Gale Sayers, Brian Piccolo, and Jeff Galas

I recently saw a great illustration. It was former Chicago Bear running backs Brian Piccolo and Gale Sayers, who died on September 23. Piccolo, who died in 1970, was leading the way through the Golden Gates of Heaven, an homage to their days of being in the Bears backfield together.

Their relationship, on and off the field, was captured in the movie, Brian’s Song, in 1971.

You do not need to be a sports fan or movie critic to be deeply touched by this classic. You do, however, need a box of Kleenex.

The film follows the two from their rookie training camp and how they forged an unbreakable bond. Their skin color and backgrounds played a role along the way, but in the end their friendship proved more powerful. It is a heartbreaking but beautiful message.

To this day, I find several scenes difficult to watch. Though I have seen the movie many times, it still affects me the same way. I still chuckle at the memory of watching it in a room full of guys at our fraternity house. When it ended, no one said a word. Everyone walked out, careful not to make eye contact.

The locker room speech delivered by Billy Dee Williams, who played Sayers in the movie, is remarkably moving. A devastated Sayers informs the team that Piccolo, only twenty-six, has been diagnosed with cancer, and his football career is over. It is subtle yet poignant, and his teammates are visibly shaken.

A month later, Sayers accepted the George Halas Most Courageous Player Award and dedicated it to Piccolo, who was near death. In part, he spoke these touching words:

“Brian Piccolo has the heart of a giant and a rare form of courage which allows him to kid himself and his opponent – cancer…I love Brian Piccolo and I’d like all of you to love him too. And tonight, when you hit your knees, please ask God to love him.”

They may have started out simply as teammates but grew into friends. Maybe “brothers” is a better word. Their story is beautiful.

On a more personal level, it brings me to Jeff Galas.

He was not a Chicago Bear. Or famous, for that matter. But his time on the football field, and in life, inspired many.

Jeff and I coached together for years in our former hometown of Oswego, IL. He was not only the best coach I have ever known but one of the finest men also. He understood the X’s and O’s, but it was his ability to motivate and connect that set him apart.

He always knew what to say and when to say it. He avoided gossip and nonsense. The players came first, period. His impact was evidenced by their remarks years later, thanking him for the positive influence he had on them.

Off the field, Jeff had an “all in” personality. He loved to be around people, being comfortable in any crowd. He was a big guy with a great sense of humor. He once got on the scale in the Carroll University locker room, and I teased him that the dial spun faster than the meat slicer at the deli. We laughed like kids.

Our sons, Mike Jr., and Kyle played football together at the youth, high school and college levels and we spent a lot of time together. Drank more beer, smoked more cigars, and talked philosophically more times than I could ever count.

Like Brian Piccolo, Jeff would face a battle with cancer. To this day, I still find it difficult to talk about.

Jeff went from a 275-pound, rollicking bundle of life to a man about half that size. Cancer may have beaten him up but did not beat him. That is because his character could not be defeated. He knew the severity of the situation but remained optimistic that the doctors would “extend this thing as long as possible”.

This took place during our last year of coaching together. Towards the end of the season, Jeff’s condition prevented him from participating. We did not share details with the players, but they suspected something was wrong. At the end of one practice, the kids asked where Coach Galas had been. Unfortunately, I could not muster the courage for the locker room speech he truly deserved but said he would love to be coaching them right now. As soon as he felt better, he would be back.

He missed the remaining games but attended our post-season party. It would be the last for both of us.

Our tradition was to divvy up the players and speak of each of their accomplishments, no matter how big or small. It took time to prepare but Jeff felt it was our obligation to “promote the game” and we always felt good about doing it. He told my youngest son, Dan, “You have all the tools. You go show your older brothers you can do this too.” Still gets me choked up.

Jeff died a few months later. He, too, had the heart of a giant and his death left a gaping hole in the hearts of his family and friends. I don’t think it will ever get filled.

But the story here is about celebrating the lives of these beloved men, even if it includes the sadness of their deaths.

Like Brian Piccolo and Gale Sayers, football brought Jeff Galas and me together. But it was only part of our close relationship as friends.

Or maybe a better word is brothers.

This column originally appeared in the Times, a Shaw publication.