“I told them that had been my grandpa’s number and that I got it for him because he’s the motivation for what I’m doing,” said Dolby, who didn’t play football at New Trier High School in Winnetka, Illinois, but made the Colorado State team as a walk-on last season, though he never got into a game.
He told his UD teammates his grandfather was the inspiration for what he describes now as “a leap of faith” for him.
Then he sat down, never telling them who his grandfather was and what he stood for.
That’s when Flyers’ head coach Rick Chamberlin stepped in and – as recounted by Brian’s mom, Traci – said something like: “Brian, I don’t believe everybody knows who your grandfather is.”
And then Chamberlin told the team a little about Brian Piccolo.
To this day – 52 years after his heartbreaking death – Piccolo remains one of most beloved Chicago Bears ever.
His story, told in the Emmy and Grammy winning movie “Brian’s Song” – which starred James Caan and Billy Dee Williams and is rated one of the best football movies ever by NFL .com, Esquire, Rolling Stone and Rotten Tomatoes – almost certainly will make you weep.
“Back in the day, when I was in college, we had movie nights before games, and we still do,” said Chamberlin, an All-American linebacker at UD in the mid-1970s. “And, sure enough, we’d have Brian’s Song each year and pretty soon all these big, manly football players were sitting there crying. Some guys tried to hide it, but the tears were running down their cheeks.”
The movie told how Piccolo came out Central Catholic High (now football-famed St. Thomas Aquinas) in Fort Lauderdale, Fla., and had just two college football offers: Wichita State and Wake Forest, the latter only because the Demon Deacons were recruiting his teammate and his coach insisted on a package deal that included him.
And yet, Piccolo led the nation in rushing and scoring in 1964 and was named the Atlantic Coast Conference Player of the Year.
Once again though he was snubbed.
“They said he was too small and too slow for pro football,” said Traci Piccolo Dolby, one of Piccolo’s three daughters and Brian Dolby’s mom.
Neither the NFL, nor the rival AFL, drafted the 6-foot, 205-pound running back in 1965, but the Bears did sign him as a free agent and he made the team’s taxi squad. Afterward he sent coach George Halas a two-page, hand-written letter thanking him for the opportunity.
The following year Piccolo made the active roster, though he played almost solely on special teams. By 1967 he was the backup to Gale Sayers, the team’s All-Pro halfback and his close friend.
A year later, when Sayers tore knee ligaments, Piccolo filled in for him while also encouraging his pal throughout his rehab.
Finally, by 1969, he and Sayers had become the Bears’ starting backfield even though Piccolo was considered an under-sized fullback.
But in mid-November, Piccolo was diagnosed with embryonal cell carcinoma, an aggressive form of testicular cancer that already had spread to his chest cavity when it was discovered.
Seven grueling months followed and he died June 16, 1970.
While the movie covers that in tear-jerking totality, the most enduring part of the story is the true friendship forged between Piccolo, who was white, and Sayers, who was black.
“Their brotherhood, that’s the best part of the movie” Chamberlin said.
It was a time when black players roomed with blacks on the road and whites roomed with other white players. Piccolo and Sayers became roommates in 1967, which was an especially difficult time in America.
As the Bears preseason camp opened, the country was going through what was called “the long, hot summer.” According to Malcom McLaughlin, who wrote a book on the subject, at least 159 race riots rocked the nation that year.
“The lessons of my grandad and Gale Sayers needs to be remembered today,” Dolby said.
Traci agreed with her son: “My dad and Gale Sayers set an example for the whole world. A lot of the credit goes to (Bears coach) George Halas, too. He was ahead of his time. He pushed it. And they lived it.
“They showed not only could black and white work together, but they could live together.”
Credit: TNS
Credit: TNS
Piccolo and Sayers became a symbol of what America should be – a lesson that has been lost by too many people today.
Just 26 when he died, Piccolo was married to Joy, his high school sweetheart, and they had three young daughters – Lori, Traci and Kristi -- all of them under the age of five.
The loss shook the Bears, the entire NFL and the Wake Forest community.
Afterward, there were all kinds of efforts – at his Fort Lauderdale high school, Wake Forest and especially with the Bears – to keep Piccolo’s name and legacy alive. Schools, a street and a stadium were named after him.
Wake Forest retired his No 31 and the Bears did the same with his No 41.
The most important efforts though came in the funds they raised for cancer research. Wake Forest students have raised over $3 million over the years and the Bears’ Brian Piccolo Cancer Research Fund has collected over $10 million for various kinds of cancer and a facility for developmentally disabled.
To find out more visit the website: brianpiccolofund.org.
When Piccolo was diagnosed, the disease was 100 percent fatal. With medical advances, there’s now a 95 percent cure rate for testicular cancer when caught early and about a 75 percent rate, Traci said, for the variation her dad had.
The 50th anniversary of Piccolo’s death was in 2020, but COVID derailed the Bears extensive plans to salute his memory. But the Catholic church the Piccolo family attended when he was with the Bears – Christ the King in the Beverly community of Chicago – organized a parade that included 40 cars.
Pastor Larry Sullivan spoke to the crowd about Piccolo and how “the world lost a beacon of courage compassion and excellence.”
He especially noted Piccolo’s commitment to “social justice and racial equality.”
Traci said the celebration especially moved her son, who is named after his grandfather:
“The next day or maybe the day after that he came home and said, ‘Mom, look what I did!’ He’d gotten the 41 tattoo. It was so meaningful to him and serves as a point of inspiration for him. It reminds him of the way my dad tried and strived and proved himself over and over again.”
Dolby headed to Colorado State strictly as a student in the fall of 2020, but said he returned home the second semester because of COVID.
Traci said she and her husband John noticed “a dramatic change. He was more focused, more mature. He said, ‘Mom, I want two things. I want to go back to school and I want to play football.’”
He worked out all summer – while also working two jobs – and last fall made the Rams as a walk-on receiver, even though he’d last played football as an eighth-grade quarterback.
Although he didn’t play, he’d hoped to change his fortune this season. But the coaching staff was fired and he said the new head coach had his own walk-on candidates.
He was cut, though he’s appreciative he was given a chance to showcase himself in the spring drills and that helped him draw interest from John Carroll, Butler and UD.
“I was impressed,” Chamberlin said. “Is he a complete receiver yet? No. But he’s fast. That stood out on the film and that’s a good start for a wide receiver.”
Family connection to Bears
Although his cancer had returned in March of 1970, Piccolo got out of the hospital just in time to host 3-year-old Traci’s birthday party. There were dozens of balloons and cake and ice cream and he handed out presents.
Two weeks later, he had a mastectomy that took a huge toll on him, physically and mentally. He died in less than three months.
Traci and her older sister Lori followed their dad’s path and went to Wake Forest, where Brian’s Song is shown to incoming freshmen.
The family’s connection is even deeper with the Bears, thanks especially to the late Ed McCaskey and his wife Virginia, the owners of the team, and George Halas, who paid all Piccolo’s medical expenses, paid for the funeral, honored Brian’s contract and set up a college fund for his three daughters.
For over 50 years now, the fines Bears players incur during the season are put into the Piccolo Cancer Research Fund.
A month ago the Bears finally got to hold their Piccolo celebration. The family was invited to training camp and when it got there, every player was wearing a No. 41 jersey. Several players told them what Piccolo meant to them.
Yet, for all the football connections, Dolby chose to play lacrosse and especially hockey, both in junior and high school, and thought that might lead to a sports future.
Now he said he “regrets” not playing high school football.
He’s 20 and hasn’t played in a game in six years. Walking on at Colorado State, a Division I program in the Mountain West Conference, was an accomplishment in itself, but he transferred because he wants to play.
He came to UD – from which his uncle Mike O’ Connell graduated – because he believes he has a chance to do that with the Flyers. He admits it will be “an uphill battle,” but said he’s being offered a helping hand.
“Our wide receiver room is awesome and the guys who are in it are just phenomenal dudes,” he said. “One of the captains, Derek Willits, he’s helped me through it all – the formations, learning the playbook, everything. And the rest of the players, the coaches, they’ve all been great.
“This is something I’m excited to be a part of.”
Traci loves her son’s enthusiasm: “He’s like a kid on Christmas morning.”
Valuable lessons
Dolby said he has drawn on those rise-to-the moment lessons of his grandfather:
“I’ve had people tell me how dumb I am to think I’m going to play college football with no high school experience. That I’m out of my mind. It’s easy for them to say and hard for me to prove them wrong, but that’s what I’m trying to do.
“And that’s why I look to my grandpa through all this.”
But he admitted he’s most proud of his grandfather for what he did off the field.
In 1963, Darryl Hill, a wide receiver for Maryland, which played in the ACC then, was the only black football player in any of the southern football conferences.
When the Terrapins came to North Carolina to play Wake Forest, Hill was the target of racial taunts by the crowd until Piccolo stepped in.
He walked across the field, put his arm around Hill and they went together to the front of the Wake Forest student section. The crowd quieted and the nastiness stopped.
When Piccolo was sick, Sayers often was at his bedside. He donated blood and tried to lift his friend any way he could.
In May, just three weeks before Piccolo’s death, Sayers, who had come back from injury with an All-Pro season, went to New York to accept the George S. Halas Award as the league’s Most Courageous Player.
He told the crowd they had chosen the wrong person:
“Brian Piccolo is the man of courage who should receive this award. It’s mine tonight, but it’s Brian Piccolo’ tomorrow.
“I love Brian Piccolo and I’d like you to love him, too. Tonight when you hit your knees to pray, please ask God to love him, too.”
The award now is on display at the Bears’ headquarters – Halas Hall – and a piece of white tape is pasted across Sayers’ name. On it has been written: “Brian Piccolo.”
Dolby was around the trophy again just a few weeks ago.
“I love having this story and his legacy to live up to, but then again it’s about creating my own legacy, too,” he said. “I think that’s really important and what my grandfather would want me to do. Someday I hope I can make some kind of an impact, too.”
He’s already started down that path.
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