Column: ‘We’re going to Canton.’ Steve McMichael’s Hall of Fame journey has long been fueled by a quest to give his best.

Steve McMichael had been rolled onto his right side Friday, rotated to face the open window of his bedroom where he was greeted by a beautiful sunshine-and-blue-sky morning, a pleasant winter breeze and a flock of excited friends in his backyard.

Nineteen officers, united in the Chicago Police Department’s Emerald Society, had arrived to pay tribute to the former Bears defensive lineman. Or maybe more exactly they were there to play tribute, using their bagpipes and drums to serenade McMichael for the latest and greatest achievement of his life.

Barely 13 hours after McMichael’s inclusion in the Pro Football Hall of Fame’s Class of 2024 became official at the NFL Honors event Thursday night in Las Vegas, McMichael received another heartfelt “attaboy” from a group that has long admired his spirit and determination. And not just for his contributions to the greatest football team Chicago has ever known but for the impact he made on so many people across the city and surrounding areas, in ways both big and small.

With appreciation, McMichael looked out through his window as the upbeat music pierced the air, taking it in as best he could as he continues his fight against amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS) and now soaks in the celebration of his Hall of Fame election.

McMichael’s bond with the Emerald Society traces to fall 2001, back to a fraught time in the country after the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks. That’s when McMichael first linked up with the CPD bagpipers, helping raise money for first responders in New York.

Who was McMichael, after all, to turn down repeated invitations to pub crawls across downtown Chicago?

And why wouldn’t he use his magnetic personality and celebrity appeal to further a good cause?

Thus it began. Tavern after tavern. Pub crawl after pub crawl. It was, essentially, a high-energy storytelling and stand-up comedy tour mixed with a unique soundtrack, all in the name of connection and philanthropy.

pic.twitter.com/JpOFCE5sOD

— Dan Wiederer (@danwiederer) February 9, 2024

For one trek, McMichael borrowed the full bagpiper uniform of Brian Cunningham and threatened to keep the kilt. “Actually,” Cunningham quipped Friday morning, “I didn’t want that kilt back after he had worn it.”

During another pub crawl, McMichael let Cunningham wear his ring from Super Bowl XX, then offered to let him keep it for a few extra days.

“Steve just has a heart of gold,” Cunningham said. “He’s just a tremendous guy.”

Added fellow officer Jon Harmening: “He’d come off as this really big, gruff guy. But he always had that heart of gold. He would talk to everybody. Yeah, he’d give off that (rowdy) persona. But when it really mattered, he was incredibly polite to so many people. … Always had fun. Tried to get people excited to have a good time and to remember all the positivity and joy of being there while also doing the right thing.”

If you’re nodding vigorously, perhaps you’ve had an encounter with McMichael, an experience that illuminated how one of this city’s most recognizable and bombastic sports heroes is also a gregarious and kindhearted soul whose reach for the last 40-plus years remains immeasurable.

The wiring McMichael had for the 13 seasons and 203 total games he played for the Bears carried well beyond the field. He was, quite simply, on an unrelenting quest to contribute. In any way he could.

That’s what his 1980s Bears teammates revered most as McMichael poured himself into the team’s cause during a defensive-driven run in which the Bears won 62 regular-season games and five NFC Central championships from 1984-88.

With his ferocity on the interior of the defensive line and his boisterous disposition, McMichael helped the 1985 Bears turn Chicago upside down during their unforgettable Super Bowl run. But his desire to give his best to everyone he came across never had an off switch, a trait that persisted for decades after his football career, whether it be contributing to charitable causes or simply entertaining adoring fans at bars or golf fundraisers or sports memorabilia conventions.

McMichael’s sister Kathy McMichael was in tears Friday after the bagpipers finished, trying to explain why her big brother’s entry into the Hall of Fame felt so momentous and profound.

Kathy was around for Steve’s entire football journey — from when he started playing in grade school in Freer, Texas, to his final NFL season as a Green Bay Packer. She knew the grand dreams her brother always had and pursued with passion. And on Thursday night, when he was announced to the football world as a Hall of Famer, Kathy could hear their mother, Betty Ruth, echoing from above like she always did from the Texas bleachers whenever Steve made a tackle.

“That’s my baby!”

“It’s the most amazing feeling in the whole world to know that he’s in and to know he’s being recognized,” Kathy said. “And that he deserves it.”

Kathy also couldn’t help but feel grateful that Steve, 66, was alive and alert to experience his Hall of Fame honor, now more than three years into his cruel battle with ALS, the vicious nervous system disease that has taken his voice and ravaged his once-powerful body.

“We waited for this for a very long time,” Kathy said. “And it’s just amazing that he gets to be a part of this. That’s all we wanted was for him to know that he was going to be in the Hall of Fame and live there for eternity.”

Betsy Shepherd, McMichael’s longtime publicist, was wearing a navy T-shirt from Obvious Shirts on Friday morning, a one-of-one custom design that read, “Mongo calls me ‘Super Agent.’ ” That was the nickname McMichael bestowed upon Shepherd in February 2007 when she landed him a $20,000 appearance fee at Enclave for a Bears Super Bowl XLI watch party.

Shepherd also has felt emotional about this week’s developments, knowing all that went into the drive to get McMichael’s football feats their proper recognition. In spring 2022, as McMichael’s voice was slowly disappearing, Shepherd asked him if there was anything else she could do for him. With his recognizable bug eyes, McMichael pulled Shepherd closer and whispered, “Hall of Fame.”

Almost instantly, a new campaign began. Now, that wish has been granted.

“Steve means the world to us,” Shepherd said.

The next goal is to push McMichael toward August’s Hall of Fame enshrinement ceremony, to keep him fighting long enough to witness that — whether that’s from his bed in Homer Glen or, if by any miraculous chance, he can be transported with proper medical care to Canton, Ohio, to be even a small part of the weekend.

Said Kathy McMichael: “Two years ago, his doctor told us, ‘He probably won’t live but maybe six more months.’ And I said, ‘You don’t know him. His DNA is different. Get ready! He’s not going anywhere anytime soon.’ ”

On McMichael’s journey, there’s still one more stop on the itinerary.

“We’re going to Canton,” Kathy said.