Sweetness

by Jeff Pearlman

  “When you write something like that, you never know how it will be perceived,” added Page. “We could have been looking for work.”

  A couple of days later, Halas met with the entire defensive unit. Most of the men figured they were about to be fired. Instead, Halas praised them for their loyalty. He promised to retain Ryan. Consequently, when Ditka was hired, it was with one major condition—not only did the defensive coordinator have to stay, but he would have final say on that side of the ball. “I was fine with it,” said Ditka. “But Buddy wanted to be the head coach, so he never accepted me. I was thrilled to have someone so talented on my staff. Whether we got along was irrelevant, as long as we could win together.”

  The two clashed. They were water vs. oil. Ali vs. Frazier. “The tension existed because they were very similar,” said Al Harris. “They were both hamstrung, hardheaded men who were convinced they alone had the winning formula.” The result of the Ditka-Ryan divide was a pair of units that genuinely loathed one another. During practices, Ryan instructed his players to hit, and hit at will. Ditka echoed the order to his offense. “Don’t let them walk all over you!” Ditka would yell. “Fuck the defense!”

  Although the Bears had failed to qualify for the play-offs in 1983, the team won five of its final six games to evoke genuine optimism. Even Sports Illustrated, which regularly dismissed the team, picked Chicago to win the NFC Central the next season.

  “Sometimes a seed has to be planted,” Singletary told The Sporting News.

  “I feel that, for the past two years, a seed has been planted. I feel it’s grown and ready to reach its potential. Whatever growth it has, it has to be this year.”

  The Bears opened at home against Tampa Bay, and while the city was euphoric over an easy 34–14 triumph, Payton, who ran for sixty-one yards on sixteen carries, was back to brooding. In order to protect the thirty-year-old’s knees, Ditka removed him when the Bears jumped out to a 27–7 lead early in the fourth quarter. It was a decision any head coach would have made, and no one on the Bears—even the backstabbing Ryan—found it objectionable.

  As he walked toward the locker room afterward, Payton sulked, refusing to acknowledge the fans who called his name. Payton then blew off the media, speaking only to the hosts of the postgame TV show that paid him to appear.

  A couple of days later, Payton attempted to explain his behavior, saying he was upset over not “playing my type of game.” Ditka was incredulous. So were several teammates. “It was supposed to be all about winning,” said Bob Avellini, the Bears’ backup quarterback. “But sometimes it wasn’t.”

  The poor mood didn’t last. Payton ran for 179 yards in a Week 2 rout of Denver, during which he surpassed Brown’s NFL record of 15,459 all-purpose yards. The following week he gained another 110 in a tight 9–7 triumph at Green Bay. (Afterward, some Packers were incensed over Chicago’s dirty play. Said guard Greg Koch: “They’re a bullshit team and a bullshit organization.”)

  “Walter was as good at that time as he’d been when he was younger,” said Lynn Dickey, the Packers quarterback. “We made it our goal as a team to bust him up and destroy him with hard hits. But Walter just demoralized us. We couldn’t stop him.”

  When Payton looked over the schedule before the start of the season, a September 23 trek to Seattle hardly jumped off the page. In the chase to overtake Brown, however, much had changed since the preseason. In a nod to the business-before-loyalty approach of the NFL, the Steelers had cut loose Harris in late August when he refused to agree to contract terms. The decision was a shocking one, considering Harris’ proximity to the record, and the publicity-starved Seahawks eagerly picked him up.

  As a result, a normally ho-hum matchup held genuine intrigue. Harris led Payton by thirty-four yards, and the Seahawks arranged a joint press conference for both men on the Saturday before the game. Payton, perhaps sensing Harris was on his last leg, arrived giddy, talkative, and gracious. He confessed the record meant a great deal, then used part of the session to lobby for a law in Illinois to require motorcyclists to wear helmets, noting that someone he knew had recently died.

  Harris didn’t show for the event.

  Or, really, for the game.

  Seattle won 38–9, but it was the duel-that-wasn’t that generated the buzz. With 2:05 remaining in the first quarter, Payton took a pitch and scooted nine yards around right end. The run was unexceptional, but with it Payton trailed one less man. He outgained Harris for the game, 116 yards to 23 yards, and it became clear to most everyone that Seattle’s veteran halfback was a dead man running.

  Not that Harris agreed. “As far as I’m concerned, the race is on,” he said. “It’s up to me to see if I can make it a race. I think I can.”

  He couldn’t.

  The Seahawks released Harris six weeks later.

  In the days following the Seattle defeat, all Payton could think about was Jim Brown. Save for their joint appearance on Donahue, the two legends had never spent any time together. In fact, Payton never even viewed footage of Brown running the ball until a week after Seattle, when he found himself watching a TV highlight film of the NFL’s greatest running backs. “Jim Brown was big and strong and quick,” Payton said afterward. “And he even made a one-handed catch. Hey, that’s what football is all about.”

  The men were polar opposites. Although Brown was raised by a great-grandmother in an all-black community on St. Simons Island, Georgia, for the first eight years of his life, the remainder of his childhood was spent in Manhasset, New York. He was a five-sport star who went on to dominate in football and lacrosse at Syracuse University before entering the NFL for nine incredible seasons. “Jim Brown was the best who ever played,” said Ross Fichtner, Brown’s former teammate who later served as Chicago’s secondary coach. “He’s so far ahead of everyone else, it’s not even funny. But Jim didn’t have Walter’s heart. Walter gave one hundred percent all the time, and sometimes teammates didn’t think Jim was giving his all.”

  Unlike Payton, who rarely voted and never talked politics,16 Brown dove headfirst into social causes. He spoke out forcefully about the plight of black athletes and infuriated many by supporting Muhammad Ali when the boxer avoided serving in Vietnam. “Jim really stuck his neck out,” said John Wooten, a former teammate. “There were a lot of people that hated Ali, and because Jim supported Ali they now hated Jim.” Brown founded the Negro Industrial and Economic Union, a group that provided funding to hundreds of black-owned businesses, and condemned the bigotry that plagued America.

  Having watched from afar as black athletes like Jackie Robinson and Joe Louis swallowed their tongues and accepted abuse from whites, Brown promised himself he would never follow suit. “My attitude was, in no way was I going to be that way,” he said. “In no way did I ever feel that I would accept discrimination.”

  When asked about Payton’s intelligence, friends focus on his ability to read people and gauge the mood of a room. “Walter’s skill was in the power of observation,” said Mark Alberts, a future business partner. “He could look over someone and perfectly understand him.” Brown, on the other hand, was bright and worldly, quick with an opinion and well-versed in books and newspapers. He dared people to challenge his opinions, and cherished the look of befuddlement as he rattled off numbers and facts.

  Brown retired from football at age twenty-nine to pursue a career in acting, and though the move saved his body from more abuse and provided him with a successful second career (Brown’s film credits include The Dirty Dozen, Three the Hard Way, and Mars Attacks!), there was a part of the man that couldn’t fully let go. He routinely expressed disdain—and disgust—toward the so-called “modern player,” what with his fancy gear and thick pads and stuffed wallet. “My feeling is you’re a sportsman or a capitalist,” he told the Tribune’s Sam Smith. “I was a sportsman and played the game to win, not for records. We didn’t stay in the game to set records. It was a question of dignity and true performance. Today, players want a million-dollar sal
ary and won’t play because their big toe is hurt.”

  When Payton ran over the Dallas Cowboys for 155 yards in a Week 5 loss, the anticipation of history was palpable. He needed a mere sixty-seven yards against the visiting Saints the following Sunday to finally become the NFL’s rushing king.

  In the days leading up to New Orleans, Payton was regularly prodded about Brown. It was predictable stuff—the media wanting sound bites about his admiration for the great hero. Payton, however, refused to comply. Yes, he was aware that Brown played in twelve- and fourteen-game seasons, and that he set his mark in fewer carries. But, to Payton, Brown was pathetic. When asked by Michael Janofsky of The New York Times whether he respected Brown, the answer was short and pointed. “Next question,” he said. Would Brown be invited to the Saints game? “If he wants to come, that’s fine with me,” Payton said. “I have no control over that. It’s up to the Bears’ organization. We’re trying to keep this as professional as possible. My job is to get the record; I’ll leave the details to the organization.”

  In other words: No.

  Though he was but twenty-six years old in 1984, Jeff Fisher was beginning to feel the wear and tear that is high-level football. A reserve safety and kick returner with the Bears, Fisher had played four years at USC, and now was in his fourth—and final—season in Chicago. Some teammates suffered sprained knees and ankles. Others seemed to be battling concussions by the week.

  Fisher’s feet chronically hurt.

  One day, early in the ’84 season, Fisher approached Ray Earley, the team’s cantankerous equipment manager, and requested new insoles.

  Instead of merely forking over the goods, Earley called Fisher a “damn pussy” and demanded he follow him to Payton’s locker. Earley pulled out Walter’s shoes. They were a battered pair of KangaROOS, with metal-tipped inch-long cleats.

  “Stick your hand in!” Earley barked.

  “What?” said Fisher.

  “Stick your hand in! Stick the fucking thing in!”

  Fisher did as he was told. “I actually scratched up my fingers, because Walter pulled the factory insole out of the shoe. He’d put one of those white thin baseball sanitary socks on, then put his foot in the shoe, so he could feel all seven cleats on the ground against his sole. In other words, when you put your hand in that shoe, you were feeling the nails from the screw beds normally covered by the insoles. He wanted to feel every nail.

  “That,” said Fisher, “was Walter.”

  Not only were Payton’s feet rubbing up against metal, but his thigh pads—thin, ratty, smelly—were the same ones he first received as a sophomore at Jefferson High School. Payton liked the lightness. The flexibility. The fact that they felt like feathers atop his body. His game pants, meanwhile, were nothing but patches and frayed threading. He only gave them up after a tackler ripped out the seat. The antiquated equipment told a story that went beyond mere nostalgia. Walter Payton would do anything—absolutely anything—to gain an edge.

  “That’s why he became the all-time rushing king,” said Fisher. “Maybe there were more talented players, and certainly there were bigger players. But Walter wanted it so badly. You could see it every practice, every game. His desire to succeed was unmatched.”

  Against the Cowboys, Payton had a large handful of family members and friends in attendance, just in case he broke the mark. Though falling short of 221 rushing yards can hardly be deemed an embarrassment, afterward Payton felt as if he’d let people down. Fans wanted the record. Teammates wanted the record. Coaches wanted the record. The pressure was immense.

  “This is my week,” he told friends in the days leading up to the Saints. “I have to get this over with.”

  In his typical hard-to-read ways, Payton longed for the attention, yet shunned the attention. He turned down very few interview requests in the lead-up to New Orleans, yet adamantly rejected the Bears’ plans for a threeminute on-field ceremony that would include Connie, Jarrett, and his mother, Alyne. “Once it’s over,” he said, “ just acknowledge it to the crowd and get on with the game. That’s the key thing.”

  Of all the teams Payton could have faced with a record in the balance, the Saints were an ideal one. Though New Orleans boasted a 3-2 record and a fantastic young linebacker named Rickey Jackson, their defense was putrid against the run, allowing opposing offenses 149 rushing yards per game. Even better, the Saints players admired Payton. One of the team’s consultants was Bob Hill, the former head coach at Jackson State (“I told the guys Walter stories all the time,” Hill said), and the Saints and Bears held annual training camp scrimmages. “We formed a little bit of a bond from that,” said Frank Wattelet, a New Orleans defensive back. “We all knew and loved Walter. He was a wonderful man.” In other words, when the twelve o’clock game began, Payton wasn’t staring down Green Bay or Minnesota. Saints players certainly didn’t want Payton running all over them, but they weren’t averse to being a part of football history.

  Payton slept only a handful of minutes the night before, tossing and turning at the thought of not gaining the needed yardage. He knew he would inevitably set the record, but didn’t want to do so with a meek tiptoe. “Walter ran with so much pride,” said Suhey. “He never sought out the easy way.”

  With the Cubs scheduled to play San Diego in the nationally televised fifth game of the National League Championship Series, 12,000 of Soldier Field’s 66,950 seats remained empty. Beneath a pewter-colored sky, the Bears stormed the field and jumped out to a 13–7 halftime lead. Payton accumulated sixty-four yards on fifteen carries, and needed only two more to own the mark. He was running intensely even for a player who always ran intensely. “On one play he hit me hard—really, really hard,” said Jim Kovach, a Saints linebacker. “I remember looking up at his face mask and there was something hanging from it. It was my skin.”

  The record-breaking run came with 14:11 remaining in the third quarter, on a second-down-and-nine from the Bears’ twenty-one-yard line. The play, Toss 28 Weak, was a simple one. Payton lined up behind Suhey in the I-formation, tiptoed four steps to his left, and received the pitch from McMahon. Covert, the left tackle, blocked down alongside tight end Emery Moorehead. Mark Bortz, the left guard, pulled while leading Suhey and Payton—who palmed the ball like a basketball in his right hand—into the hole. The only Saint with a shot of dropping Payton for a loss was linebacker Whitney Paul, who charged straight toward the play before being nudged inside by Bortz. Payton burst outside, took about ten rapid-fire steps up the field, and lunged powerfully into linebacker Dennis “Dirt” Winston. Paul, trailing the action, helped bring him down from behind. As soon as Payton landed, six yards from where the play began, CBS announcer Tim Ryan bellowed, “He’s got it!” With the crowd standing and applauding, Payton—football in his left hand—leapt to his feet and extended his right arm to help Paul off the ground. Teammates and opponents rushed to offer hugs and handshakes and Jim Riebandt, the Soldier Field public address announcer, shouted, “Walter Payton has just set a new National Football League career rushing record!” Payton jogged to Saints coach Bum Phillips, shook his hand, and turned back toward Chicago’s sideline, dodging a couple of TV cameramen who had slinked onto the turf. Payton held the ball aloft to even louder cheers, exchanged a leaping high-five with teammate Todd Bell, then found himself engulfed by dozens of Bears. “More than anything, it was surreal,” said Pat Dunsmore, a Chicago tight end. “You realize it’s a big moment, but you don’t realize how big until you look back.” With the fans chanting “Wal-ter! Wal-ter! Wal-ter!” Payton looked for someone with the Bears who could set aside the ball. He ended the festivities by shaking hands with Michael McCaskey, the team’s president, but when Payton turned back to the field he found himself surrounded by photographers and cameramen. “Come on!” he squealed, shaking his arms in disgust. “Get off the field! Get off the field!”

  On the New Orleans sideline, members of the Saints stood in wonderment. The moment was special. Not merely for one player or one team,
but for football. For sports. “He was the epitome of what our game was all about,” said Jimmy Rogers, a New Orleans running back. “It was an historic event, and we wanted him to be honored.”

  Payton returned to the huddle, waving to the fans one last time. He went on to gain 154 yards on thirty-two carries, as Chicago won handily, 20–7. Immediately after the final whistle blew, Payton was brought to the sideline, handed a pair of headphones, and placed on live television with Brent Musburger, host of The NFL Today and the man who, nine years earlier, flew the rookie running back to Chicago for his first televised interview.

  “Walter,” Musburger said, “you have been downplaying this record now for some time. But does it mean more to you personally now that you’ve accomplished it? Can you comment on what it means after you’ve surpassed it?”

  With his hair wrapped in a white headband, Payton breathed deeply and deliberately. The crowd was still screaming. The air was moist and cold.

  “Well, Bret . . .” he began—knowing good and well Musburger’s first name was Brent.

  Moments later, Payton accepted a call in a special tent from President Ronald Reagan, who was flying to Louisville on Air Force One. Upon being handed the phone, surrounded by dozens of people, he waited to hear the president’s voice. With no one on the other end of the line, he cracked loudly, “Oh, the check is in the mail.” The room broke up.

  Even with 12,400 yards, Walter Payton remained a kid.

  CHAPTER 19

  SHUFFLE

  IN HINDSIGHT, KNOWING WHAT WE KNOW NOW, IT SEEMS EASY TO ASSIGN ah-ha! moments to the Chicago Bears’ inevitable greatness.

  Ah-ha!—when the franchise hired Mike Ditka!

  Ah-ha!—when the franchise drafted Jim McMahon!

  Ah-ha!—when the franchise recorded “The Super Bowl Shuffle”!