The '85 Bears: We Were the Greatest by Mike Ditka, Rick Telander
Authors: Mike Ditka, Rick Telander
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feet when the fight happened between Bortz and McMichael, and I don’t think Buddy moved, either. It wasn’t that I wasn’t concerned, but some things have to be settled without a lot of interference. And what could I do, anyway?
McMichael, that’s just the way he was. He was a tough Texas boy, a free agent we picked up because he had tons of heart. He was a little out there at times. They said he wore his clothes in camp until he had a pile of dirty stuff, then he’d just turn the pile overand wear it all again. One of his hobbies was rattlesnake hunting. But he would get in your face and never shy away from anything. I love Steve McMichael. Bortz was quiet, a six-foot-six, 270-pound guy from a little town in Wisconsin, who had been a defensive player and co-captain at Iowa. He was a defensive lineman before he switched to offense in the NFL, so maybe that had the two of them going a little bit.
One problem we had was we were always going against our own defense in practice, and sometimes they were so fired up that we couldn’t get a damn thing accomplished. I’d yell at Buddy, “For Chris-sake, we’re not playing the Bears next week!” But there was tension—football is a mean game—and those defensive players had great chemistry and great pride. Buddy had them cranked up like assassins. They’d run that “46,” and it was like there were 50 killers on the line ready to slit your throat.
But then—and I think it may have been a week or so after we had bailed out the defense against Tampa Bay—we finally got the defense’s respect. The exact date of a lot of these things gets blurry. It wasn’t like I was keeping a diary, and after coaching the Bears for 11 years, I may get some things jumbled. But you don’t forget the moments that jump out at you, the ones that changed things. At any rate, we were at practice, no media was around, and McMichael was mouthing off to the offensive line. Who knows who he was pissed at. But Jim Covert just grabbed him and body-slammed him. Now I love Steve, as I’ve said. He never complained about anything, fought through any pain he had. And he was a tough guy. But Covert was a high school wrestler in Pennsylvania who had pinned all but one of his opponents his senior year. He was quick and agile. He was one of the quietest guys on the team. He’d been an English major in college. He’d gone to Pitt, my old school, and he was best friends with Danny Marino. But he could be pushed only so far, and you did not want to mess with him.
He slammed McMichael, who would go on to be a pro wrestler—one of those guys hitting other guys over the head with folding chairs and brief-cases—and it showed the defense we weren’t taking any more shit off them. It ended as quickly as it began. There was silence for a bit, and then I blew the whistle and said, “Let’s get back to practice.” You’d be surprised how much that ended the crap.
I coached the offense. Buddy had the defense. That’s just the way it was. But a team doesn’t have two sides, it has one. And the respect has to go back and forth, between everybody. McMichael made our guys better by the way he practiced. Nobody liked it at times. It wasn’t a picnic out there. It was not a walk in the park. We were in pads every day up until Saturday.
The point is we had an offense that controlled the ball for a reason. We knew that if we gave our defense enough time to rest, they could go out and be animals. Who gives a damn if you won 40 to 30 or 10 to nothing? Actually, I like 10 to nothing. So our offense led the league in first downs and time of possession by design. We needed respect. Justas our defense already had respect.
Buddy was tough on his guys. He ran them, had them do ladder drills, ups-and-downs, and there were times when I’d have to tell him to stop. My offense was conditioned, too, but like with the receivers, they ran their asses off all practice long, so what was the point of running them at the
McMichael, that’s just the way he was. He was a tough Texas boy, a free agent we picked up because he had tons of heart. He was a little out there at times. They said he wore his clothes in camp until he had a pile of dirty stuff, then he’d just turn the pile overand wear it all again. One of his hobbies was rattlesnake hunting. But he would get in your face and never shy away from anything. I love Steve McMichael. Bortz was quiet, a six-foot-six, 270-pound guy from a little town in Wisconsin, who had been a defensive player and co-captain at Iowa. He was a defensive lineman before he switched to offense in the NFL, so maybe that had the two of them going a little bit.
One problem we had was we were always going against our own defense in practice, and sometimes they were so fired up that we couldn’t get a damn thing accomplished. I’d yell at Buddy, “For Chris-sake, we’re not playing the Bears next week!” But there was tension—football is a mean game—and those defensive players had great chemistry and great pride. Buddy had them cranked up like assassins. They’d run that “46,” and it was like there were 50 killers on the line ready to slit your throat.
But then—and I think it may have been a week or so after we had bailed out the defense against Tampa Bay—we finally got the defense’s respect. The exact date of a lot of these things gets blurry. It wasn’t like I was keeping a diary, and after coaching the Bears for 11 years, I may get some things jumbled. But you don’t forget the moments that jump out at you, the ones that changed things. At any rate, we were at practice, no media was around, and McMichael was mouthing off to the offensive line. Who knows who he was pissed at. But Jim Covert just grabbed him and body-slammed him. Now I love Steve, as I’ve said. He never complained about anything, fought through any pain he had. And he was a tough guy. But Covert was a high school wrestler in Pennsylvania who had pinned all but one of his opponents his senior year. He was quick and agile. He was one of the quietest guys on the team. He’d been an English major in college. He’d gone to Pitt, my old school, and he was best friends with Danny Marino. But he could be pushed only so far, and you did not want to mess with him.
He slammed McMichael, who would go on to be a pro wrestler—one of those guys hitting other guys over the head with folding chairs and brief-cases—and it showed the defense we weren’t taking any more shit off them. It ended as quickly as it began. There was silence for a bit, and then I blew the whistle and said, “Let’s get back to practice.” You’d be surprised how much that ended the crap.
I coached the offense. Buddy had the defense. That’s just the way it was. But a team doesn’t have two sides, it has one. And the respect has to go back and forth, between everybody. McMichael made our guys better by the way he practiced. Nobody liked it at times. It wasn’t a picnic out there. It was not a walk in the park. We were in pads every day up until Saturday.
The point is we had an offense that controlled the ball for a reason. We knew that if we gave our defense enough time to rest, they could go out and be animals. Who gives a damn if you won 40 to 30 or 10 to nothing? Actually, I like 10 to nothing. So our offense led the league in first downs and time of possession by design. We needed respect. Justas our defense already had respect.
Buddy was tough on his guys. He ran them, had them do ladder drills, ups-and-downs, and there were times when I’d have to tell him to stop. My offense was conditioned, too, but like with the receivers, they ran their asses off all practice long, so what was the point of running them at the
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