Sweetness

by Jeff Pearlman

  Payton, surrounded by reporters, forced a smile.

  He was miserable.

  Monday and Tuesday were off days—“Recovery time,” said Fred Caito.

  Wednesday was a light day—“Walter would walk, loosen up, watch, go home,” said Caito.

  Thursday was a semi-busy day—“Walter would run ten plays or so,” said Caito.

  Friday and Saturday were more off days—“To get ready,” said Caito.

  Sunday was game day.

  This is what many of the Bears recall of Walter Payton’s final NFL training camp and season. As the other athletes were asked to sweat and grind and suffer through oft-brutal, oft-mind-numbing rituals, Payton was usually nowhere to be found. “Which was, of course, OK with everyone,” said Frank Harris, a rookie free agent halfback out of North Carolina State. “He was Walter Payton. He had the right to do whatever he wanted.” Throughout the bulk of his career, the Bears had tried to protect their star, limiting reps, resting him often, keeping hits to a minimum. In his heyday, Payton fought the approach. “During nine-on-seven inside drills he’d run every play,” said Sanders. “If there were twenty drills to run, he’d want to do them all, because he sought perfection. He’d jump in, jump in, jump in, and the other backs would have to watch.” Now, nearing the end, Payton was handled as a porcelain doll. If defensive players craved violence, they were welcome to tee off on Anderson or Sanders or any of the other runners. “I remember one offensive scheme, Walter came at me and I dropped my shoulder and turned to hit him,” said Egypt Allen, a rookie defensive back. “Mike Ditka blows the whistle, yells at me, and says, ‘Don’t you ever hit him again!’ Walter started laughing. He still ran hard and he still looked for the collision. The team was worried about him, but he wasn’t overly careful.”

  “If Walter was in a salty mood, he could run over you and you were powerless,” said Doug Rothschild, a rookie free agent linebacker from Wheaton College. “You weren’t allowed to lay a finger on him. Meanwhile he’d stiff-arm you in the face and laugh.”

  To Payton’s chagrin, Ditka decided early on to name Anderson—not Suhey—the starting fullback. It was the coach’s way of keeping his fading star in the lineup and, hopefully, happy. “Walter did not take that well,” said Covert. “Mike wasn’t ever going to sit Walter down, and at the end that’s probably what he should have done. Walter didn’t like sharing the backfield with Neal. He talked to me about it a couple of times. It wasn’t pure jealousy. It was more of, ‘I did this, this, and this, and I deserve more respect.’ But his prime was over. Factually, it was.”

  Throughout his years in Chicago, one required only two hands to count the teammates Payton was especially tight with. In the early days, he spent considerable time with Roland Harper, Vince Evans, and James Scott. Later on, safety Todd Bell became a confidant—so much so that Payton was a groomsman in his wedding. Toward his final years, Payton and Suhey were inseparable. “Matt cherished and loved Walter, and Walter in return cherished and loved Matt,” said Johnny Roland, the team’s running backs coach. “Suhey was basically my coach on the field, and Walter just wanted to play. So when Matt talked, Walter listened. He trusted him to the death.” The relationship often evoked comparisons to Gale Sayers and Brian Piccolo, Chicago’s running back tandem from the late 1960s (their kinship was made famous in the aftermath of Piccolo’s death from cancer with the release of Brian’s Song, a 1971 ABC Movie of the Week). Like Sayers and Piccolo, one player was black, one was white. Like Sayers and Piccolo, one player was a flashy standout, one was gruff and workmanlike. Like Sayers and Piccolo, one player was a superstar, one was a supporting cast member. Seven years earlier, Payton had resented Suhey for being brought in as Roland Harper’s replacement. Over time, however, a genuine bond formed. “My second year in the league we flew back from San Francisco after a tough loss and got in at one in the morning,” said Suhey. “I was in my car getting ready to get something to eat, and he walked up and said, ‘Where are you going?’ I told him, and he said, ‘I’m coming.’ We went to a bar/restaurant called the Snuggery, and we had our first really good talk. We were from two different worlds, but we also related really well. That night was the beginning.”

  Now, near the end, Payton was furious. His dream was to have one last glorious season in the sun, with his good friend leading him through the hole. Instead, the speedy, modestly physical five-foot-eleven, 210-pound Anderson was forced into the role. “Neal was a good guy and a great player, and he deserved to play,” said Suhey. “But he wasn’t a fullback. Not naturally.”

  The Bears opened their season against the New York Giants at Soldier Field. Much was made of the Herculean matchup of the last two Super Bowl champions, which the Tribune called “the game of the year.” For Chicago, the 34–19 rout was wonderful. Mike Tomczak, the team’s starting quarterback, threw for 292 yards and two touchdowns and the defense compiled eight sacks, twice knocking quarterback Phil Simms out of the game. For Payton, though, the night was a disaster. He carried the ball eighteen times for forty-two yards, and caught three more balls for twelve yards. Excuses were made—the Giants were focusing on him; a sprained ankle suffered on a second-quarter sweep limited his mobility (Ditka: “A lot of guys wouldn’t have kept playing.”). Nothing stuck. As Payton struggled, Anderson soared. “Talk about hitting a hole,” said Keith Van Horne, the offensive tackle. “Neal hit it and—Whoosh!—he was gone. I never blocked for anyone with his type of speed.” Anderson ran for sixty-two yards on thirteen carries against New York, including a spectacular eight-yard burst past Lawrence Taylor, the Giants’ immortal linebacker. “Lawrence Taylor hasn’t been beaten to the corner by a fullback—ever,” said Ditka. “But he was beaten by this kid.” The praise sounded an awful lot like what coaches used to heap upon Walter Payton. The next day’s St. Petersburg Times featured a story with the headline, END NEAR FOR PAYTON? The Washington Post’s Michael Wilbon chimed in with a stinging critique of Payton’s showing:

  The Bears were so good in every way tonight that the almost incidental contributions of Walter Payton, 33, went almost unnoticed. The leading rusher in the history of the league, he looked every bit his age . . . [giving way to] Neal Anderson, whose all-around excellence suggests there is a new offensive hero in Chicago.

  For Payton, the win provided predictably little solace. Neither did the following week’s triumph, when Chicago slaughtered Tampa Bay, 20–3.

  Though Payton scored two touchdowns (including his NFL-record 107th on a one-yard dive), he ran for a paltry twenty-four yards on fifteen carries and was pulled from the field on third downs. To make up for the lack of a genuine fullback, the Bears called an increased number of weak-side trap runs, where the tight end led. It wasn’t to Payton’s liking. Anderson, meanwhile, enjoyed the first hundred-yard game of his career, gaining 115 yards on sixteen carries. “They’re keying on Walter,” Ditka explained afterward with zero credibility. When the assembled media members tried speaking with Payton, he brushed past without saying a word or acknowledging congratulatory wishes for his tenth NFL record. “He was angry,” a Bears spokesman said, “because he didn’t think the press treated him well this week.”

  “You can tell he’s upset,” said Johnny Roland, the running backs coach. “Yeah, he’s upset, because he’s not being used to the best of his abilities. Walter is still a good player.”

  On the opening night of the 1986–87 NBA season, Julius Erving, the iconic Philadelphia 76er and a casual acquaintance of Payton’s, announced that he would be retiring at the completion of his sixteenth year. He did so because, at age thirty-six, he recognized he was no longer capable of reaching a certain threshold, but wanted to give fans a chance to bid farewell. “Like the way John Havlicek did it,” Erving said of the Boston Celtics star who retired in 1978. “He played a significant role his last season, even though he was not the star of the team. It was a good time to turn it over to other hands.” Erving’s final go-around was a thing of beauty—he received gifts and standi
ng ovations at opposing arenas, and Philadelphia’s normally acid-tongued fans gushed over his class. He never groused about playing time, or if Coach Matt Guokas called for Charles Barkley or David Wingate to take the final shot.

  “I look at Walter’s situation and I feel if anyone in football could do that, it’s Walter,” Erving said. “The whole season becomes a farewell tour and people appreciate seeing him for the last time instead of looking at what he’s not doing on the field.”

  If Erving’s final stand was an example of the perfect way to bow out, Payton’s was an unmitigated disaster. On the day after the Tampa game, the NFL Players Association went on strike, demanding genuine free agency (where players would actually be free to switch teams once their contracts expired), improved pensions, and guaranteed contracts (at the time, only 4 percent of NFL contracts were guaranteed). For twenty-four days, Payton and his teammates stayed home as Gene Upshaw, executive director of the players association, accomplished, in Suhey’s words, “nothing I can remember.” Meanwhile, three games were played with replacements, as the Bears of Walter Payton, Reggie Phillips, and Mike Singletary morphed into the Bears of Sean Payton,20 Eddie Phillips, and Mike Hohensee.

  Many of the Bears mocked and ridiculed the replacements, but Payton wasn’t one of them. Though he didn’t cross the picket line, he refused to criticize those established veterans who did, or the so-called “scabs”—mostly unemployed nobodies living out a dream. Truth was, he stood to lose $62,500 for every missed game, and he thought the strike to be an enormous waste of time. “I had little to gain out of this strike personally, and a lot to lose,” he said. “But the thing that kept me out the most is my teammates. Because I’m as useless as a car with no driver without my teammates.” Except for two hunting excursions to Wisconsin and a trip to New York to appear as a veejay on MTV, Payton spent his weeks off bored and restless. He even, quizzically, started a band, the Chicago Six, composed of Hampton (bass), safety Dave Duerson (trombone and trumpet), and three members of the Chicago Blackhawks—Curt Fraser (guitar), Gary Nylund (guitar), and Troy Murray (tenor saxophone). Payton manned the drums, and while the group actually played a couple of local gigs, it didn’t last long. “We weren’t very good, but we were entertaining,” said Fraser. “The whole thing was mostly for kicks, and to have the two teams bond.”

  The real Bears finally reported back to work on October 15, and Payton had high hopes for the return game at Tampa Bay ten days later. Instead, it was another downer. Though Chicago prevailed, 27–26, Payton was limited to thirty yards on six carries, and he fumbled yet again. Just how poorly did the day go? Before the game Payton agreed to meet Deana Reel, a seventeenyear-old from Asheville, North Carolina, who suffered from cystic fibrosis. Reel and her grandmother Helen were so inspired by Payton’s example of overcoming the odds that they flew to Tampa to meet him. Payton hugged Deana and handed her an autographed football as the cameras flashed.

  It was a hoax.

  According to a report in The Lakeland Ledger, Deana had never heard of Walter Payton. Her grandmother put Deana up to it. “I don’t really follow football,” Deana later said. “I never knew any of the Bears by name. Just some guy named ‘Fridge.’ ”

  Following the game, Payton received a random call from Bill Cosby, who was at the peak of his fame as the star of The Cosby Show. “I know what’s going on,” he told Payton. “Don’t let it get you down. You know whose picture is up in Theo’s room. We didn’t take it down.”

  The Bears played nine more regular-season games, and except for fleeting flashes of brilliance, Payton’s efforts were futile. He could still block relatively well, and did so valiantly on Anderson’s behalf. (“He was an excellent pass blocker and an adequate run blocker,” said Anderson. “In Walter’s defense, he never had to run block much before.”) But there was no denying that the old Sweetness was gone, never to return.

  “Walter was over,” said Caito. “He could still play, and he probably wanted to stick around, but it wasn’t the same. His body was shot. He was bone on bone in some areas in his knees. He’d gained thousands of yards, but he’d taken a massive whuppin’ and now he was paying for it.”

  “Walter couldn’t get to the corner as well as he used to,” said Al Harris, the veteran defensive end. “Neal was young and fast and he could catch the ball, and he needed to play. The hard thing with running backs is that, if you play long enough, you take all those licks and it destroys your body.”

  On November 14, Randy Minkoff of the United Press International (UPI) wrote a piece that appeared in hundreds of newspapers nationwide. It was a stinging 790-word critique of Payton’s game. The take was harsh—and true.

  There are ample examples of all-time great professional athletes staying around one year too long.

  Athletes past their prime often tarnish their image by getting one extra campaign out of a body that should have called it quits earlier.

  Willie Mays with the New York Mets, Bob Cousy with the Cincinnati Royals, and Franco Harris with the Seattle Seahawks come to mind as of late.

  It’s premature to put Walter Payton in that category—yet. But Payton, in his thirteenth and what he insists is his final NFL season, isn’t going out the way many people would have liked.

  The whole year was a disaster. The Bears were scheduled to play at San Francisco on a Monday Night Football game on December 14. During practice that Friday, a handful of offensive players decided to exact revenge on Payton for the countless pranks he had pulled. Gentry, in particular, was itching for payback. A couple of years earlier, Payton had called his home on Thanksgiving, his voice disguised as a woman’s. When Gentry’s fiancée, Jaye, answered, Payton explained how his name was Gina, and he needed to speak with Dennis about “our baby.”

  “She was fixing dinner, basting the turkey, the stuffing, and the yams,” Gentry said. “When I got home later in the day nothing was cooked. Nothing. I said, ‘What the hell is going on?’ She said, ‘Who is this bitch so-and-so?’ I said, ‘What?’ She said, ‘Some woman called and said you’re invited over to her house.’ I was so furious at Walter. I couldn’t wait to get him.”

  Now, with a gaggle of reporters watching, Sanders, Gentry, and a couple of others grabbed Payton from behind, pulled down his pants, and dragged him through the Lake Forest snow. What was supposed to be humorous turned strikingly sad—an aged star helplessly screaming and flailing away, his pants wrapped around his ankles, as onlookers cackled. A humiliated Payton stormed off without speaking. Said Sanders: “Let’s just say it didn’t go over well.”

  The ultimate embarrassment came three days later at Candlestick Park. Both teams boasted league-best 10-2 records, and both teams entered the clash talking lots of trash. With Anderson nursing a bruised shoulder, the focus of the offense was once again Payton, who started alongside Suhey, his old chum. Yet much like Muhammad Ali dying his hair and sucking in his gut, then being annihilated by Larry Holmes in 1980, Payton fooled no one. He lost a key fumble, rushed for only eighteen yards, and suffered a concussion after being nailed by defensive lineman Michael Carter. Chicago lost, 41–0.

  “Walter took a step back from the other players on the team that year,” said Sanders. “He was dealing with his football mortality, and it troubled him. One day he told me we needed to talk. I said, ‘What is it?’ Walter said, ‘I just need to talk to someone.’ He was struggling with the idea of separating from the game and being without the guys. It had been his life for thirteen years. He was feeling lost.”

  Six days after the 49ers contest, the Bears celebrated Walter Payton Day at Soldier Field. The NFL’s all-time leading rusher used the occasion for his finest moment of the season.

  Although the Bears would go on to lose to Seattle, 34–21, the fifteen minutes preceding kickoff were devoted to a glowing Payton. Mayor Eugene Sawyer presented him with the Chicago Medal of Merit; Virginia McCaskey, George Halas’ daughter, handed Payton an oil portrait of himself; and McCaskey begrudgingly announced No. 34 would
be retired. Throughout the season, various teams had bestowed retirement gifts upon Payton—the Buccaneers gave him a plaque, the Packers a framed commemorative photograph, the Raiders a picture of George Blanda and a stereo. “I don’t think he wanted that attention,” said Bryan Wagner, the team’s punter. “It embarrassed Walter.” This, however, was a moment Payton cherished. “I never thought it would end this way,” Payton told the crowd as he stood before a microphone near midfield, a cold wind appropriately blowing through the stadium. “I did it because it was fun. That’s why I’m playing today. The toughest thing is to say good-bye to the ones you love”—he pointed toward the end zone, where his teammates were standing—“all those guys down there.”

  Payton went on to rush for seventy-nine yards. The day was his, and on the west side of Soldier Field two fans held a placard that read: SANTA: PLEASE SEND MORE WALTER PAYTONS. FIRST ONE WAS PERFECT. Afterward, Payton was asked by the Tribune’s Bob Verdi why he threw two footballs into the stands.

  “That was just my way,” he replied. “My way of saying thanks.”

  Wrote Verdi: “No, Walter. Thank you.”

  After enduring thirteen long, grueling NFL seasons, Payton deserved to have Hollywood’s best writer come up with a proper ending. He deserved one last taste of glory. He deserved honor and pride. He deserved to run for two hundred yards in Super Bowl XXII, with the night capped by Payton leaping into the end zone for the winning score.

  When asked for his ideal exit, Payton actually painted a similar scenario. “Three seconds left,” he said. “We’re on the twenty-yard line. We’re down by a touchdown. I run the ball in for a touchdown. We end up winning the game and when I run into the end zone and throw the ball down, I just fly off.”