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In 2003, the pharma firms GlaxoSmithKline and Schering-Plough, poised to launch the new erectile dysfunction drug Levitra, signed a celebrity spokesperson. To carry out the marketing strategy designed to persuade men to seek treatment without feeling unduly self-conscious, the companies recruited a “brand ambassador” who would fit the bill as a model of masculinity.

Enter Mike Ditka, a legendary player for the Chicago Bears who as head coach led the team to the 1985 Super Bowl championship and who died recently at age 86. The rationale behind the partnership was simple. If the growling macho “Iron Mike,” who was 6-foot-3 and 230 pounds in his prime, could upend a tradition of male stoicism in response to erectile dysfunction, surely any man could.

Our public relations agency landed the $7 million account for Levitra. Viagra had come along five years earlier, an immediate pioneering blockbuster. Cialis also debuted in 2003, so Levitra faced competition.

To get the story we would pitch to the media, we had to interview Ditka about his experiences with erectile dysfunction. Our agency, whose staff was overwhelmingly female, decided, with admirable discretion, that the assignment should go to a man.

That man turned out to be me.

I’d interviewed celebrity spokespeople for our public health campaigns before, including athletes ranging from Nolan Ryan and Joe Montana to Dorothy Hamill, Alonzo Mourning and Caitlyn Jenner. But I’d never asked anyone questions about a health issue quite this intimate.

How, I wondered, would I approach this mythic tough guy and notoriously ferocious competitor about this most private and delicate of matters? After all, I’d seen Ditka play football. He was the NFL Rookie of the Year and appeared in five Pro Bowls. He could run opponents over without losing a step. He once said, “I just like to hit.” He added that if he got knocked down, he would “go back and hit the other guy harder.”

In short, he scared me.

Would I just stammer, “So, Mr. Ditka, please tell us, when did you discover you could, um, no longer, you know, do it?” What if he took offense and threatened to snap my neck?

In short order, the big moment came. Our Levitra account team gathered in a conference room and dialed the phone number for Ditka. I introduced myself and told him he was on speakerphone with several colleagues of mine listening in.

Ditka said he welcomed the chance to tell his story and invited us to ask him anything we wanted. So I asked him as innocent a first question as I could muster. “Please tell us, Mr. Ditka, how this all started.”

And without hesitation, or even the need for another question, Ditka proved to be a perfect gentleman and told us his whole story about erectile dysfunction. He matter-of-factly recounted how he noticed that when he felt amorous toward his wife, he had some difficulty performing his husbandly duties. At first he tried to brush it off, but then it happened again, and he suspected he might have a problem.

But he resisted seeing a doctor about it, he told us. Finally he made an appointment, and a diagnosis of erectile dysfunction led to a prescription for Levitra. And that, evidently, made all the difference for him in the bedroom.

Our promotion of Levitra involved heavy-duty media coverage and a TV commercial featuring Ditka during the 2004 Super Bowl. The key message delivered throughout was typical for so many of our pharma initiatives: Talk to your doctor and ask what to do.

Because Ditka had done just that, millions of men confronting the same stigma followed his example. And his championship spirit nearly prevailed. But a 15% spike in new prescriptions right after the Super Bowl ads proved short-lived. Levitra never climbed higher than third place in its three-way showdown.

That outcome was out of character for him. Ditka never settled for third place in anything.

Bob Brody, a consultant and essayist, is author of the memoir “Playing Catch with Strangers: A Family Guy (Reluctantly) Comes of Age.”

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