And yet, Payton’s deep kindness was coupled with deep insecurity. Or, as Holmes said, “He could also be incredibly vapid and thin-skinned. It really depended on the day. Sometimes on the hour.”
Indeed, two months after granting Baker a wish come true, Payton was in Chicago, pouting. According to a report in the Tribune, McMahon, the savvy-yet-brittle quarterback with all of three NFL seasons under his belt, was now the Bears’ highest-paid player, earning $950,000 for the upcoming season. Payton, meanwhile, was a distant second at $685,000 (annuity not included).
The $265,000 contract disparity between McMahon and Payton made the running back’s blood boil. So, for that matter, did the mounting dismissiveness he perceived to be coming from the press, the fans, and the Bears organization. “This is my eleventh year, and nobody takes me seriously,” he moaned to Sports Illustrated. “You talk about the running backs that have been in the league, you ask, ‘What about the running backs?’ and the first names that pop into people’s minds are Eric Dickerson, Tony Dorsett, Curt Warner, or Billy Sims, William Andrews, George Rogers. Every year, Payton’s on the back burner.
“If you chart [the careers of other runners], you see peaks and valleys. Whereas my career, I like to think, has been like IBM or Xerox. I’ve been playing at the same level, and sometimes above, for at least nine years. I guess the people have come to expect that. Rain, sleet, snow, sprained ankle . . . or whatever, he’s going to be there. Sometimes people tend to—not knowingly—they sometimes take things for granted. I guess I’ve been the Rodney Dangerfield of running backs.
“But it doesn’t bother me. Rodney makes a lot of movies, drinks a lot of light beer.”
Only it did bother him. While his rant concerned, in a literal sense, the NFL’s other marquee running backs, the words had more to do with the Chicago Bears. Entering the 1985 season Payton was, for the first time, not the team’s sole focal point. There was McMahon, the hard-living, attentionseeking quarterback who talked smack and wore sunglasses indoors. There was Willie Gault, the speedy wide receiver who longed for a career in movies. There was Mike Singletary, the Butkus-esque middle linebacker, and his two high-flying cohorts, Wilber Marshall and Otis Wilson. And, of course, there was Ditka, the snarling head coach, and Buddy Ryan, the defensive coordinator who hated him. So loaded was the team that, shortly after reporting to training camp and soaking in all the talent, Butler called Cathy, his fiancée, and told her their wedding had to be moved from January 25, 1985—the day before the next Super Bowl. “We had so many weapons, and Walter wasn’t the center of it anymore, even though he was so valuable,” said Covert. “And while I’m sure he really enjoyed being part of all the winning, the other side of the coin was that it wasn’t all about him. I think that was sometimes a little bit difficult for him. The other personalities came into play, and it wasn’t that he was ever overshadowed, but he had competition.”
With the cutting of Thomas, only defensive lineman Mike Hartenstine, receiver Brian Baschnagel, and safety Gary Fencik remained from the dark ages. Few of the modern Bears understood what made Payton go—the intensity, the need to prove people wrong, the insecurity. He was confused by the public gloating of younger athletes and turned off by what he perceived to be the constant cries for attention. It was one thing for the NFL’s all-time rushing leader to crave the spotlight. It was another altogether for teammates who had accomplished precious little. “The challenges of being as recognized as he was and the face of sports for a city for many years would wear on anyone,” said Shaun Gayle, the defensive back. “I’m sure it weighed on Walter, too.”
What irked Payton most was the emergence of a rookie defensive lineman named William Perry. Drafted in the first round out of Clemson, “the Refrigerator” (as he was called) was immediately lambasted by Ryan, who labeled him too slow, too fat, too dumb to master Chicago’s complex 46 Defense. Yet in an era when players rarely exceeded 300 pounds, the Fridge stood out. Gap-toothed and wobbly, he tipped the scales at 325 pounds, making him one of the league’s largest players. He had a twenty-two-inch neck and a size fifty-eight coat. “I was born to be big,” he told Sports Illustrated , “and I ain’t disappointing nobody.”
Upon seeing his new teammate at training camp for the first time, defensive lineman Dan Hampton nicknamed Perry “Biscuit”—as in, he was one biscuit short of 350 pounds. When Perry removed his T-shirt in front of other players, revealing mounds of Shamu-esque blubber, the moniker de jour changed to “Mud Slide.”
“Funny thing is, Fridge was a great athlete,” said Andy Frederick, an offensive tackle. “I saw him jump atop a thirty-six-inch table from the ground while holding weights in his hands and I saw him dunk a volleyball from below the rim.”
It wasn’t that Payton disliked his new teammate. Even for Ryan, who vehemently opposed the Bears selecting him (on his second practice with the team, Ryan called the Fridge “a wasted draft choice and a waste of money”), Perry was a big, loveable lug. No, what irked Payton was what the rookie symbolized.
Chicago won its first five games of the 1985 season, and the Bears were again legitimate Monsters of the Midway. Yet while triumphs over the divisionrival Vikings (during which McMahon, suffering from a leg infection and fresh off of two days in traction for back problems, came off the bench in the third quarter to throw three remarkable touchdown passes—one made possible by a vicious block by Payton on a blitzing linebacker) and Buccaneers were satisfying, Ditka used a bright red Sharpie to mark October 13 on his calendar—the day the Bears were to face the 49ers at Candlestick Park.
Before the previous season’s play-off loss, Ditka had never given much thought to San Francisco. It was a top-flight organization with one of the best coaches (Bill Walsh) and quarterbacks (Joe Montana) in the game, but the 49ers were hardly a heated rival. With that 23–0 slaughter, however, everything changed. Ditka didn’t merely want to beat Walsh. He wanted to destroy and embarrass him.
Led by Payton’s two touchdowns and 132 rushing yards, as well as a defense that sacked Montana seven times, the coach’s wish came true. The Bears routed San Francisco, 26–10. “Unfortunately, when the 49ers beat us last year they didn’t show much courtesy or dignity,” Payton said. “They said negative things about our offense after shutting us out. We thought about that all during the off-season and the preseason.”
Armed with a bad temper and a long memory, Ditka wasn’t settling merely for a win. Here was a coach who, two years earlier, ordered his special team players to “get” Detroit kicker Eddie Murray, whom Ditka thought to be showboating. Here was a coach who once broke a bone in his hand by punching a steel locker after a loss. Now, in the waning minutes of the fourth quarter, with the game out of reach and the image of Guy McIntyre at fullback dancing through his cerebrum, Ditka made a lineup change. He inserted Perry, thus far only a defensive player, into the backfield, handing him the ball on the game’s final two plays (Perry ran for four yards—one more than the 49ers’ entire second-half total).
“Gives you a little food for thought on the goal line, doesn’t he?” Ditka said afterward. “I mean, it’s really something you’ve got to think about realistically. There’s a chance that could happen.”
In the following week’s 23–7 whitewashing of Green Bay, Perry ran for a one-yard touchdown and was Payton’s lead blocker on two more scores (Chris Cobbs of the Los Angeles Times described Perry’s block of Packer linebacker George Cumby “as if [Cumby] were 225 pounds of prime rib”).
With that, a pop culture phenomenon was born.
In the ensuing days Perry became the talk of a sports-obsessed nation. He was invited to be a guest on Late Night with David Letterman and, before long, also appeared on TV with Johnny Carson and Bob Hope. Perry signed a six-figure endorsement deal with McDonald’s (Asked the Los Angeles Times: “Can McPerry be far behind?”), as well as smaller spokesperson agreements for companies that peddled bacon, thermal underwear, macaroni-and-cheese dinners, and paper towels. One Chicago TV station ran a
Perry-related story every night for three straight weeks.
“The Fridge became an overnight rock star,” said Greg Gershuny, the Bears’ director of information services. “He could walk up to any restaurant and be ushered right into the place.”
When asked, Payton said all the right things about Perry. But inside, he hurt. The kid had been with Chicago for half a year, and he was already earning pitchman deals Payton could only dream of. The same went for McMahon, a teammate Payton enjoyed and admired, but one who never worked especially hard and who also lived off of image more than reality. McMahon’s initial reputation in Chicago—that of an unflappably cool cat—was born largely off of the mythology of sunglasses. Far from trying to make a fashion statement, though, McMahon wore shades at all times because, at age six, he accidentally speared his right eye with a fork, resulting in permanent ocular damage. Furthermore, McMahon’s Mohawk haircut—one being emulated by hundreds of Chicago schoolchildren—came into existence only when Willie Gault attempted to salvage a self-service trim the quarterback had botched.
Yet the details didn’t much matter for a public suddenly caught up in Chicago Bear fever. Well before Andre Agassi declared, “Image is everything” in his iconic Canon commercials, the Bears were bringing the slogan to life. Ten members of the team (including Ditka) had their own radio shows. Ditka was appearing in three television commercials, and the offensive linemen (offensive linemen!) were being featured in a Chevy advertising campaign. Perry and McMahon were both good, solid, above-average NFL players—who were suddenly anointed rock stars.
Payton, meanwhile, signed on to star in a spot for Diet Coke. One lousy spot. He did his best to adjust to his new place in the shadows. He kept his mouth shut, offered up boring canned quotes when asked and, on the field, peeled off an NFL record nine straight hundred-yard rushing games. Few people noticed.
Blessed with the NFL’s best offensive line, Payton no longer had to create his own holes and hope for random openings. He had evolved, in a way that other top running backs never could. To the day his career ended, Earl Campbell wanted to barrel over people. To the day his career ended, Terry Metcalf wanted to juke and shake. Neither lasted long. Age and fatigue are a football player’s two greatest opponents, and styles either change or die. Payton, a man always in touch with his body, realized quickness could not serve as a primary weapon. He finally had a top-flight school of blockers at his disposal, and he needed their help. “Later in his career Walter was the easiest running back in the world to block for,” said Jay Hilgenberg, the All-Pro center. “If we had the six or seven hole called, that’s where Walter was going to be, and he’d come with a lot of force.”
It was a strange time to be Walter Payton. His out-of-wedlock son, Nigel, and in-wedlock daughter, Brittney, were born months apart. His team was hot and his Q-rating on the wane. He was piling up Pro Bowl–worthy numbers (he finished the season with 1,551 yards, the fourth-highest total of his career), yet wasn’t the same back he once had been. He put on the happiest face possible, but came across to teammates as moodier and crankier than ever. “Walter was the personality of the team,” said Butler, the kicker. “If Walter was loud and rambunctious that day, the pace of practice took off. But if things weren’t going well, Walter would wear it on his forehead.”
When he was the only story in town, it was easy to say, “I don’t want the attention.”
Now that the attention didn’t exist, he wanted it.
The song was a bad idea.
Walter Payton knew it was a bad idea because this sort of thing never works out in the end. Why didn’t he talk trash? Because the minute you tell an opponent he stinks, he comes back and tackles you for a five-yard loss. Why didn’t he brag and boast after a hundred-and-fifty-yard game? Because a thirty-yard game is inevitably around the corner. Payton knew what he wanted his image to be (and what Holmes had insisted it should be)—family man, happy, accessible, agreeable, kid friendly—and loudmouth braggart wasn’t on the list.
That being said, really, what was he supposed to do on that mid-November day when Gault, the explosive wide receiver with stars in his eyes, told him that the rest of the high-profile Bears were planning on recording a rap song, and that proceeds would help feed the Chicago homeless? The title itself, “The Super Bowl Shuffle,” symbolized everything Payton detested. Having had his hopes dashed time and time again, the last thing Payton wanted was for his cocky team to appear even cockier. He wasn’t the only Bear to feel that way. “I disagreed strongly with it,” said Covert. “Why would we want to tell people after nine or ten games that we were going to win the Super Bowl? I didn’t want to get the shit kicked out of us in the play-offs.”
Despite reservations, on the morning of November 23, Payton shuffled into a suburban Chicago recording studio, alongside Gault, Perry, McMahon, Singletary, and a handful of others. He didn’t want to be there, but didn’t want to be left out, either. How could the Chicago Bears do a song and not include Sweetness? How could Sweetness let others take all the glory?
Because he was the greatest of Bears, as well as a future Hall of Famer, Payton was selected to rap the tune’s opening lyrics. The words were written by Dick Meyer, a slimy aspiring record producer who initially approached Gault with the “Shuffle” idea, and they were inane.
Well, they call me Sweetness,
And I like to dance . . .
Ever the 24 Karat Black Gold star, Payton pulled it off without a hitch. “Walter was the best of the bunch, by far,” said Darryl Krall, technical director of the “Shuffle” video. “He had that high Michael Jackson falsetto, and his sense of rhythm was perfect.”
One day later the Bears destroyed the Falcons, 36–0, running their record to 12-0 and upping the team’s confidence to an all-time high. Over the past three games, Chicago had outscored the opposition 104–3. With 102 yards, Payton was now leading the NFC and in pursuit of his second NFL rushing crown. “This team has not reached its peak,” he said afterward. “We’re capable of scoring sixty points. We don’t know how good we are, and that’s kind of scary.”
“We aren’t satisfied yet,” added Singletary. “If you set your goals as being the best team of all time, the best players of all time, how can you be satisfied? People are waiting, expecting, for us to hit that slump. Will it be the Dallas game? No, maybe it will be the week after Dallas and the week before Miami. No, maybe it will be Miami.
“People are saying we’ve got to have that one day, that one game. But why? Why do we have to? If you keep trying to improve, every week, why does there have to be that one week? When will it happen? Maybe it won’t happen.”
On the day after the Atlanta triumph, a group of ten Bears posed for “The Super Bowl Shuffle” jacket cover. For roughly two hours, the men—clad in clean blue jerseys and white pants—stood inside a room, making wacky and tough and serious and goofy faces for a photographer named Paul Natkin and embracing the magic of a 12-0 roll. Payton, again, didn’t feel right about the whole thing. The next game was a Monday night trip to Miami, where the 8-4 Dolphins awaited. Spearheaded by a twenty-four-year-old quarterback named Dan Marino and his two young, fleet wide receivers, Mark Clayton and Mark Duper (aka the Marks Brothers), Miami featured a group of offensive players who believed they could score on anyone in the league—Chicago included. “We are going to kick the Bears’ butts,” Duper said that week. “The Bears are in for the treat of their lives.”
For Miami, there was added motivation in facing a team with an unblemished record. In NFL history, only one franchise, the 1972 Dolphins, had gone undefeated. Those Dolphins were coached by Don Shula, as were these Dolphins. There was a connection and a need to win. Throughout the week, members of that ’72 group, including legendary figures like Nick Buoniconti, Larry Csonka, Jim Kiick, and Bob Kuechenberg, attended practices, pressuring the modern Dolphins to find a way.
The Bears, on the other hand, were surprisingly casual. When the chartered plane left Chicago, it had been fifteen degree
s and snowy. When it set down in Miami, the temperature was seventy-five degrees, with a cloudless sky. The siren call of South Beach beckoned. “We didn’t care about that game,” said Butler, the rookie kicker. “We weren’t trying to go undefeated—we were trying to win a title. So when we got to Miami all we were focused on was having a good time. We all went out the night before the game, then slept in as late as we could.”
“Every time we had a game in Florida, some Bears fans were going, too—and the Sunday night before that Miami game I think I saw just about all of them out there somewhere,” Steve McMichael, the veteran defensive end, wrote in his book, Tales from the Chicago Bears Sideline. “I think we started out at Hooters and it just denigrated from there.”
As if the Monday Night Football matchup weren’t hyped enough based upon the presence of the undefeated Bears, the media labeled it as a battle of the decades. A Miami radio station came up with a song about defrosting the Refrigerator. A Miami TV reporter visited the city’s zoo to interview a bear and a dolphin. “Reporters fell from the sky like a seven-inch snow,” Singletary wrote in his autobiography, Calling the Shots. “We were completely covered. They waited for us in our lockers and called our homes; the practice field was staked out like the Democratic National Convention.”
Immediately before kickoff, Chicago’s players glanced across the field. Lining Miami’s sideline were all the old legends from ’72, arms folded, expressions stern. “It was like they were trying to put the voodoo on us,” said Ken Taylor, a rookie safety with the Bears. “They’re standing there with their legs kind of spread apart like Superman or something, and they got their big arms folded like they are measuring us up. It was all just kind of weird.”
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