by Eddie Payton
I’d say logic tells you that anybody hammered as many times as Walter was over the course of his career is bound to have suffered numerous concussions. “He hit a lot of people a lot of times because that was his running style,” Bears legend Gale Sayers said. “I think he got hit a couple of times more than I would have on the same running play.” My little brother just refused to go down. Anyone who ever played with him will tell you that. If he was going to get hit, well, he was sure going to be doing some hitting of his own…but he was still going to get hit. Plenty of times. A bunch of times. Too many times.
How many times did one of those hits result in a concussion? Hard to say, but I’m certain he had a lot of them that no one ever knew about or kept track of. Officials at all levels of the game are pretty cautious about concussions these days, and for good reason. When Walter and I were playing high school and college football, those injuries weren’t called concussions like they are now. Growing up, what was likely a concussion was just called a “dinger” or “getting your bell rung.” It’s extremely hard to figure the number of concussions players suffered back in the day. I mean, my first couple of years in the NFL, I don’t even remember calling for a fair catch. Maybe that’s just because my brain is mush. I don’t know. What I do know is that smelling salts were my best friend. I played five years in the NFL and Walter played 13 (just like the chapters in this book). He was tackled something like 35 or 40 times a game, and was blocking on other plays. There’s no telling how many concussions he suffered.
Nowadays we know repeated concussions can lead to chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), also known as “punch-drunk syndrome,” which is a degenerative brain condition that has long
been associated with boxers. In the early stages of CTE, sufferers might display such symptoms as memory loss, confusion, suicidal behavior, lack of concentration, headaches, mood disorders (including depression), emotional instability, erratic behavior, problems with impulse control, and sleeplessness. However, CTE eventually progresses to full-blown dementia, similar to early-onset Alzheimer’s. The problem with it is that you don’t know you’re in trouble until it’s too late. A mark of CTE in football players is that years after a guy leaves the game, the condition starts affecting his personality and behavior.
Walter’s former teammate, Dave Duerson, took his own life. He shot himself in the heart and left his brain to the Boston University School of Medicine. After a study of his brain, they found that the problems he had were directly related to the number of concussions he suffered. Like Walter, Duerson had a long NFL career, playing 11 seasons (which is a lot, but still two fewer than Walter). He was actually on the Bears’ 1985 Super Bowl team with Walter and was one of the best defensive backs to ever play the game. I think it’s pretty conclusive that he had CTE.
Another player who was the best at his position was Junior Seau, a future NFL Hall of Fame linebacker who committed suicide, also by shooting himself in the chest, at the age of 43. Seau’s death brought immediate attention to the concussion crisis we have in sports. The harmful effects of repetitive head trauma on the long-term health of guys who played at all levels of football is now rightfully in the spotlight.
Yet another suicide victim was a tough defensive back, Ray Easterling, who played with the Atlanta Falcons in the mid-’70s. Easterling killed himself on April 19, 2012. He was actually the lead plaintiff in a lawsuit against the NFL before he took his own life. The suit, which also included another teammate of Walter’s, Chicago Bears quarterback Jim McMahon, claimed that both suffered from CTE.
Those three victims all had something in common besides their terrible fates—they were personal friends of mine. I knew them well, along with their symptoms.
And the list doesn’t stop with the guys I knew. Andre Waters took his own life in November of 2006. It was determined that he had sustained brain damage as a result of playing football. Prior to Waters’ death, Terry Long, a former Pittsburgh Steelers offensive lineman from 1984 to 1991 who had attempted suicide before, succeeded on June 7, 2005, by drinking antifreeze. It was determined that Long committed suicide because of CTE, which was caused by the multiple concussions he suffered as a football player.
Tom McHale, who spent nine seasons with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, Philadelphia Eagles, and Miami Dolphins, died on May 25, 2008, due to a drug overdose, but the autopsy showed that McHale also suffered from CTE. Did the CTE cause him to drug himself to death? Who knows? One thing is clear, though: McHale makes at least six former NFL players who have been diagnosed with CTE since 2002 and died by suicide or overdose.
Ted Johnson, a former New England Patriots linebacker who retired in 2005, said he suffered between 100 and 150 concussions in his 10-year career. Doctors have told Johnson he is afflicted with post-concussion symptoms. Dozens of retired NFL players have been found to have CTE, so we’re just seeing the beginning of what I think is a crisis about to explode.
Me? Well, I have my share of memory loss and mood swings. I go from euphoria to depression more and more the older I get, and I sometimes wonder what’s going on. It’s scary, really. There is no telling how many concussions I’ve had in my life. When I played, you just went out there, got hit on the head and saw stars, and then somebody helped you to the sideline, gave you smelling salts, and you shook your head. After that, it was right back in the game. Well, chances are, each time that happened to me, that was a concussion. If I had to guess, I’d say I averaged a concussion every other game.
So, what about my brother? I watched Walter from the sideline for about six years, as you know. I’ve also watched a bunch of film of him playing. More often than I can count, when he got knocked down, he’d just come right back again. That was him never dying easy, but I’m sincerely convinced, based on the number of concussions and the blatant symptoms Walter had, that he had at minimum severe brain trauma—and at worst, CTE. If I was a betting man, I’d bet on the latter. I don’t believe anyone would debate that Walter exhibited all of the symptoms I mentioned earlier. Memory loss, confusion, perhaps some suicidal behavior, lack of concentration, headaches, depression, emotional instability, insomnia, erratic behavior, problems with impulse control…those were all there at some point late in Walter’s life, and each one is a symptom of CTE.
Looking back on it all, and knowing what I know now about concussions and CTE, I just can’t say for sure whether or not my brother was suicidal. But I can say that if he was, it wasn’t because he was depressed. If he ever did suffer from suicidal thoughts, it was because of all his concussions. Of course, I want to emphasize that I’m not saying he was suicidal, and I have to point out one very important fact that we just can’t ignore: he didn’t kill himself. Actually, as far as I know, he never attempted to take his own life. No matter what people say or think about whether he was suicidal and why, the fact that he didn’t ever try to kill himself is one key piece of evidence that most have not been talking about.
Of course, some people will always say Walter was depressed and was therefore suicidal. They’ll also say he didn’t just take painkillers, but that he was addicted to them. Talk about jumping to conclusions. Listen, 13 years of getting beat up every Sunday like Walter did, well, aside from symptoms of repeated concussions, he was going to have aches and pains that the normal 40-year-old person wouldn’t have. A lot of people think it’d be great to be a pro football player, but those people don’t have to deal with the pain that comes along with it. Walter did, and sometimes he had to take something to deal with the residual pain, even in retirement.
Walter was deathly afraid of needles. The only needle he’d reluctantly allow was when they had to drain fluid from his knees during his playing days. Really, whenever he took something, he was basically just taking the equivalent of Aleve. It was just aspirin or whatever a doctor would give him to relieve the pain he was dealing with. To say he didn’t take pain medication would be a lie, but to say he was addicted to
painkillers, that’d be a lie, too. Listen, when you hurt, you take something, right? When I hurt, I take something. It doesn’t mean we’re addicted. It doesn’t mean we get up every day and take ’em even when we don’t hurt, just out of habit. To me that’s where the line is between somebody who’s addicted and somebody who has to take pain meds for relief. Walter was the latter.
Keep in mind, too, that Walter was a guy who refused to run out of bounds. NFL players take far more abuse than most people in life, and Walter took far more abuse than most NFL players. That was just his do-or-die attitude coming out. And that do-or-die attitude of his would keep on coming out, even after he left the game. “Once I saw him driving a race car,” Bud said, “and Walter fell back a lap or so. I said, ‘Well, get ready to watch it blow up.’ Sure enough, about that time, you could see him push the car so hard he’d done jammed the gears or something. He’d rather wreck the car than lose the race. It was always going to be the car’s fault, not his. That’s just how it was going to be.”
And I’d say that’s just about right. That’s who my little brother was. He’d never die easy. He dealt with physical pain, sure, and he took some pills to get rid of it every now and then, but he was not addicted to anything. Pills would help him cope, but they didn’t consume him. He’d never die easy. Walter dealt with emotional highs and lows, of course, just like the rest of us, but he was not going to let depression take him down. He’d never die easy. If he was suicidal, it was a consequence of the hits he took due to his unwillingness to give up on the field. He’d never die easy. Addiction? Depression? That’s just not who Walter was. No matter what he did in life, he wouldn’t be haunted by the regret that comes from not giving it your all. He wouldn’t let anything beat him. Not football. Not pain. Not pressure. He’d never die easy. No, not my baby brother. This was true even as he suffered with what I’m convinced was CTE. True even when he got sick with primary sclerosing cholangitis. True even through his fight with cancer. True even to his death, which was not at his own hands. And that brings us back to Illinois, to his house, to his bedroom, where I last saw him alive, on Halloween Night, 1999.
13. Livin’ Ain’t Easy
I’ll never forget my last night with Walter for as long as I live. It was Sunday, October 31, 1999. Halloween. Momma, Pam, and I’d been in and out of Walter’s bedroom all day. My momma and sister left the room to give me some alone time with Walter. The colored light of the TV flickered all over the walls of Walter’s room like some sort of rainbow promise from God that Walter would soon be with Him. Walter was extremely weak and fighting to get comfortable in his bed. He’d had too many visitors that day, and I could see it had worn him out. We talked that night about faith and how God was in control. Walter looked right at me and had a face of calm confidence that I’d never before seen on any man. “It’s in God’s hands, bro,” he said, as if he knew something I didn’t. “If it’s His will to take me, I’m ready to go.”
“His will be done,” I answered in quiet and sincere agreement.
“Tomorrow is promised to no one,” Walter said with a level of understanding that only someone can have when they are ready to pass on from this life. Dyin’ ain’t easy, but Walter knew it was something we all have to face. “I want you to do me a favor,” he said.
“I got your back, dawg. What is it?”
Walter looked straight at me, and it was well beyond the surface. His look let me know that he was very serious about what he was getting ready to ask. He wanted me to promise to look after Momma. And that’s when it hit me. That’s when I fully realized what was about to happen. Walter was getting ready to leave me behind here with Momma. My brother was going on ahead of me to the other side. And that meant he’d soon see Daddy. I leaned over and hugged my baby brother around the neck, told him I loved him, and promised that I sure would take care of Momma. Then I asked him to do me a favor, too. I whispered in his ear, “Look, man, if you end up leaving, would you tell Daddy I love him?” I winced, trying to hold back tears before I continued. “I didn’t get a chance to tell Daddy before he died.”
Walter didn’t say a word. He just looked at me once again with a wink and a grin that said it all. He did that a lot.
When I left Chicago that night, I was at peace knowing that my brother would soon be gone. But I still headed home not knowing exactly when that would be. I didn’t know that night would be the last time I’d see him alive. I talked to him on the phone early Monday morning, November 1, 1999, and he sounded pretty good, but I didn’t know how long he had. Then I talked with Momma for a few minutes, and she said he looked good, but we couldn’t be sure how much time was left. My brother’s life was slipping away, and even though I could see the end coming, I still wasn’t prepared when it finally arrived. Walter died later that morning, and I flew back to Chicago the next day.
You may remember that the highest point total Walter ever got in a game was 46. You might recall that, in their Super Bowl victory with Walter, the Bears lit up the Patriots for 46 points and shut them down with Buddy Ryan’s “46” defense. Well, on November 1, 1999, my beloved brother was gone…at the age of 46. That’s one thing that has been rightly reported before. Walter’s age wasn’t what everyone thought. What some haven’t gotten right, though, was why Walter had pushed his age back in the first place. It didn’t have anything to do with his pursuit of the Heisman Trophy. Walter changed his age when he was entering the NFL, because he wanted to play as long as he could. Back then, you just filled out a form and entered your date of birth; no one checked it like they do now. When I got to the league, I followed his lead and did the same thing for the same reason. Walter pushed his age back one year, because he didn’t want to be pushed by others to retire any earlier than necessary. At the end of his life, I was wishing he could’ve added that year back. Or two. Or 50.
Losing a younger brother, especially one only in his forties like my brother was, stirs a unique set of emotions. I never had to deal with anything like it before and haven’t since. Even when I knew it was about to happen, being comforted by our last face-to-face conversation, I still didn’t want to accept it. I didn’t want to believe it. Somewhere deep inside, I thought if anybody could make it through what he was dealing with, it was Walter. I thought if God had a miracle out there waiting for somebody, it was going to be for Walter. But Walter didn’t make it through. That miracle just never came. For reasons only God knows, Walter was taken home. Heaven is lucky to have him, of course, but the world is definitely worse off without him. That’s what happens here when we lose a person who strives to make the world a better place.
Matt Suhey, a former teammate and dear friend to Walter, shared a story once that really shows what we lost. About two months before Walter passed, Suhey and Mike Lanigan (one of Walter’s business partners) were sitting with Walter, watching TV. The mood in the room was somber, according to Suhey. Walter was sick, and they were walking on eggshells, understandably not knowing what to say. Then out of the blue, Walter decided to break the tension. “You know what?” he asked. “This is going to be another Brian’s Song, only in this one, the brother dies.” Well, that did it. Walter’s humor put everyone at ease. “Mike and I were supposed to be there to cheer Walter up,” Matt remembers, “but there he was making a joke, trying to be sure we were comfortable.” That’s who Walter was. And I don’t just mean he was funny. He had a great sense of humor, yes, but what Suhey’s story shows is that he had an even greater sensitivity for those around him.
Gale Sayers also knows just how special my brother was, and how big a loss his death was to the world. “He was a great, great person,” Sayers said. “If you were around Walter, you would know how great a person he was. I knew him on the football field, and I was around him off the football field when he was doing charity work for people. That’s what I remember. And that’s what I want to remember. If I knew something bad about Walter Payton, I couldn’t say it. Ain�
��t no way. Ain’t no way I could say anything bad about him, because of all the times I saw him out there trying to help people.”
To put it simply, Walter cared about people. My little brother was what every mother and father should want their son to grow up to be. And I ain’t talking so much as a football player. I mean, he was obviously a great football player, and every football player should want to play like he did, but he was an even better person. If every little boy out there grew up to be like Walter, the world would be a much better place to live. He became a big star, but his heart was always with the “common people.”
It’s funny because, yes, I’m the older brother, but in remembering Walter, I don’t really see it that way. I’m the one who learned a lot from him about being a professional athlete and, more importantly, a man. It took me nearly a decade after he passed to even begin to recognize how much his life and death impacted me. Even when I didn’t know it growing up, my little brother influenced me. Even gone, Walter is shaping me. In fact, part of what led me to write this book is my quest to know exactly how big a part of my life Walter was…and is.
If only those he left behind acted more like him, perhaps then we could’ve avoided the ugliness, the bickering, the fighting over his estate, the jealousy, the power struggles, and on and on. But we didn’t avoid all that. The Payton family was not immune to those evils. And it all started the night Walter died.
Bud was in Chicago with Momma the night Walter passed, and Momma wanted to go in to take some pictures of Walter’s body. Well, a guy named Mark Alberts, who was married to Walter’s assistant Ginny Quirk, took issue with that. “Mark…started hollering, ‘You can’t go in there, I’m representing the estate!’” Bud said. “‘You can not take pictures.’ Connie also said Alyne couldn’t take pictures.” Though they didn’t want her to, Momma did get some pictures of Walter, but Mark wasn’t happy about it. And Momma wasn’t happy about how she’d been treated.