMichael offered gratitude for making it into his 60s before the life-altering illness took over. He repeatedly thanked the Lord for steering him away from chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE) or dementia or any other variation of brain damage that so many of his NFL brothers had to deal with.
“Even if I could, I don’t know that I would change my condition (from ALS) to brain damage,” McMichael said. “Because then you don’t even know you’re there, baby. I know I’m here. I still have opinions. Believe me, I still have opinions.”
As if anyone ever would have doubted that.
With everything ALS stole from him, McMichael never had second thoughts about the journeys he took.
“(Expletive), yes, I would do it all over again,” he said. “Even if it meant I was going to get ALS at 63 years old, I’d go back and do it all over again. … If I wouldn’t do it all over again, what would I have to remember?”
The reflection was sincere.
“I’d do it all over again,” he said, “because that climb (and the experience) of playing that game defines me.”
In the next breath, naturally, he cited the poetry of Dylan Thomas.
“I’m not going to go gently into that good night,” McMichael vowed. “Rage against the dying of the light.”
In vintage McMichael form, he raged as long as he could, determined to make his presence felt for as long as possible. On Wednesday, he moved on to whatever is next.
