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Steve McMichael (Mongo) Suffering with ALS - now HOF Bound

Hiphopopotamos

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ChiTownDoc

ChiTownDoc 21090

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51 minutes ago, pyrohornIII said:

Tragic.  What a way to have to end such a full life.   The pride of Freer.  I remember riding the elevator in Jester with him several times.  Always a smile on his face.

ALS truly is the worst.  I had nightmares about diagnosing someone with ALS via EMG.  Stay pretty coherent most times and know exactly what's going on and we can't do much of anything for it to this day.  Truly tragic.  Wish Mongo the best.  

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C-Man

C-Man 26982

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Sad deal. What a horrific disease. My first cousin's husband is battling ALS right now. He's a former commodities broker in NY and was playing adult baseball up until a couple of years ago. He is a total bad ass. They've tried everything -- and spared no expense. Hell, they went to the "miracles" church in France. We went to the Notre Dame-Clemson semifinal game at JerryWorld with him and my cousin a couple years back and his speech was starting to slur. (He's a huge ND alum and my wife went to Clemson.) He's not doing well at all now. Truly sad.
McMichael was a hoss at UT and in Chicago. I wouldn't wish ALS on my worst enemy.

Saw this got bumped and assumed I’d posted about my cousin’s husband, James. I got to see him over the summer at a big family get together to say goodbye to another cousin we lost to cancer during the pandemic at their beach house in Port A. James was effectively immobile. He was difficult to understand but we were able to have a good conversation anyways.

Hated seeing him that way but glad I saw him one final time. He died on 12/7/21. Fuck ALS.
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cactusflinthead

cactusflinthead 27593

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HOMER GLEN, Ill. — Outside, birds chirp relentlessly, signaling a brighter, warmer tomorrow.

Inside the bedroom of a brick ranch in a quiet subdivision, NFL Network plays on the television, but there is no sound.

Mostly there is the ventilator’s hiss. And the occasional six-tone alarm signaling that something isn’t working as it should.

This morning, there is laughter. Deep, hearty laughter from big men. They are rolling out old stories like dusty carpets, and they are chortling.

Steve McMichael makes sound, too. If he wants attention, he makes a noise like a duck quack.

When he speaks, he moves his lips, and you can hear the edges of his words, the hard consonants, but the insides of the words are hollow. It is a strain for him to talk.

Inside his bedroom, tomorrow and the promise those birds are chirping about isn’t important.

What matters is today.

Yesterday

“Ming The Merciless” they called him. Or “Mongo,” after the character in “Blazing Saddles” who coldcocked a horse.

The fool who once patted McMichael’s wife on the rear end could tell you why, assuming he was revived after McMichael had him facedown on the floor in a chokehold.

McMichael once threw a man through the wall of a restaurant. Another, he dragged through a parking lot. He bit another’s nose, leaving blood spilling down both sides of his face. And those were his friends.

Imposing his will came easily, whether he was crushing a rattlesnake with his helmet on a practice field in South Texas, powering his way through two blockers as a defensive tackle for the Bears, delivering a “Mongo Spike” in a WCW ring, or using a close grip to bench press so much weight at the University of Texas that the barbell bent.

McMichael and Dana LeDuc, his college strength coach, once walked into a Gold’s Gym in the Rio Grande Valley in South Texas. McMichael asked if they could get a lift in. The manager, having a little fun, told him they could work out if McMichael could break the gym’s bench press record of 500 pounds held by Cowboys offensive tackle Mark Tuinei.

McMichael calmly loaded up a bar and knocked out three reps of 520 pounds.

That astonishing strength showed up on football fields, too. Hall of Fame Washington guard Russ Grimm says it took multiple blockers to move McMichael, and for proof, he cited McMichael’s career tackles total of 847. In seven seasons, McMichael led Bears linemen in tackles.

“He’s one of the old-fashioned, blue-collar tough guys, like Randy White, Harry Carson, guys who you knew would give you a full day’s work,” Grimm says. “There’s no question I think he should be in the Hall of Fame. I’ll tell you this, if I started a football team, Steve McMichael would be one of the first guys I picked.”

He was about more than brute force and will, as his 95 career sacks attest. Sacks became an official statistic in 1982, but they have been tracked back to 1960. Among all true defensive tackles in the last 62 years, only seven have more sacks than McMichael, and five are in the Pro Football Hall of Fame. The two who are not are Aaron Donald, who is well on his way, and Jethro Pugh, who had 1 1/2 sacks more than McMichael. Defensive tackles with fewer sacks in the Hall of Fame include Buck Buchanan, Curly Culp, Joe Greene, Cortez Kennedy and Merlin Olsen.

Incredibly, McMichael never has been discussed as a Hall of Fame candidate. On a line with Hall of Famers Dan Hampton and Richard Dent and the celebrated Fridge — William Perry — it was easy to look past McMichael, who was voted to just two Pro Bowls. He was voted All-Pro four times, however.

And there is significant evidence that says he was a dominator.

Former 49ers guard Randy Cross considers McMichael one of the two best defensive tackles he lined up against, along with the Jets’ Joe Klecko.

“People ask me who the best pro and best player I played with,” former defensive end Trace Armstrong says. “I say Steve McMichael.” Armstrong also played with Hall of Famers Jason Taylor, Charles Woodson and Rod Woodson, as well as Dent, Hampton and Mike Singletary.

Proscout, Inc. is a respected consulting firm that grades players for NFL teams. According to Proscout, McMichael rated a “blue,” the highest ranking, in eight seasons. In another year, he was rated a “blue box,” which is like an A-minus. Proscout also ranked McMichael in the top five players at his position in the league six times.

“Those are Hall of Fame numbers in my opinion,” says Mike W. Giddings, owner of Proscout.

During the “Ming Defensive Dynasty” — from 1982 through 1991 — the Bears allowed the fewest points of any team in the NFL. They also were first in fewest yards allowed, rushing yards allowed and sacks.

If not for McMichael, the story would be different. The Bears would not have set the NFL record for sacks and yards allowed in 1984. They wouldn’t have become the most dominant defense in modern history in 1985. And they wouldn’t have set the record for fewest points allowed in a season in 1986.

None of the magnificent players on the Bears defense of the 1980s did more for the others than McMichael. Whether it was holding the “jump through” so Singletary could make the tackle, absorbing a double-team so Dent could make a sack, or staying in his gap so Hampton could leave his, McMichael understood better than almost anyone that nothing could be accomplished without unselfishness.

The great Bears all made one another better, but McMichael wasn’t dependent on his teammates. In the two years after Hampton retired, McMichael had 19 1/2 sacks.

“Even with all the talent they had, I always thought Steve was one of the toughest,” former Lions center Kevin Glover says. “I always tell people Singletary was the best inside linebacker I ever played against. And as far as interior defensive linemen, I’d have to put McMichael up there with all of the greats I played against. He’s definitely up there with Howie Long, Dan Hampton, John Randle, Jerry Ball and Reggie White. He’s in that group of guys.”

He was just always there, right where he was supposed to be, right when he was supposed to be.

McMichael never missed a game because of injury, playing in 207 straight non-strike games in 13 seasons with the Bears and one with the Packers — 221 straight, including the postseason.

Says McMichael, “I pushed myself to the limit.”

Hampton, a brother as much as a teammate, once said this of McMichael, “Steve’s attitude is, ‘Damn the future.’”

Today

Beneath a white plush blanket with pinkish/red hearts lies a man who is startlingly thin to those who remember when he was built like a water tower. Now his hair is the only thing about him that’s thick.

His feet hang over the edge of the bed. On his left heel is a bed sore.

Around his neck is the surgical tape that holds his tracheostomy tube in place. Between his chest and midsection is a feeding tube. Surrounding him is a ventilator, a cough assist machine, a saliva suction machine and an oxygen tank.

He can turn his head some. Maybe wiggle his fingers and toes a little. And move his legs back and forth slightly. His eyes are just as expressive as they used to be, and if you do or say something he doesn’t like, those eyes will make a point.

The rest of his body will not move.

About three or four years ago, McMichael started having difficulty gripping things. He couldn’t hold a fork the right way, unscrew a bottle cap or sign his name. There was a convenient, logical explanation: he had disc injuries in his neck from his playing days. Except his symptoms kept worsening. Driving became a problem.

In the summer of 2020, he went to see a neurosurgeon at Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minn. The doctor told him they thought he had ALS, or Lou Gehrig’s Disease, which attacks the nerve cells responsible for muscle control. McMichael didn’t want to believe it, so he returned for a second opinion. The second was the same as the first.

Then he went to Rush University Medical Center. ALS.

Northwestern Memorial Hospital. ALS.

The University of Illinois Hospital. ALS.

Accepting it may have been as difficult as dealing with it.

As the disease progressed, he and his wife, Misty, cleaned his closet. She put his cowboy boots in a pile of things that had to go. He loved those boots, and what they stood for. And so there were tears. “He knew he never was going to wear his cowboy boots again,” Misty says emotionally. “It was hard.”

The hardest period was last November and December. Fluid was building in his lungs, so McMichael was admitted to Silver Cross Hospital in New Lenox. It eventually turned into double pneumonia. During his month-long stay there, they called code blue for him three times.

As his stay was winding down, doctors advised that he spend the rest of his days in a nursing home. Misty would not have it. Shortly before Christmas, she showed up at Silver Cross dressed as Mrs. Claus and took her husband home, where he remains.

“She’s from South Texas, brother,” McMichael says.

Misty was hanging with a couple of friends at Pearl’s Oyster Bar in Austin, Texas, when one night was turning to morning 25 years ago. That’s when love came walking in. McMichael, with a ponytail down to his waist and Ray-Bans over his eyes, took a seat across from her.

Then he lowered his glasses.

Steve: “I don’t know what you think, but you can’t have me.”

Misty: “Who said I wanted you?”

The two nonconformists conformed to one another blissfully. On one knee in a gondola in Venice, he asked for her hand. Now they have been married for 21 years.

For a time, Misty traveled with Steve on the wrestling circuit. At one point, a match was proposed: Misty and Steve against his ex-wife, Debra Marshall, and her new husband, Stone Cold Steve Austin. “That’s when I decided he should call it quits,” Misty says. “I didn’t want anybody else to get hurt. I wanted to preserve him.”

She accomplished that goal.

“She’s the best nurse and caregiver,” he says, nodding to his wife.

It took Misty a while to work up the courage to put the feeding tube in. Now she feeds him every four or five hours. Instead of buying packaged food, she blends her own from fresh ingredients.

Misty is the one who changes the cannula in his throat.

She gives him a sponge bath.

She plays with his toes.

“The life I used to live is over,” says McMichael, 64 years old. “Now I’m glued to this bed.”

What does he miss about the life he used to live?

The taste of Wagyu filet. And pizza. About the only thing he gets to taste now is Diet Coke from a sponge on a stick.

He misses going to Home Depot with Misty.

Being able to scratch an itch.

The tingle from chewing tobacco in his lower lip.

The way a drag from a Marlboro Ultra Light fills up the senses.

The baritone notes he used to hit singing a song like “Gimme Three Steps” with Hampton and Otis Wilson in their band, Chicago Six.

For most of his life, McMichael spoke in short sentences. That habit has been helpful now that talking has challenges. Team Gleason, the charity of former New Orleans Saint Steve Gleason, loaned McMichael an eye-gaze device that generates speech. But he doesn’t want to use it as long as he can move his mouth and make sounds.

Given how he abused his body in football and wrestling, McMichael has extreme pain. He had eight knee surgeries, including a replacement. His neck, back, rear end, shoulder, elbow and hands bother him.

He takes morphine and CBD oil. And an antidepressant, Ativan, and Valium.

Misty and the nurses try to move him every couple of hours to avoid bed sores. Edema can cause problems, as can the blockage in his gut. McMichael was hospitalized this week because of the blockage, and doctors performed a cecostomy.

A few weeks ago, during one attempt to move him, McMichael nearly broke his arm. In early March, he sat in a chair for the first time since returning from the hospital in December, but he nearly passed out when he didn’t get enough oxygen.

Nothing has been easy. But McMichael said from the start he had no regrets. His suffering has not changed his thinking. It was his choice to play, he tells everyone, and he will not say there is a direct line between football and his disease.

Misty sees it differently. Taking care of an ALS patient costs a lot of money — more than they could afford. She sued the NFL, and he was given a settlement of $2.25 million.

The Bears donated a power wheelchair worth $100,000 that can be controlled with a straw. When Misty wanted a hospital bed that wasn’t for sale except commercially, Bears vice president Brian McCaskey found a way to get one. Then the Bears split the $14,000 cost with Anthony Tomaska, who once owned one of Steve’s favorite restaurants.

Some of their financial burden was eased by a GoFundMe that raised more than $200,000, as well as two charity events.

In the karmic way of thinking, all of it makes sense. McMichael says he raised more money for charity than he earned as a football player.

People have been kind. Hampton built a ramp to McMichael’s house to make it wheelchair accessible. Bears photographer Michael Kinyon installed mirrors on Misty’s bedroom door so she can see Steve when the doors are open. Former teammates have visited from across the country — one helped McMichael get medical marijuana before he had a prescription. Keith Van Horne watched the Super Bowl with him. He brought tequila.

McMichael, understandably, has ups and downs. But remarkably, he lifts the people who come to try to lift him. “I’ve got a good heart and mind about it,” he says. “Why be a miserable motherfucker until you die?”

Misty believes his attitude is enabled by the love that surrounds him. On a February day, his bed is ringed by former teammates Hampton, Gary Fencik, Mike Hartenstine, Jim Osborne, James Thornton and others. In the kitchen, there are pizzas and meatballs from his restaurant, Mongo McMichael’s in Romeoville. And in his bedroom, there are memories.

Fencik talks about the time they broke curfew and walked into a bar and found an assistant coach. “Steve told him, ‘If you squeal on us, I’m going to tell your wife you were in this bar with another woman,’” Fencik recounts. “No one squealed.”

Says McMichael, “It took more courage to go out with you guys at night than it did to face ALS.”

If the rest of him worked as well as his sense of humor, McMichael could bull rush a guard and put a quarterback on his back.

McMichael feels appreciation for his teammates and all who have touched him.

“Most people in my position have fair-weather fans who are only there for what they can get out of it,” McMichael says. “The people who have been here for me, their compassion shows you that you were loved and not used.”

“Amen, brother,” Misty says, her eyes moistening.

Tomorrow

When he finally grasped his diagnosis, McMichael had a request for his wife.

“Just kill me,” he said. “Give me an overdose.”

She refused.

“I’m selfish,” she told him. “I’m keeping you alive for my selfishness.”

Now though, McMichael wants to live. “See this?” he says, pointing to the breathing tube in his throat. “I chose that.”

McMichael still has tomorrows on his mind. He wants to open another Mongo McMichael’s restaurant at O’Hare Airport. His business partner Stavro Spandonidis is working on it, and McMichael keeps tabs.

He also is looking forward to publishing a children’s book that he conceptualized with author Wanda Osborne, wife of Jim. “The Golden Life of Little Steve” is about a boy who loses his ability to walk and uses a wheelchair. His friends Jimmy, Danny and Mike help Little Steve become accepted, and Little Steve becomes a star at the Paralympics. Some of the book’s proceeds will go to the Les Turner ALS Foundation, which has supported McMichael.

Mostly, he wants to live for Macy, their 14-year-old daughter they call “Baby Girl.”

“She doesn’t need her daddy to die any earlier than he has to,” says McMichael, who lost his stepfather when he was 19.

Misty wants to see him make it to Baby Girl’s high school graduation in 2027. And she wants him to live long enough for him to attend his induction into the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

Being a Hall of Famer would shape McMichael’s legacy. He prefers to be remembered as the Monster of the Midway he was, rather than that guy who died of ALS.

Death does not intimidate him any more than any New York Giant did. “I’ve already lived 10 lives, so I’m OK,” he says.

In each of his previous lives, McMichael never was described as graceful. But in the latest iteration, he shows exceeding grace. There is a calm about him, an unexpected peace.

In times like these, faith usually is either leaned on or abandoned. McMichael relies on his, acknowledging he never has been less in control. “We’ve been closer to God,” Misty says.

Doctors told him he could expect to live two to five years after the onset of symptoms. That would give him another year or two.

What do the doctors know anyway?

Maybe it will be more.

Maybe less.

Hampton is leaving.

“I love you, man,” he says from the foot of the bed. “I’ll be back to see you.”

That is the hope.

But what matters is today.

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wood

wood 11102

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Got dammit.

Fuck ALS. Several years ago, after months of doctor visits, a firefighter friend of mine was diagnosed with ALS. He kept working with us for as long as he could safely do so, but it wasn't long before he had to stop. He loved being a firefighter. So unfair. Having played small college baseball and high school hoops, he was the most athletic of all of us, too. He had the aggressive form of ALS & only lasted less than a year after that. One of the saddest things I've ever experienced was watching the rapid decline of his firefighting skills, athletic abilities, and indeed even the ability to perform the most mundane tasks we all take for granted, like getting dressed, walking, chewing, breathing, etc.

That up-close experience of watching his decline and his eventual death cast our crew's annual "Fill the Boot" MDA/ALS charity drive efforts in a new light. We were always in awe of people's generosity - often giving money when they clearly had little in the first place, and even when they didn't even know the cause, just because they "saw firefighters collecting & figured it had to be a good cause". 

Hookem Mongo ...

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Francisco 2.0

Francisco 2.0 32290

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My FIL lost his battle with ALS in late April this year at age 62. When he was diagnosed in late Spring 2021, he was himself.   From the moment of his diagnosis, he went downhill rapidly.

One of the saddest things I've ever seen as an adult was at Christmas 2022.  My wife and children, her siblings and their children and whatnot was at his home.  Kids opening gifts, people exchanging gifts and so forth.  I looked over to him and he was absolutely bawling his eyes out.  It hit me; he had no idea if this was his last Christmas or not.

A couple of weeks before he passed, he had almost completely lost the ability to make any kind of words, only some noises.   I was sitting in a chair beside him.  He reached out for my hand, looked at me, took a deep breath, and thanked me for taking care of his daughter.  I lost it.

 

Carry on everyone.

 

 

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Mikey4

Mikey4 2476

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5 minutes ago, Francisco 2.0 said:

A couple of weeks before he passed, he had almost completely lost the ability to make any kind of words, only some noises.   I was sitting in a chair beside him.  He reached out for my hand, looked at me, took a deep breath, and thanked me for taking care of his daughter.  I lost it.

 

Carry on everyone.

 

 

Damn, sorry for your loss. I had a similar experience when my FIL was in the final days of his battle with cancer. I promised to take care of his wife and daughter. I don't think anyone could keep his eyes dry in such a surreal moment.

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YGIFS

YGIFS 19449

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Loved watching him growing up play for the Bears.  Didn't find out he was a Longhorn until I had already been in Austin for a few years.  But that was such a cool nugget of info to find out, put a jolt in my step, and was all I could talk about the first few times I went home to Chicago for holidays, etc.  Cedric, Vasher, Melton and several others made an impact on the Bears (hopefully Roschon does the same), but McMichael was a larger than life character who also happened to kick much ass on the field and was a great community member off the field.  Hopefully he lives out his days in peace and can help spread his message a little bit more.

An aside, I never understand how local news archives work.  If they belong to the station forever, or if the network they belong to (NBC, CBS, et. al.) get the rights.  But for those of you about my age who grew up in/around Chicago.  I think there's a few of us on here...But McMichael co-hosted a Sunday night sports show with sports anchor Mark Giangreco (WMAQ, NBC affailiate Ch. 5).  They'd break down the Bears game, talk other sports, and a lot of comedy and hijinks.  McMichael came off as brash and offensive and would even insult Giangreco (cracking an egg over his face once, stirring his coffee with a switchblade, etc.).  It ended up being all a ruse like Kaufman and Lawler.  But the network had enough of Steve and shitcanned him in 1991.  But if anybody can find some of those show archives, it was Steve at his best.  Insightful, quick-witter, funny, humble but confident, those were a blast to watch.  I'd stay up until damn near midnight watching that show even though had to get up 6 for school.  If you have a chance give 'em a search.  

Love you Mongo.

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Hook1997

Hook1997 5266

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2 hours ago, Hiphopopotamos said:

Mongo made it out of the ICU and back home - and it looks like his dream of being an NFL Hall of Famer is about to be reality.  Several Chicago beat reporters are tweeting out that Misty and Mongo are 'expected to get the good news tomorrow'. 

 

Sucks he couldn’t have got the vote last year so he could have been at the ceremony atleast.  At the stage he’s at he won’t be at next year’s probably.  

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  • Catpfish changed the title to Mongo possible to the HOF
  • Hiphopopotamos changed the title to Steve McMichael (Mongo) Suffering with ALS - now HOF Bound
BonzoMontreaux

BonzoMontreaux 1033

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I am not the only one who sees this thread get bumped these days and has a moment of compassion hoping Life has let him go.

This is absolutely the best thing that you could hope for him outside of mercy.

Old Mongo giving a HOF speech would be a thing of beauty.  Wherever this year leads him, he can rest easy knowing he is a HOF'er. 

Once again, fuck off ALS and up yours Cancer.

 

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tx 3 putt

tx 3 putt 76121

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Steve McMichael

A long-haired roughneck out of Texas, "Mongo" became one of Chicago's favorite adopted sons and the senior finalist has now become a Hall of Famer. A 1980 third-round pick of the Patriots, McMichael would become a force for the Bears and a standout on one of the NFL's greatest and most revered teams: Chicago's 1985 Super Bowl winner. McMichael was a two-time Pro Bowler and two-time All-Pro with his first Pro Bowl selection coming during the '85 season. He was the embodiment of the Bears' ferocious 46 defense that plundered foes en route to a Super Bowl XX championship. An interior defensive lineman with a phenomenal pass rush, he posted 95 sacks, 847 tackles and 13 forced fumbles across 15 seasons -- 13 in Chicago and one apiece for New England and Green Bay, retiring after after the 1994 season. He had seven years with eight or more sacks -- second all time among defensive tackles. In 2021, McMichael announced he'd been diagnosed with ALS, but he's battled the disease since and has now been recognized for his gridiron glory all those autumns ago.

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deech

deech 2251

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I grew up in Chicago and went to the Chicago Bears training camp when I was something like 6 years old and got a picture with the guy.  As a result, he was one of my favorite Chicago Bears along with Payton and Singletary.  Congrats to a Longhorn legend (who I didn't even know went to UT until I saw this thread)!  

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ImissWallyPryor

ImissWallyPryor 9044

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50 minutes ago, deech said:

I grew up in Chicago and went to the Chicago Bears training camp when I was something like 6 years old and got a picture with the guy.  As a result, he was one of my favorite Chicago Bears along with Payton and Singletary.  Congrats to a Longhorn legend (who I didn't even know went to UT until I saw this thread)!  

That’s understandable. You knew him as Mongo, but his nickname at Texas was Bam Bam. He was one half of The Freer Twins (Bill Acker was the other twin). 

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