On a quiet and emotional afternoon, friends, family, and former teammates gathered to honor the life of Steve “Mongo” McMichael during a private celebration of life service that paid tribute to one of football’s most fearless warriors—and one of Chicago’s most beloved sons. The event, held away from the public eye, was an intimate and heartfelt farewell to a man whose towering presence, both on and off the field, left an indelible mark on everyone who knew him.
Steve McMichael, a Super Bowl champion, college football legend, and professional wrestling icon, passed away earlier this month after a lengthy and courageous battle with ALS. He was 67. The announcement of his death prompted an outpouring of love and memories from fans across the country, but it was at this private memorial where those closest to him had the chance to grieve, reflect, and celebrate the vibrant life he lived.
The service was filled with emotion, laughter, and tears—a fitting tribute to a man who was as beloved in the locker room as he was feared on the gridiron. Guests recalled McMichael’s relentless drive as a player, his quick wit, and his loyalty as a friend. They shared stories that spoke to his character, not just as an athlete or entertainer, but as a husband, father, and mentor.
McMichael was larger than life, both figuratively and literally. Standing 6-foot-2 and tipping the scales near 270 pounds during his playing days, he was a physical force whose impact went beyond the stats sheet. As a member of the legendary 1985 Chicago Bears, McMichael helped anchor a defensive line that terrorized opposing quarterbacks and led the team to a dominating Super Bowl XX victory. But his presence extended far beyond the field.
In the years that followed his NFL career, McMichael became a familiar face on television and in wrestling rings, where his charisma and magnetic personality found a new audience. As a broadcaster, he brought humor and honesty. As a professional wrestler, he reinvented himself yet again—always with the same fearless energy that defined him. For those who knew him best, though, it was the quieter moments that left the deepest impression.
At the service, several former teammates spoke, including many from that iconic 1985 Bears squad. Their words were filled with admiration and warmth. One former teammate described McMichael as “the soul of that defense”—a leader whose toughness inspired everyone around him. Another called him “the glue,” the one who kept the locker room together with his humor and spirit, even in the tensest moments.
Hall of Fame players, lifelong friends, and coaching legends all made time to attend or send words of remembrance. Their stories varied in detail but shared a common theme: McMichael was fiercely loyal and unapologetically himself. Whether it was a high-stakes playoff game or a charity golf tournament, “Mongo” gave it everything he had—and he made sure those around him did, too.
McMichael’s wife, Misty, stood strong throughout the service, embodying the same resilience and grace that she displayed publicly during her husband’s long battle with ALS. Over the past several years, she had become a public advocate for ALS awareness, often updating supporters on Steve’s condition and ensuring that his legacy remained front and center. Her eulogy was poignant and powerful—a love letter to the man she called her best friend.
She spoke of his humor, even in the darkest days. How, despite the toll the disease had taken on his body, McMichael never lost the ability to make her laugh. She recalled the private moments, the jokes, the smiles, and the quiet strength that carried them through the most difficult chapters of their lives together. “He never asked, ‘Why me?’” she said. “He just kept fighting, day after day. That’s who Steve was.”
Also in attendance were players from multiple generations of Chicago Bears teams, underscoring McMichael’s deep roots in the franchise and the city itself. Younger players spoke of how they looked up to him—some even wearing his jersey as kids—while older veterans shared stories of wild locker room antics, brutal training camps, and unforgettable post-game celebrations. For them, McMichael wasn’t just a teammate; he was family.
Beyond the football world, figures from the wrestling community and local media also paid their respects. During his time with World Championship Wrestling (WCW), McMichael became a beloved figure in a completely different arena, winning fans over with his brash persona and undeniable charisma. Even in a scripted world, McMichael’s authenticity always shone through. He wasn’t acting—he was simply being Mongo.
Those who knew him through wrestling recalled a man who brought the same energy to the squared circle as he did to Soldier Field. He wasn’t just a gimmick or a guest star—he was a competitor, someone who wanted to earn his spot and prove he belonged. And in classic McMichael fashion, he did just that.
As stories flowed and memories were shared, it became clear that McMichael’s impact was far greater than his accolades. While he was a two-time Pro Bowler and part of one of the greatest defenses in NFL history, the legacy he left behind couldn’t be measured in sacks or tackles. It was in the lives he touched, the teammates he lifted up, and the family he fiercely protected.
His daughter, Macy, also spoke at the service. Now a young woman, she recalled her father not as the ferocious athlete fans saw on Sundays, but as the gentle giant who sang her lullabies, told silly jokes, and made her feel like the most important person in the world. Her voice trembled at times, but her words were filled with love. “He was my hero,” she said. “Not because of football or wrestling, but because he was always there. He always made me feel safe.”
The celebration was a reminder that while McMichael’s body had been ravaged by ALS, his spirit remained unbroken until the very end. He continued to fight for awareness, lending his name to causes and appearing at events—even when he could no longer walk or speak—so that others wouldn’t have to endure what he did. His courage, Misty said, was unmatched. “He may have lost the ability to move,” she told the crowd, “but he never lost the will to fight.”
Photos and videos from McMichael’s playing days played on screens around the venue. Highlights of bone-crunching tackles, roaring celebrations, and iconic moments from the 1985 Super Bowl run played side-by-side with family snapshots, wedding photos, and clips of Steve dancing with his daughter at a school recital. It was a full-circle portrait of a man who lived life to the fullest, no matter what he was doing.
As the service came to a close, a group of his closest friends raised a final toast. It wasn’t somber or stiff—it was celebratory. Just as McMichael would have wanted. Laughter returned to the room as more stories were swapped, and guests embraced one another, united by a shared sense of gratitude for having known Mongo.
In the end, Steve McMichael wasn’t remembered just for the championships, the matches, or the accolades. He was remembered for his grit, his humor, his heart, and the way he lived each day without regret. He was a man who stared down every challenge life threw his way and never backed down—not from a tackle, not from a fight, and not even from the cruelest disease.
He was a warrior. A showman. A teammate. A husband. A father. A friend.
And to everyone in that room—and to so many more beyond it—he was, and always will be, Mongo.