by Ditka, Mike
I got these calls all the time, and then about a month later I found out it was Walter. I saw him at practice and I said, “You little prick!” God, he thought it was funny.
Now so many years later, I still think about him and what a tragedy it was when he died. It was only 1999, and he was still young. He was always so strong and healthy; it was just mind-blowing to see him wasted away. He used to have a grip that was unreal, bring you to your knees. But what that liver cancer did to him was terrible. I never dreamed he’d be the first one to go from that team—before even any coaches. My offensive coordinator Ed Hughes died in 2000, and that was sad. But Walter? Going first? I remember a team doctor once told me early on that Payton’s blood enzymes were a little screwed up, but what did that mean? It was no big deal. How could it be?
It just hurts for me to remember him being ill, losing his body that way. I spoke at his funeral, but I hate funerals. I want to celebrate life. I want to celebrate Walter Payton’s life. He left a great wife, Connie, and their two wonderful kids. Man, he was a fun guy, I’m telling you.
And in 1985, he was obviously the guy who made our offense work. When I first took over in 1982, Buddy’s defense seemed to just want to beat up our offense all the time. I’ll say that again and again, because it’s true. There were defensive players who didn’t even know the names of the guys on offense. Didn’t want to know. What good was that going to do for Walter? For all of us? Finally, I told Buddy that the Bears were not on our schedule. I guess I said that a few times through the early years. And now we had become a single unit—or at least the defense respected us. And knew our fricking names. Especially Payton’s.
Gary Fencik Remembers ’85
“Robert” Dent
“I don’t think the ‘Robert’ Dent thing was that big a deal. Ditka, you gotta love him, he said all kinds of stuff to everybody. He used to rip into cornerback Mike Richardson, for instance, saying, ‘Mike Richardson, that guy don’t know anything about defense!’ The coaches called Richardson, ‘L.A.,’ for Los Angeles, saying he’d disappear in games when we played on the West Coast, where he was from. He’s in the ‘Super Bowl Shuffle’ rapping
“Ditka would rip everybody after games, that was just routine. But he’d look at Richardson and say something like, ‘But you—Mike—you actually did have a bad game.’ It was all about energy. The Robert Dent thing, I mean, there were so many other ways Ditka could have offended him if he’d really wanted to.”
And why not? We already had scored 136 points, more than anybody in the league. We needed to keep our consistency and togetherness. It bothered the defense a lot that Bell and Harris were apparently not coming back. And now Richard Dent was making noise about being underpaid. He’d made the Pro Bowl in 1984, just his second season, and he was underpaid at $90,000 a year. But we didn’t need him asking to get traded, saying stuff like, “Maybe I can play somewhere else,” right during the thick of things. Next year, maybe. Nah, not even then—just get it done in the off-season. Later on I called him Robert Dent, kind of as a joke. I probably shouldn’t have done it—but it was a joke, people! Anyway, it was just my way of saying let’s all keep pulling together, and nobody’s name is that important. He wanted more publicity, so I gave it to him. But a Super Bowl ring is what it’s all about, isn’t it? Hell yes, it is. Already people were saying our offensive success was because of Jim McMahon and had nothing to do with me. Fine, I’ll put that aside. Let’s just keep rolling.
Things were going on around us, but I was oblivious. I think people don’t realize how coaches are, how narrow they make their world. Look, I knew that John McEnroe was playing good tennis. And I knew Michael Jordan was this young kid for the Bulls, and he was starting his second season and he was amazing, but that was it. I look back and see that the Cubs couldn’t get lights for night games at Wrigley Field. The Illinois Supreme Court said forget it. Of course, this was 20 years before Bob Thomas would run the court. Who knows what he would have ruled?
But I knew nothing about any of it, and I didn’t care. It’s pretty funny to see what Cubs president Dallas Green said. He was mad and said nobody would help the Cubs until it was crisis time, “And it will be crisis time next year when we have to play the playoffs and World Series in St. Louis.” Well, they didn’t have to worry about that, did they? No, the Cubs are pretty consistent about not going all the way.
We had Tampa Bay to get ready for again. There wasn’t a whole lot of news, except that everything we did seemed to get magnified in Chicago. William Perry weighed in at his semi-weekly weigh-in, and he was a sleek 314 pounds. That was down from 330 in training camp, and hip-hip-hooray! He made 1,000 bucks, or something like that, every time he was under 315. The Fridge was unloaded! I remember later when he was getting really heavy, and he would tell me how he wasn’t eating anything at all during the day. And he wasn’t. But at night he might eat enough for five people. But he was a slender fellow in 1985, folks. He was a swizzle stick.
“Things were going on around us, but I was oblivious. I think people don’t realize how coaches are, how narrow they make their world.”
—Ditka
The Bucs game was a lousy one. We went down there and fell behind by 12 points and looked like crap. But Payton ran for two touchdowns, and we pulled it out 27–19. A win is a lot better than a loss, but Tampa Bay was 0–5, so how good could we feel? Buddy wasn’t using Perry all that much on defense, and some media people—following Buddy’s lead—were saying Fridge was a wasted draft pick. I sure didn’t think so. He was fat. But underneath all that stuff was a hell of an athlete. I had seen how fast he was off the ball for a few yards, and I knew he could dunk a basketball. So we put ol’ Fridge on the kickoff coverage team, and darned if he didn’t make two tackles. Tampa Bay blockers weren’t exactly thrilled to see this giant appliance rumbling their way.
The bigger issue was that we’d been forced to come from behind in several of our games, and maybe that wasn’t a good sign. But maybe, too, it meant we could beat people even when we weren’t playing our best.
We’d find out soon. We were undefeated. But we traveled to San Francisco in six days, to play the world-champion San Francisco 49ers. We remembered them quite well.
GAME 6
Chicago 26, San Francisco10
Payback Payoff: Memory Erased
It was time for some payback against the last team that had beaten the Bears, and this time the Bears were ready, unlike the last time they’d visited the Bay Area.
The Bears had been shut out and humiliated 23–0 by the 49ers in the 1984 NFC Championship Game, which left the Bears aware of how much higher they needed to go to gain elite status but also aware that it was within their reach.
The Bears simply crushed the 49ers, even if the score was still 19–10 with just under four minutes to play. They sacked Joe Montana seven times, the most of his career to that point, and San Francisco managed only 45 total yards and three first downs in the second half.
But the story for the Bears was on offense, where Walter Payton and the line clicked into a new gear. Payton rushed for 132 yards, his season high so far, and carried the ball 24 times in the kind of performance that had been missing.
Significantly, the Bears opened the game passing, despite being without Dennis McKinnon and Emery Moorehead because of injuries. Jim McMahon accounted for 115 passing yards in the first quarter, and the offense scored the first four times it had the ball. Payton scored on a three-yard run, and Kevin Butler converted three straight field goals as the Bears breezed to a 16–0 lead.
But the 49ers were Super Bowl champs, and Carlton Williamson returned an interception 43 yards for San Francisco’s first score before Ray Wersching kicked a field goal from 32 yards.
Willie Gault tries to control one of his three catches against the 49ers.
But that was all the 49ers could manage against a team determined to get some payback for the 1984 thrashing. The Bears put away the game on a 29-yard Butler field goal in the
fourth quarter and Payton’s 17-yard touchdown run.
San Francisco coach Bill Walsh congratulates Mike Ditka after the Bears’ victory.
Coach Mike Ditka got a bit of payback of his own against San Francisco coach Bill Walsh, who had inserted guard Guy McIntyre as a fullback in the closing minutes of the title game. Ditka sent in defensive tackle William Perry as a running back and had him carry the ball on the final two plays, picking up two yards on each rush. The game ended, but Perry’s time in the spotlight was only beginning.
Chicago 26, San Francisco 10
OCT. 13, 1985, AT CANDLESTICK PARK
BOTTOM LINE
Payton, Butler star; Montana takes a licking
KEY PLAY
In an affront to 49ers coach Bill Walsh, William Perry debuted at fullback on the final two plays of the game.
KEY STAT
Bears held offensive guru Walsh’s attack without a touchdown for just the second time in his career.
Bears running back Walter Payton breaks through a line of players for an 11- yard gain as San Francisco 49ers defensive end Jeff Stover (72) tries to bring Payton down on October 13, 1985, in San Francisco.
Remembering ’85
WILLIAM PERRY
No. 72, defensive tackle
“It’s still the same. People see me and say hello, say, ‘That’s the Fridge.’ Take a picture.”
“It started in San Francisco. That’s when I first ran the ball. Then on Monday Night Football [against the Packers] that’s where it all blew up and everybody saw me and took to me, and everything happened after that.”
“I was a running back way back in the day, but you get to professional ball and you can score touchdowns and all, now it’s just funny to me.”
“That was one crazy play [when he was in the backfield against Dallas]. I was supposed to go out and block on the cornerback. I went out and blocked on Everson Walls. Walter was going up the middle. I went and blocked on Walls, and we was out there talkin’ for a few seconds, and I look back and everybody was on Walter. I went back into the crowd that was tackling Walter and knocked everybody off and grabbed him and pulled him into the end zone. The referee said, ‘You can’t do that! You can’t do that!’ I said, ‘It’s done now.’”
“I couldn’t say too much about Walter. He was a great guy, a class act, a wonderful person on and off the field. We spent plenty of time going out to his places, his clubs, played pickup basketball together.”
“To me, Mike Ditka was a wonderful guy, a wonderful coach, a nice person, a great all-around guy. He’s the one that drafted me, and I appreciated that. He’s the one that gave me a chance and put me in the backfield and stuff. I still love him and appreciate him and give him the utmost respect.”
“My mother told me not to talk about people unless I can say something good about them. My mom and my dad brought 12 of us up, eight brothers and four sisters. She taught us well. She passed about 20 years ago. Most of us are having a great life. Some passed, and they had a great life. That’s why I say enjoy yourself; you never know what goes on.”
“Money is nothing. You can’t take it with you when you go to heaven. I use it as a tool to keep going.”
“I let them talk about [my weight]. I was happy then. I’m happy now.”
“The nickname came from Clemson. Me and the guys, we went out one night, having a couple beers, and we came back and there was an elevator in our dormitory. I was so big then and I walked through it, and a light was hanging down, and the guy behind me said, ‘You ain’t nothing but a walking refrigerator,’ and that’s how I got the name.”
“You’ve got to say the favorite moment was scoring a touchdown in the Super Bowl. That’s what you work for the whole time, from peewee ball all the way through. You get the chance to score a touchdown, so I can’t say no more. That was the highlight of the whole thing.”
chapter VIII
Sic ’Em Fridge, and the Premature Celebration
All week long 4gers coach Bill Walsh praised the Bears, saying their offense was “exceptionally well-designed,” and basically magnificent and untouchable, and their defense “was possibly the most effective defense in football.” Ditka was even more congratulatory and effusive, difficult as that might seem. The Bears coach came close to fainting, his bodice was so tight. San Francisco had “the most intimidating defense I’ve ever seen,” he said. And it had “the most innovative offense that’s ever been.” Ditka didn’t say he thought Bill Walsh was God, but it might have been on his mind. Ditka hoped against hope that his Bears wouldn’t get “blown out of the city.” Gentlemen, grab your barf bags.
Ever the man with an intuitive grasp of the absurd, Ditka told newsmen he had even considered calling NFL commissioner Pete Rozelle. “What if we both didn’t show up?” he asked.
San Francisco, though 3–2, still had the highest rating in the silly Dunkel NFL Index, but the Bears were No. 3, right behind the runner-up Miami Dolphins. “Did they announce it yet?” Ditka said at his Thursday press conference. “The game’s been canceled. Mutual fear.”
“I told him to go in and tell McMahon he was running the ball. Just grab the ball, hold it like a sack of money, and head south.”
—Ditka on Fridge’s first carry
But the rematch of the NFC Championship Game contenders was on. Same field. Same coaches. But one team had a different quarterback. Jim McMahon. And Ditka himself was certain he had learned from the embarrassing defeat the season before.
Fans at that January NFC title game out in San Francisco had been screaming at us, “When you come back, bring an offense!” It was a fair thing to yell. I had thought we could play conservatively, hang around, and win with our defense in that game. I found out we couldn’t. So we came ready to roll this time. We wanted the other team to be intimidated. We wanted to establish some fear if we could. Lots of it.
This was our offense, doing things right. Walter came out and he was pumped up, to say the least. He rushed for 132 yards and he scored two touchdowns. The last one, in the fourth quarter, he carried two 49ers around the left end with him right into the end zone. It was a 17-yard sweep and it put us up 26–10, and that was the final score.
We played without Dennis McKinnon and tight end Emery Moorehead, because they were injured, and used backups Ken Margerum and Tim Wrightman to fill in. They did fine. Hell, we scored the first four times we had the ball. Our offensive line was exploding off the ball and blocking like crazy. And, of course, our great defense was there. I don’t think Walsh and his guys knew what hit them. Joe Montana was sacked seven times, the most in his career, and they only got 183 net yards, not even half their average.
Like I said, we had a big chip on our shoulder from the year before. Payton told the press afterward that the 49ers hadn’t shown us much “courtesy or dignity” when they beat us before and also that they said “negative things about our offense.” That made me smile a little. But we already had gotten the last laugh.
We had that 26–10 lead, and our defense had stopped them again, naturally, and we were running out the clock to end the game. Well, let’s pause for a moment.
“The problem was Buddy saw this as a slap in the face. That wasn’t how I meant it. It just made us a better football team.”
—Ditka on Fridge playing offense
I remembered when Walsh put that big load McIntyre in the backfield the year before, and how I didn’t much appreciate it. Plus, I like to be a little—what do you want to call it?—creative? So I called Fridge over, and we had a little conference. He was at attention and was like, “Okay, Coach! Yessir, Coach!” I told him to go in and tell McMahon he was running the ball. Just grab the ball, hold it like a sack of money, and head south. We hadn’t practiced Fridge running or put anything in the playbook about it. But the guys might have had an idea I was going to try something different. Perry went thundering off at full speed, screaming to the ref that he was reporting to the backfield and yelling to McMahon that he was now a running
back. I didn’t know what Buddy was thinking about this, but what the hell. If the defense isn’t going to use this guy, I’m gonna. I knew Bill Walsh would appreciate it.
So McMahon gave Perry the ball, and Fridge crashed straight into the line. Our offensive linemen were terrified he might fall on them. Hilgenberg used a cut block on his man just to get down and out of the way. We gave the ball to Fridge on the next play, too, and it was just another huge collision. I don’t think the defenders knew what the hell was happening. I know they weren’t crazy about tackling Big Bill. Their safety Carlton Williamson said afterward he personally was “a little upset about it.”
Hey, screw ’em! It’s football. If you can kick somebody’s ass, shouldn’t you do it? It was revenge for me. Yeah, I’ll admit it. A little bit. Maybe a lot. Even though my first thought about using Fridge back there was this big fellow can really block. I’d watch him in sprints in practice, and for the first five yards or so there was all this dirt flying up from under his shoes. Looked like a roto-tiller. I didn’t like it when they used McIntyre in the backfield against us, that’s for sure. So here’s a response.
Buddy had his favorites, which is okay, because he was one of those old coaches who believes you have to earn your spurs and that rookies generally can’t play. He really believed players had to earn the right to be out there. Being the first draft choice, like Perry, meant nothing to him. But Buddy was dead wrong about Perry and his abilities. Buddy didn’t even want us to draft him. He called him “Fatso” or just “Number 72.” Fine, I’ll take the big kid. And I did.