October 26, 2023

The Man

They used to call my brother “Butkus.”

Like probably half the boys in the Chicago area in the 1960s and 70s, my brother was referred to as Butkus because he was big. He was tough. He, like Chicago itself, could absorb a hit and loved the cold and kept on going.

Butkus. There was no greater compliment.

I was in New York when Dick Butkus died, far from Chicago, and I instantly texted my brother and my cousins and uncles—the ones who used to call my brother Butkus—Bears fans all of them.

Dick Butkus, the news reports said, had died peacefully at the age of 80.

Butkus did not live in Chicago anymore, but instead called California his home. The same with my brother. Maybe they lived near each other.

I was in New York to visit my aunt who moved there decades ago.

Eventually everyone leaves Chicago.

I wish I could say with honesty that I remember Dick Butkus playing linebacker for the Chicago Bears, but I don’t. He began playing before I was born and then I was too young to remember him playing when I was alive. I am sure there were Sundays, many of them, when my Dad and my uncles and my brother had the TV on when Butkus was terrorizing other teams and I was there. I am sure I saw him play.

But I don’t remember.

What I do recall is being about five years old and seeing Butkus on TV saying, “I used to play for the Chicago Bears but now I’m on a new team. The Ford Team” as he then encouraged us to buy a big, tough car. It was sad that Butkus no longer was on the Bears. I asked my mother about it but I don’t remember what she said.

If only we could recall every moment.

Butkus was born and raised on Chicago’s South Side and went to Chicago Vocational High School. My mom’s brothers saw him play. Then he went to the University of Illinois and was drafted by the Bears—along with Gale Sayers—in the first round in 1965. It was likely the greatest draft any NFL team has ever had, two Hall of Famers in the same round.

But Butkus and Sayers never made the playoffs. Not even once. And now they’re both gone.

Dick Butkus was Chicago. He was big. He was tough. He was respected. But he was not glorious. He was Chicago: almost always on the outside looking in at the beauty and the triumph.

Eventually, everyone leaves Chicago. Oprah Winfrey, Michael Jordan, Barack Obama, Dick Butkus, my aunts, my uncles, my brother.

But the comfort of the cold remains.

There’s a story about Butkus that I would bet a lot of money that one of my uncles, who also left Chicago and has now died, once told me. It was about seeing Dick Butkus push a car out of the snow. All by himself.

Some have said it was Bill Murray who told that story. Maybe my uncle heard Bill Murray tell it. All good stories have disputed origins. All legends have a thousand fathers and a million renditions. So it really doesn’t matter.

What matters is the image of snow falling on Chicago and the toughest sonofagun to ever live putting his shoulder to a metal bumper, pushing hard. --TK