Joe Garbula: The Greatest Man Who Ever Lived
A Chicago story about family, imagination, and the legends we refuse to let die
There are some stories you inherit. Others, you grow into. And a rare few—if you’re lucky—become part of who you are.
This is one of those.
My grandparents, George and Carmen Colangelo, weren’t just part of my childhood. They were my childhood.
Every Saturday night felt like a ritual. Dinner out somewhere familiar. Church at St. Mary’s in Buffalo Grove. Then back to their house, where time seemed to slow down just enough for you to feel it. Really feel it.
They were my center. My safety net. My biggest believers before I even knew I needed believing in.
And my grandfather—George—he was something else entirely.
He was old-school Italian-American in the purest sense. Born into the heartbeat of Chicago’s Taylor Street, back when neighborhoods weren’t just places—they were identities. When your last name meant something. When family wasn’t something you scheduled—it was something you lived inside of.
They didn’t leave that neighborhood because they wanted to. They had to. Progress came. The University of Illinois Chicago rose. And like so many Italian families, they were pushed outward—into the suburbs, into something new.
But they never left who they were.
That stayed.
I grew up on stories.
Stories about packed apartment buildings near Wrigley Field where it felt like the entire family lived under one roof. Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents—all stacked together like chapters in the same book. Stories about Hull House and Jane Addams, where my grandmother Carmen once stood as a young girl, part of something bigger than herself.
Stories about what it meant to be Italian in America when it wasn’t always easy to be.
Scrappy. Proud. Loud. Loyal.
Family first. Always.
And then… there was him.
The greatest man who ever lived.
Joe Garbula.
You’ve never heard of him?
Come on. Get yourself together.
Joe Garbula did everything.
And I mean everything.
In a single year, he won the Stanley Cup, the Super Bowl, the NBA Finals, the World Series, and the Heisman Trophy, all probably before lunch.
He cured diseases in the afternoon. Negotiated peace treaties by dinner. By night? Who knows. Probably saving the world again.
A legend.
A myth.
A complete and total fabrication. A legend of my family.
Joe Garbula was born on the steps of an old Chicago apartment building—created out of nothing by my grandfather George Colangelo and my uncle Angelo Martino.
Two guys sitting around, probably arguing about sports, probably laughing, probably doing what Italians do best—turning nothing into something unforgettable.
One question. One made-up answer.
“Who won that boxing title?” (Boxing was huge back then, especially for Italian-Americans who worshipped Rocky Marciano)
“I don’t know… probably Joe Garbula.”
And just like that, immortality.
I didn’t know any of this at first.
I just knew that every time we sat down for dinner—whether it was at home or at Armand’s or O’Fame with family—Joe Garbula would somehow come up.
And every single time… he’d done something even more incredible than the last time.
Four goals in a Stanley Cup period.
A 100-point Game 7 in the NBA Finals.
Saving nations. Healing people. Transcending time itself.
And everyone at the table played along.
No one broke character.
No one said, “this isn’t real.”
Because that wasn’t the point.
The point was joy.
The point was imagination.
The point was family.
Looking back now, I realize something I didn’t understand as a kid:
Joe Garbula wasn’t just a joke.
He was a reflection.
Of George Colangelo’s warmth.
Of Angelo Martino’s humor.
Of a generation that didn’t need much—but made everything out of what they had.
They built stories the same way they built their lives.
Together.
And now they’re gone.
My grandfather. My uncle.
The voices that made those dinners louder. The laughs that made those stories bigger. The presence that made everything feel… complete.
Gone.
But somehow… not really.
Because Joe Garbula is still out there.
Still winning championships. Still saving the world. Still showing up at dinner tables—if you’re paying attention.
We all have our versions of this.
Our own “Big Fish” stories. The ones that grow a little bigger every time they’re told. The ones that blur the line between truth and myth until it doesn’t matter anymore.
Because the facts were never the point.
The feeling was.
I used to think about ways to keep it alive.
Maybe a Chicago-style Italian beef shop in Nashville called Joe Garbula’s. Pictures on the wall. A mustached Italian man shaking hands with presidents, hoisting trophies, standing next to legends like Babe Ruth—never aging, always present.
Because of course he is.
He’s Joe Garbula.
But now I think I understand something better.
You don’t preserve stories like this in buildings or businesses.
You preserve them by telling them.
By passing them down.
By refusing to let them disappear.
So this is me doing my part.
This is me making sure the world knows about Joe Garbula.
But more importantly—
This is me honoring the two men who created him.
My grandfather, George Colangelo.
My uncle, Angelo Martino.
Two guys from Chicago who didn’t just tell stories.
They gave me one.
And I’ll carry it forever.
Great read Chris