Mike Ditka is dead at 86, and the same cultural apparatus that spent years trying to sandpaper men like him into something softer is now scrambling to eulogize him — which tells you everything about the dishonesty of the age.

Ditka wasn't just a football coach. He was a type — the unapologetic, combative, hard-edged American man who said what he meant and dared you to do something about it. Sports Illustrated noted he "feuded with players, fans and rivals, and Chicago loved Da Coach for all of it." That sentence alone is a confession. Chicago didn't love Ditka despite the fights; they loved him because of them. In a country now governed by sensitivity officers and HR departments, that kind of love is illegal.

The man born Michael Keller Dyczko in Aliquippa, Pennsylvania, pioneered the tight end position through sheer force — 1,076 yards and 12 touchdowns as a rookie, per the Daily Caller. He once said of Bears founder George Halas that the man "threw nickels around like manhole covers," according to Sports Illustrated. He hollered at Packers fans during press conferences. He threw a wad of gum at 49ers fans. His screaming match with "Neal of Northlake" on WSCR became legendary Chicago radio. He told his players most of them wouldn't be around when the team won the Super Bowl, and then he went out and won it — 18-1, crushing New England 46-10 in Super Bowl XX.

Try that today. Try telling your workforce most of them won't survive to see the victory. You'd be before a tribunal by noon.

NBC 5 Chicago reported that current Bears head coach Ben Johnson called Ditka "the gold standard" and said he felt "humbled to be in that same chair." The Bears' official statement praised his "integral role in bringing world championships" and his "immeasurable" impact. Even the Green Bay Packers — the enemy — released a statement calling Ditka "one of the fiercest competitors in NFL history" who "embodied the toughness and passion" of the rivalry. When your rival honors you for your ferocity, that's not diplomacy. That's respect earned the hard way.

The Guardian, true to form, offered a photo gallery headline — the minimalist treatment from an outlet that has made a religion of flattening anything that doesn't fit the narrative. No mention of the feuds, the fire, the fights. Just "fiery" in a caption and a series of images. That's how the establishment handles men like Ditka in death: strip the edges, soften the portrait, make him safe for the archive.

But Ditka wasn't safe. He was fired by team president Michael McCaskey in 1993 after a 106-62 run because, as Sports Illustrated acknowledged, "he brought along an ego and it rubbed plenty the wrong way." He fought with his own defensive coordinator, Buddy Ryan. He fought with quarterback Jim McMahon — then summed up their bond perfectly: "We have a strange and wonderful relationship. He's strange and I'm wonderful."

That's not toxic. That's a man who knew who he was and didn't apologize for it.

The question isn't whether Ditka was perfect. He wasn't. The question is why the country that produced him — steel-town Pennsylvania, working-class Chicago — can't produce another one. The answer is that it can, but the system won't let it. The same institutions lining up to praise him now would have cancelled him last week for half the things he said on a Tuesday in 1986.

Ditka's family said in their statement that he "will be missed beyond measure and remembered forever." He will. But what's being mourned isn't just a coach. It's the permission to be fierce, to be difficult, to be a man who wins by refusing to bend. That permission has been revoked. And the men who still carry it are running out of places to stand.