The Biggest, Baddest Bear

This story is by Clay Huston and was part of our 2023 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

“Hey sleepyhead…”

Nearly 23 years ago, when I was 6 years old, I took my turn at a long-standing family tradition.

“Grandpa will be here in 20 minutes. Better get ready.” Dad whispered.

While my 6 older siblings slept, I shivered my way down the stairs of our drafty, 100-year-old farmhouse to brush my teeth and comb my hair.

“Love you honey. Have fun.” Mom said. She leaned over and kissed the top of my head.

“Love you too!” I mumbled through a mouth full of toothpaste.

I ran out to meet Grandpa in his forest-green Ford F-250. I opened the passenger door, threw my bookbag up into the cab, and climbed into my seat.

“Ready to go, munchkin?”

“You betcha!” I said, slapping my knee.

Grandpa poured a pill from a small orange bottle into his hand. He chased it with a swig of Diet Coke, then backed the truck out of the drive.

We parked on the street outside the diner 10 minutes later. We went inside and grabbed a seat around the big, circular wooden table with all the other old geezers.

“Gents, this is my grandson Alfie.” Grandpa told the group.

The smallest of the old men who wore a standout pair of pinstriped blue and white overalls looked my way. “Has he told you that’s what we called him when we was kids?”

“He knows, and he’s proud to be named after his grandad. Ain’t that right, kiddo?”

I beamed and shook my head up and down.

After breakfast, we set out on the snowy backroads to school. It was a 20-minute drive to the next town where every kid in the county went to school.

“Hey Grandpa?” I said with a yawn.

“Hey is for horses.”

“Whatever.” I huffed and continued with my question.

“Who’s Dick Butkus?”

Grandpa looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

“How do you know that name?”

“Mr. Ferguson. When I was coming back from the potty I heard him say no one was tougher than Dick Butkus.”

“I see.” Grandpa said. “Well, he was a Chicago Bear many years ago. And Ferg is right. No one was tougher!

“A bear?!” I shouted, suddenly wide awake. “What kind of bear?”

“Huh?” Grandpa paused and gave me a puzzled look. Then he smiled.

“Oh, not just any bear.” He replied with a low inflection to his voice. “He was the biggest, baddest bear of all time. He had shoulders wider than a semi, a head harder than a brick, and he was tall enough to look a Clydesdale in the eye. He ran harder and faster than a train, and he had a special power… If he got his hands on you, it was impossible to escape.”

I gasped. “That’s so cool! Was he one of those ginormous white bears?”

Grandpa chuckled. “No, not quite. He was a type of bear that just ain’t around no more. He was part of a different era. One when folks had heart.”

I turned in my seat to face Grandpa. He had my full attention.

“Did he ever eat anybody?”

Grandpa noticed my change in posture and embraced it.

“Ate anybody? Heck no!” He replied. “He wasn’t no monster. He was a good guy.”

“If he was a good guy, then who did he fight?”

“Oh, well…” Grandpa stalled by clearing his throat. “I ‘spose he… might have went toe to toe with a few other legends like himself.”

“Like who?” I begged him to continue.

“Let’s see… How about the time he faced off with The Juice!”

“That sounds made up, Grandpa. Juice can’t be a bad guy.”

“No, no, he’s real.” He insisted. “He was a Buffalo Bill, and he was real talented.”

“If he was a buffalo, how come you call him The Juice?”

“That’s ‘cause his real name is OJ, believe it or not. So, folks took to calling him The Juice, as in orange juice. Don’t matter what you call him, he was as bad as they come. He had a special power that was kinda sorta the opposite of Dick Butkus’ power; The Juice was impossible to catch! He’d run circles ‘round you and you wouldn’t know what happened. He’d even tease folks and make ‘em think they had him. Then they’d blink and he was gone like a ghost.”

“He doesn’t sound like a bad guy.” I said. “He sounds like the Flash.”

“What if I told you he was arrested and put on trial a year after you was born? Sound like a bad guy now? Almost went to jail, too…”

Grandpa reached over and tickled my neck right below my chin. “Dodged it by the hair on his chinny-chin-chin.” I giggled and pushed his hand away.

“But “not guilty” don’t mean “not bad.'” He said. “There’s more to it than that.”

“Did Dick Butkus arrest him?”

“No, no…” Grandpa laughed. “It was a whole spectacle. He tried runnin’ in his Bronco but the cops got him… I remember it felt like everyone in the country was watchin’ that chase.”

“That’s funny.” I said. “A buffalo riding a bronco.”

Grandpa chuckled too. Then he brought a fist up to his mouth and coughed. It came from his gut and sounded like it rattled his spine. He wiped his mouth with a tissue and then stuffed it in his shirt pocket.

“You said Dick Butkus beat The Juice.” I said.

“That’s ‘cause he did.”

“But you just said the cops got him.”

“Different story, kiddo.”

I looked at Grandpa in silence, cueing him to continue.

He leaned in. “Let me tell ya… big, bad Butkus did more than beat The Juice… He terrified him. Even admitted so on TV; said he was the only thing that scared him. And ya can’t rightly blame him. Dick Butkus was just a different animal. He’d pick a grown man up over his head and throw him to the ground. He loved to knock folks senseless. It was a pretty good matchup. The Juice was fast and shifty, but Butkus was even faster when he moved side to side. It was damn-near impossible to run past him.”

My mouth and eyes widened. “Grandpa! Damn is a curse word!”

“Well, you just said it too, didn’t ya?”

I motioned like I was about to say something, but stopped mid-breath.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.” Grandpa offered.

“I’m not gonna.” I said with relief.

“In the end…” He continued. “…The Juice got the same treatment as everybody else; a good whoopin’… You know what’s remarkable, though? Butkus never let it go to his head. He was never dancin’ around or showboatin’ on TV. He did it ‘cause he loved it, not for some prize. Folks these days’ll brag about showin’ up and doin’ what they was hired to do. You explain that to me! How you gonna show off for meetin’ expectations? Not Butkus, though. He was always a good sport and real humble about it all. I’ve always heard he was actually pretty nice and funny ‘less you got him fired up.”

“Well… I’m glad he was nice.” I said.

“Yup. He spoke softly and carried a big stick.”

“What’s that mean?” I asked.

“You sure ask a lot of eager questions.” Grandpa said with a laugh.

We entered town. My school sat on the edge of the city limits and the football field shared a fence with a small neighborhood made up mostly of single-story ranch-style homes and big, tall oak trees.

“It means don’t be boastful.” He continued. “But be able to take care of business. They say it’s the strong, silent type that you should be scared of. And I believe that. People think they’ll be remembered if they’re loud enough. That ain’t how it works. You wanna be remembered, you gotta do memorable things. And that takes hard work and dedication.”

Grandpa turned into the half-circle drive of the school and pulled up to the entryway. Ms. Susan stood waiting for me.

Grandpa adjusted the plastic tubing beneath his nostrils, then reached over and unbuckled my seat belt.

“Have a good day, now. Love you.”

“Love you, too!” I said as I hopped down from the tall Ford.

“Hey!” Grandpa shouted, getting my attention. I looked back at him.

“You oughta be like Dick Butkus.”

“I will!”

—————————

Grandpa passed a year after that drive to school.

22 years later, I saw the news in the paper: “Dick Butkus, Chicago Football Legend, Dead at 80.” The memory of that morning drive flooded over me like a warm blanket in a cold room. A few of the details have slipped my mind, but I’ll never forget the moment itself.

Dick Butkus passed away peacefully in his home surrounded by family. Same as Grandpa.

I see now that he was right; To be remembered, you have to do memorable things. And the most memorable thing you can do is give someone your time.