They Don't Make Them Like Iron Mike Anymore: A Mike Ditka Appreciation Post

(MUST LISTEN RADIO CALL FOR THE BLOG)

Old school, true-blood Chicagoans will roll their eyes and say, "yeah, no shit, man, how have you never heard that before?" So let me start by apologizing, and telling you to choke on a kielbasa. Sorry but I had never heard that radio caller get fucking treated by Iron Mike before this past weekend. 

Holy shit, that was amazing. 

They really don't make them like Mike Ditka anymore. 

When I first moved to Chicago in the early 2000s, I thought the Mike Ditka thing was a bit. The shades, the sweater vests, the “Da Bears” chorus that popped up in line at a hot dog stand- it all felt like a running joke everyone was in on except me. Then I started listening and watching. One night, it was an old NFL Films reel. Another was a walk past Ditka’s Steakhouse with the wind cutting through my coat, and seeing a line of people outside waiting for their table to open up. A few bar conversations later- fathers talking about ’85 like it just ended last week- and the joke disappeared. It wasn’t parody, it was actually far from it. 

He started far from here, in Carnegie, Pennsylvania- your typical steel town, Polish-American family, work first, talk later. 

At Pitt he became the tight end who made coaches fall in love with the position- three-time All-American, hands like clamps, attitude like a doorman who never takes a night off. 

Back then, tight ends were basically extra linemen who caught a ball now and then. Ditka was the first to turn it into a full-time job.

Bettmann. Getty Images.

The Chicago Bears drafted him in 1961 and it felt like destiny. He played the game the Chicago way. Hard nosed as fuck. And he treated the middle of the field like it belonged to him- dragging tacklers, finishing runs, and changing the temperature of games. 

He left for Philadelphia, then Dallas, where he won a Super Bowl with the Cowboys, even scored in it, and by the time he was done he’d drawn up the blueprint for the modern tight end: He transformed the position from a sixth blocker into a tone-setter. He was Gronk before Gronk. 

Coaching came next for him. He learned under Tom Landry in Dallas- "the place you go to understand details" according to Ditka, and he brought that structure back to Chicago when he took over in 1982. 

Bettmann. Getty Images.

In 1985 it all broke loose- Bears 46 defense suffocating people, an offense that hit first and danced later, and Ditka on the sideline like a foreman in front of a blast furnace. 

You can quote the score of Super Bowl XX if you want, but I won't be. According to what I've been told, it was a months-long parade. Neighbors became teammates. Kids learned new words- toughness, effort, team, and adults remembered what they meant.

He was basically Bill Belichick if you were actually worried he might kick your ass. Say it, do it, don’t blink-that was Ditka. 

Tough, hard-nosed, straight ahead, just like Chicago. 

The stubborn streak, the sideline glare, the blowups- those weren’t flaws, they were the cost of a real standard. 

People here didn’t mind the rough edges because they knew they were honest. With Ditka, you always knew where you stood and exactly what the job was. And they loved him for it. 

Fuck, they still do. 

The Superfans skits are so funny because of how true they are.

After Chicago he headed to New Orleans (1997–1999), where he tried to impose that same standard, sometimes with mixed results. 

After he mortgaged the franchise's future on Ricky Williams, and that flamed out, broadcasting followed. With his sandpaper voice, straight shots, no teleprompter needed, he became a favorite. 

His image and personal brand turned into its own landmark: the steakhouses, the cigars, the sweaters, that scowl stamped onto hats and walls. So many stars fade into a logo. Ditka turned into neighborhood décor. It was crazy. You measure your assimilation here by how natural it feels to nod at a framed photo of him on your way to a table. 

You can't walk around Chicago without seeing his name or face on a billboard or an ad on something. And it's 2025. A few decades ago his name was on everything. Literally. Steaks, BBQ sauces, hot sauces, giardiniera, Italian beef, and of course wine and cigars. The list goes on and on but you get the point. 

It's also hard to go anywhere and talk or overhear football discussion centered on the past without hearing his name brought up. Just a few nights ago eating dinner seated at the bar at Volare, an older guy in a #89 jersey sits next to me, and got to telling me how Ditka would block like a guard, leak late, and punish a linebacker. A guy sitting a few seats away pointed to a signed black-and-white photo of him on the wall, “That’s what a leader looks like.” 

Chicago doesn’t gild the past. 

It remembers the swagger of the Super Bowl Shuffle and the sound of a defense unloading on third down. 

It remembers Ditka barking into a microphone and meaning it. It remembers that he went into the Pro Football Hall of Fame as a player in 1988 and stood there because he’d earned it inch by inch

Calling him one of the first great modern tight ends is accurate and still undersells him. 

He defined a position, then helped define a franchise, then helped define how a city sees itself. 

Some athletes just win. 

Some coaches just win. 

A few actually set the temperature. Anbd you feel it when you step out into January air. You feel it when a room warms up telling ’85 Bears stories. And you feel it when you arrive here from somewhere else and, through film, snow, and secondhand memories, inherit a hero.

And Nantz' story checks out - 

p.s. - awesome Ditka story.

When we first launched Barstool Chicago and nobody had a fucking clue who we were, I was pretty much Dan's assistant, booking agent, and cameraman. He made quick friends with Tom Waddle, and Waddle invited him to a special taping he was doing for The Waddle and Silvy show at Ditka's Steakhouse in Goldcoast and promised to introduce him to him.

We went, it was all media and die-hard Bears fans who had to have won contests to gain access or something because there had to be another 100 or so who didn't get in, standing outside just for a chance to see Ditka or get an autograph. 

We used to sell the most bootleg shirts back then. We would literally get an idea and throw it on a shirt. Didn't matter who it was, if it was copywritten, how offensive it was, it was the wild west. 

Dan had this guy Eric - who used to do a ton of graphics work for us on the side back then- make a caricature picture of Ditka, and we threw it on some navy shirts and threw them in the store. Ever the entrepreneur, Dan wanted to show Ditka, gift him some, and hopefully have a picture of him wearing one somewhere show up in the future. (Marketing 101). 

So my job was to hold the box of tshirts we brought, and have the camera ready to snap a pic when the time came.

Fast forward to the end of the live interview, Ditka is walking around shaking hands, taking pics, and telling stories. He was a natural. Everybody loved him. Waddle finally finds a chance to grab him by the arm and introduce him to Dan. Dan was explaining what he did and I don't think Ditka understood two words of what he was saying, but he was still interested. Then Dan asked for the shirts and I gave him the box. He couldn't get a shirt out of the box fast enough before Ditka's son swooped in and snagged it and held it up. He was blown away. He absolutely loved them. His father saw the cartoonish drawing of him and started chuckling to himself, saying "that's pretty good." 

Dan said he brought a box of them for him and handed them to his. His son grabbed them and said they loved them so much they were going to start selling them in their gift store downstairs. (When you walked into the main entrance of the retsaurant, in the lobby there was a check in host stand, a coat check, and a gift shop that sold the entire line of Ditka branded items.)

I'll never forget Dan's and my eyes locking and lighting up at the thought of finally something breaking our way and you could tell we were both thinking the same thing, "maybe we'll finally make some money here."

That was short-lived, sadly, because what Ditka's son had actually meant was that they were going to take the shirt and just make their own and start selling them in the store. Granted, it was his old man's own image and likeness, so I get it, but it just turned out to be such a stomach punch when we found out the bad news after getting so excited. 

At least they didn't hit us with a cease and desist.