(670 The Score) Jeff Dickerson stood his ground as former Bears defensive tackle Tank Johnson kept yelling in his face.
This was 2006, and Johnson was addressing reporters in front of his locker at Halas Hall — and dressing down Dickerson in particular.
Thing is, Johnson had attacked the wrong guy.
For some reason, Tank always confused Dickerson with me because he thought “J.D.” and I looked and sounded alike. In that morning’s Chicago Tribune, I had written a column that triggered Johnson because it was critical of his poor play or bad behavior, I can’t remember which.
But I’ll never forget the way J.D. resisted correcting or interrupting Johnson’s rant as I watched with amusement from the back of the scrum after arriving shortly after the diatribe began. He patiently waited until the last question was asked of Johnson and answered, until the media crowd thinned, before pulling Johnson aside in the corner to set the record straight. Before professionally and politely doing what J.D. always did: Tell the truth.
“Tank,’’ J.D. said directly, “I don’t write for the Tribune.’’
Johnson immediately apologized.
The next day, after practice, Johnson threw an orange traffic cone that buzzed by my head and drew everyone’s attention, including J.D.’s.
“That wasn’t a mistake,’’ Johnson shouted.
J.D. cracked up, just like I did.
He loved that story.
He laughed at it again last Thursday during a visit inside the hospice care facility where J.D. spent his final days. Dickerson, a star broadcaster at WMVP-AM who developed a national profile, died Tuesday at the age of 44 due to complications from colon cancer.
Life can be cruel, and for everyone who knew J.D., this news was crushing. This was the headline everybody knew was coming but for which nobody really was prepared. This was inexplicable and infuriating. J.D. was the best of us all, an indefatigable optimist in an industry where cynicism thrives, an accomplished professional and even more impressive person. He had a booming voice as identifiable as his smiling face, a knack for bringing people together and calm to chaos. He was the real thing in a business with too many phonies, providing a voice of reason when so many people want to scream these days.
Whether he was my competitor or co-host, J.D. exuded the same energy and enthusiasm during the nearly 19 years I knew him and used natural confidence to foster camaraderie. We had so much fun, especially during Super Bowl weeks, and J.D. made every trip to Bourbonnais or Soldier Field more enjoyable, every redundantly painful Bears season more bearable.
There are people in everyone’s lives who inspire us to want to be better individuals. J.D. was one of those people for me – and for so many others fortunate to know him. I still can't really fathom this happened. I can't believe I'm writing about J.D. in past tense. He changed the temperature in every press box he entered and elevated the conversation on every radio show he talked.
He was curious and could be mischievous, serious yet silly. He loved his family, his friends, his job and his alma mater, Illinois. He took the most pride in being an active dad, coaching and coaxing his son, Parker.
When Dickerson’s beloved wife, Caitlin, passed away in 2019 after complications from melanoma, he never wallowed in self-pity during her eight-year battle or whined about his rotten luck. I once asked J.D. how he maintained such positivity amid the grief and, matter of factly, he quickly answered that he had no choice. He simply said Parker needed him to stay strong, so he stayed strong.
Now, that inner strength becomes part of J.D.’s legacy, a lesson for us all.
Alone with him last week in his room, in the middle of J.D. reminiscing about our favorite ex-Bears and vowing to beat cancer, I asked him again how he always stayed so positive.
“Love," he answered in that trademark authoritative tone. “I just always loved people, my job, my friends and my family. I wanted to do good for them."
I’ll always remember the look on J.D.’s face when he said that.
Just as I’ll always recall how determined he remained last Thursday after he ended a phone conversation with a nurse telling him precisely what he didn’t want to hear.
We had just arrived in his room, and J.D. insisted we stay in our chairs as his phone rang, so Randy Merkin, his longtime friend and executive producer at WMVP, and I obliged. Relentlessly positive to the end, J.D. expected the nurse on the other end to give him information that would allow him to break some good news to his buddies. Instead, the nurse detailed the scenario that tragically played out, her excruciating words impossible not to hear in the quiet of J.D.’s room.
It was one of those awkwardly indelible moments you want to escape, a memory you want erase but know you never can, a profound feeling of sadness and despair that lingers indefinitely. Yet in that moment, as bad as it seemed, J.D. wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and swallowed hard as he thanked the nurse before saying goodbye.
“Well, that wasn’t good," J.D. said to us, leaning forward in his bed. “But I’m not giving up."
His upbeat attitude never wavered. His spirit never weakened, even as his body slowly did.
Back on Oct. 14, for example, J.D. commanded the room at the Lincolnshire Marriott as the emcee for the inaugural charity gala for the Vaughn McClure Foundation, honoring another dear friend with Chicago media ties who died too young. In retrospect, it was the most important event I attended in 2021. With ESPN reporters representing all 32 NFL teams on hand for the occasion, Dickerson greeted everyone like a long-lost friend, as polished as he was poignant with the microphone in his hand that was an extension of his heart. Friends say his disease already had begun to advance, but he said he looked forward to seeing everybody again next year anyway – a memory that now stings.
But happier memories endure.
The national and local outpouring since J.D.’s passing, from the biggest names in sports media to the Bears, illustrates how far and wide his reach extended. The reaction offers an example of how much impact a man can have by treating people the right way. The reality for so many now includes an indescribable void, for friends who knew J.D. and for fans who didn’t.
I dreaded saying goodbye to him last week but, not surprisingly, the line of visitors was getting longer. And J.D. was getting tired.
We hugged for what both of us really knew would be the last time.
In the car, Pandora’s country music station randomly played Tim McGraw’s “Please Remember Me.’’
How could I ever forget Jeff Dickerson? How could anyone?
Click here to contribute to a Go Fund Me account for Parker Dickerson, the son of Jeff and Caitlin.
David Haugh is the co-host of the Mully & Haugh Show from 5-9 a.m. weekdays on 670 The Score. Click here to listen. Follow him on Twitter @DavidHaugh.