A few days ago we lost all-pro football linebacker and Chicago Bears’ legend Dick Butkus, Mr. Super Crunch #51. He was two-time All-America at the University of Illinois earlier. Some time back, I wrote about my sporadic, off-the-gridiron contacts with him through a friend of mine. In view of Dick’s recent passing at the age of 80, I decided to dig up that piece and offer a Reader’s Digest condensed version here.
The first time I saw Dick was when his gold Caddy bounced down the gravel driveway of the Lansing home of my friend Rick Richards. Butkus and Rick had grown up together in Roseland part of Chicago on the South Side and were still best friends, but Dick had never been at Rick’s when I was. That day I was alone by the garage, helping refurbish an old Chevy van. Butkus asked if Rick was home. I told him he wasn’t, so Dick Butkus said he’d catch him later.
My next Butkus encounter was on a Tuesday night when I dropped by Rick’s. I parked behind a new white Corvette. The house was dark. As I passed by the living room window on my way to the side door, in the glow of the TV screen, I noticed three seated figures hunched in the dark. One figure was Rick, second was Ed, Rick’s roommate, and the third was Butkus. They were deeply engrossed in Kung Fu, their favorite TV show. I tapped on the window. Without taking his eyes off the screen, Ed signaled for me to come in. I could have been Jack the Ripper for all he knew. Not wishing to disturb these big humans, each a head taller than I was, I entered quietly; a professional football player and two steel mill workers, guys even the Ripper wouldn’t mess with.
Once KungFu’s Caine had administered his final karate chop, Rick introduced me to Butkus. That’s when I became aware of an unnerving conversational characteristic of his. If Dick didn’t hear you or didn’t understand what you’d said, he’d blurt, “WHAT?” With his permanent scowl and humongous size, it was scary. In reality, it was just his way of saying, “Pardon me, but I didn’t quite get what you said.”
Often Rick went with Dick to Playboy resort hotels as guests of Hugh Hefner. On Rick’s first trip with Dick to the Playboy mansion, Hefner greeted them at the door. Dick fingered the lapel of Hefner’s thousand-dollar suit. Without cracking a smile, he said, “Where’d you get this rag, Hef? It makes you look like (bleep).”
I bought a copy of Butkus’s book, Stop Action, passed it to Rick to get it autographed, and asked Rick if Dick could add a little something short and insightful. Butkus wrote, “Good Luck. Dick Butkus.”
“Looks like he forgot your name,” said Rick.
As his football career reached the two-minute warning and with problem knees, Butkus begrudgingly investigated other possibilities. One Kung Fu night at Rick’s, I saw a couple of movie scripts Dick had dropped on the kitchen table. One was for a John Wayne western, the other for a comedy starring Bill Cosby and Raquel Welch. Dick didn’t care. He wanted to play football.
Butkus even thought of venturing into the world of live entertainment. He and his brothers had sung together for years and friend Rick encouraged them to record. Being a musician, Rick asked if I could write a song for them. Dick felt presidentRichard Nixon was getting the Watergate shaft, so maybe the song should be patriotic, inspiring, conservative. Dick’s favorite singer was Kris Kristofferson, so something in his style.
I cranked out a song I felt would make the eyes of any right-winger bleed, and taped it with my band. Rick played the tape for Dick. Butkus liked it. He was booked for two weeks as a solo act in Las Vegas singing and telling jokes, and would set up a recording session when he returned.
For two weeks I had illusions of grandeur, sitting by the Playboy Mansion pool sipping a piña colada. Then came Rick’s call.
“Dick’s recording. It’s off. The Vegas critics bombed him.”
I dumped my imaginary piña colada in my real lap.
Not long after , Butkus moved to Florida. One of his last days in the Chicago area, he borrowed our band’s van to move some things to his mother’s house. “Thanks, uh…(he was apparently searching for my name). “I just gassed it up.” He handed me the keys, then jumped in his Corvette and sped away.
That was the last time I saw Butkus in the flesh. A recent photo I saw showed him walking with a cane. But for any of us Bears’ fans, we’ll remember #51 crushing the hapless opponents who dared to face him on a Sunday in Soldiers’ Field.