Steve McMichael was one of the faces of the great Bears defense of 1985, a great player and an even greater character. Now the neurological disease ALS is robbing him of his last strength, but he did not miss his chance to enter the Hall of Fame!
It is still summer. Pleasantly warm rays of sunshine warm up patios, make excursions possible, ice cream and fresh berries taste good. Scents and feelings are in the air, the days are bursting with energy under a blue sky. But the first signs of autumn can already be seen. The darkness comes earlier in the evening, the nights are getting cooler. The first leaf turns yellow, followed by hundreds and thousands more. Autumn is coming, like every year, with all its beauty, with all its transience. And the leaves will fall, unstoppable, merciless.
The difficult fate of Steve McMichael
Steve McMichael has hardly ever fallen in his life and when he did, it was usually upwards. It always seemed to be high summer in his heart, no matter whether he was chasing rattlesnakes as a child in the Texas countryside or chasing quarterbacks on the NFL fields. He did it with a smile on his face that seemed both unbridled and a little crazy, but ultimately represented an open door to his big heart. A tiny piece of that smile was also visible when Steve McMichael was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame.
But there was little else to remind us of the man that fans know from countless battles on the gridiron or in the wrestling rings of the 1990s. Steve McMichael has amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), an incurable, dramatic disease of the nervous system in which the body undergoes merciless degeneration. McMichael has long been confined to a bed; he can no longer walk or speak. His brave wife Misty has been caring for him selflessly in their own bed for years. Physically, he is now a long way from his All-Pro days, a shadow of his former self, the seemingly empty shell of a former football hero. Life expectancy with ALS is a handful of agonizing years at most. But Steve’s heart, that big heart, is still beating.
Magical times with “Mongo”
Maybe it only does because “Mongo,” as he was nicknamed for his resemblance to a character played by NFL Hall of Famer Alex Karras, had one last wish. One last big game, after so many before it. After Friday Night Lights in his hometown of Freer, after record-breaking days at the University of Texas, after a brief stint with the New England Patriots, and then after his great days at the heart of the fearsome Chicago Bears defenses of the 1980s. After battles that would have seen him break tables in the locker room or bang his head bloody against the wall. “Now we can play football,” he would smile then, a madman among madmen, always lovable in his own way for all his bravado.
“That’s you baby, forever.”
Steve McMichael, who was diagnosed with ALS in 2021, is officially inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame surrounded by loved ones ❤️ pic.twitter.com/9cDqUmhyiZ
— ESPN (@espn) August 3, 2024
The game was never really over when the final whistle blew; round after round the game continued at the bar, in the team plane or at any other suitable location. With his larger-than-life teammates or with wrestling legends like Ric Flair, with strong men and beautiful women who outsmarted the night and then two more 24 hours later. Mongo’s personality always kept pace with his gigantic appearance; he remained a loving friend, a close confidant and an empathetic people-catcher.
Transience in the NFL
It is probably also the reason why they all keep standing at his bedside, and not just during his induction into the Hall of Fame. The winners of Super Bowl XX, the Richard Dents, the Dan Hamptons, the Mike Ditkas and the countless others. They joke and laugh with him, barely letting the facade crumble, these heavyweight, once invulnerable ex-professionals with the gigantic crosses, for whom the burden of grief is also almost unbearable. They know that with every farewell of their companions, a piece of them goes, a piece of the National Football League, as it were. “I can still see him, how we played next to each other, and then suddenly you’re kneeling next to his bed,” says the legendary Bears linebacker Mike Singletary in a quiet voice. “It’s hard to understand.”
Ultimately, it is the tragedy that people call life, which can inspire in so many ways, not least through a wonderful side issue like sport, but which can also wander through valleys whose hellish sadness defies all words. But what about the dark valley, sometimes someone walks through it. Steve McMichael has spent the last few months playing with the last sparks of his legendary enthusiasm, suffering, fighting his way into what could have been his final overtime. At the end, his Hall of Fame bust stood next to him, the symbol of sporting immortality he had longed for. Perhaps his last great victory.
For one wonderful, memorable day in August, it was summer again. But autumn will come. And the leaves will fall, as they always do.
About the author
Moritz Wollert
Moritz Wollert writes for TOUCHDOWN24 about the NFL, among other things. For the monthly print magazine he writes the NFL History articles
