Chicago lost one of its true originals this week. Steve "Mongo" McMichael, a man who embodied the Bears' grit and the city's larger-than-life spirit, passed away after a four‑year cage match with ALS at age 67. 

Even if you weren’t glued to Bears games every Sunday, if you loved old-school football, you probably heard of Mongo. The guy played every down like it was the last snap of a championship game; then he spent the next few decades telling those war stories with a Texas drawl and a grin that made you feel like you were right there in the trenches with him.

McMichael’s Hall of Fame bust might be new, but his reputation has been set for decades. Around Chicago, he wasn’t just a player—he was a character, the kind you tell stories about long after the game's over. News of his passing hit hard, but over at Halas Hall, it’s been more about celebrating those memories — the ones guys like Richard Dent and Ric Flair have been sharing nonstop. That’s how Mongo would’ve wanted it: crank the volume, tell the stories, celebrate the ride.

From Cut in Foxboro to King of the Midway

McMichael's NFL career didn’t exactly kick off with a bang. New England grabbed him in the third round in 1980, but after six games, they decided he wasn't their guy and let him go. George Halas signed the 23‑year‑old cast‑off in ’81 and issued the simplest marching orders ever:

Son, I've heard what kind of [expletive] you are in practice. Don't change.

Mongo never did.

Building the Ironman Streak

By ’83 he was a full‑time starter, anchoring Buddy Ryan’s 46 defense like a brick in the doorframe. From ’81 through ’93 he played 191 straight games — a Bears record and a perfect example of how guys back then played through anything. 

Seven straight seasons hitting seven sacks or more, three safeties, and enough backfield messes to drive offenses crazy. That was McMichael — no flash, no shortcuts, just a guy who showed up every week, put his hand in the dirt, and made life miserable for whoever lined up across from him.

The Peak: ’85 and Everything That Followed

The 1985 Bears weren’t just good; they were a traveling demolition crew, and McMichael was the jackhammer in the middle. Eight regular‑season sacks, one more in the 46‑10 Super Bowl XX beatdown of the very Patriots who cut him, and a first‑team All‑Pro nod. 

He lugged that resume into two Pro Bowls, a pair of first‑team All‑Pros, and three second‑teamers. Mike Ditka still swears Mongo was "the toughest dude I ever coached,” which is like a bouncer calling you scary.

Mongo, the Brand Before Branding Was Cool

Wrestling Rings, Radio Mics, and One Very Loud Restaurant

Retiring from the NFL didn't mean he was done working. In 1995, McMichael jumped from shoulder pads to spandex, jawing alongside Lawrence Taylor at WrestleMania XI before joining WCW’s Four Horsemen stable. He even snatched the U.S. Heavyweight title — because of course he did. 

Off‑camera, he opened Mongo McMichael’s steakhouse in the suburbs, coached the indoor‑league Chicago Slaughter, blasted hot takes on Chicago radio, cut a country‑rock album with The Chicago Six, and somehow squeezed in a run for mayor of Romeoville. The man treated retirement like a second rookie season.

The Everyday Chicagoan

What stood out most wasn’t the trophies or the titles — it was how much he showed up for the people of Chicago. Golf tournament? He’d be there, Sharpie in one hand, beer in the other. Local fundraiser? He’d hop on the mic, tell a story, crack a few jokes, and pass the hat. Mongo wasn’t putting on a show — that’s just who he was.

The Fight He Couldn’t Out-Muscle

In January 2021, doctors dropped the three letters every athlete dreads: ALS. McMichael announced it in April of that year, promising to attack the diagnosis the same way he attacked double‑teams. Within a year he’d lost weight, the use of his arms, and eventually his booming voice, but the sense of humor stuck around longer than his biceps ever did.

Richard Dent, Dan Hampton, Mike Singletary — all the old crew — kept dropping by his house in Homer Glen to tell old stories and crack jokes, trying to get a smile out of him. The McCaskeys made sure he had what he needed to stay home, and Bears fans chipped in whatever they could to help with the bills. That's just how it goes when you're family in football. 

Most guys take pictures with Hall of Fame jackets in Canton. McMichael took his in bed, giving a little grin that said everything he couldn't put into words anymore.

The Final Whistle

When the news broke on the night of April 23, 2025, it didn’t take long for the football world to react. Jarrett Payton was the first to share it publicly, and not even an hour later, social media was packed with tributes, photos, and old stories about Mongo. The next day at their draft party, the Bears put together a tribute video to honor McMichael. They played some of his greatest moments, handed out little Mongo pins to the fans, and made sure the night wasn’t just about new beginnings, but about remembering a guy who helped build what the Bears stand for.

George McCaskey's statement nailed exactly who McMichael was — a guy built on toughness, but remembered just as much for the heart and humanity he showed when life threw him the hardest punch:

It's a cruel irony that the Bears' Ironman succumbed to this dreaded disease," Bears chairman George H. McCaskey said in a statement. "Yet Steve showed us throughout his struggle that his real strength was internal, and he demonstrated on a daily basis his class, his dignity, and his humanity. He is at peace now. We offer our condolences to Misty, Macy, the rest of Steve's family, his teammates, and countless friends and fans of a great Bear.

Ric Flair, never one to hold back, tweeted that he’d just lost his best friend.

Keeping Mongo's Story Alive

The best way to honor McMichael is to make sure his legend lives on by telling his stories. Tell the one about the night before Super Bowl XX, when Buddy Ryan told the Bears he was leaving, and McMichael hurled a chair into a chalkboard to snap everyone back into focus. Tell the one about his wild pregame ritual of banging his helmet against a bathroom wall to fire himself up. Tell the one about him cracking eggs and spraying shaving cream on his co-host during postgame shows just to keep people laughing.

And, maybe, borrow a page from his script: live big, laugh louder, and never mail in a play — or a day. Because when the clock hit zero on Steve McMichael, the scoreboard still read: Mongo 67, ALS 0.