Sweetness (30 page)

On the afternoon of Sunday, September 21, the new Chicago Bears debuted in front of a sellout crowd of 51,678 fans packed into Soldier Field. In the lead-up to the game, the
Tribune
’s Ed Stone wrote a glowing profile of Payton, hyping the rookie as the team’s savior and including this dandy of a quote from the naïve newcomer: “Give me time, I’ll give ’em a new Sayers.”

In case any of the longtime holdovers thought things had changed, however, they were quickly reminded the Bears were the Bears. Two hours before kickoff, as the team was warming up on the field, a thick cast-iron sewage pipe exploded beneath the home concrete locker room, spreading a gusher of liquid waste. By the time the maintenance crew plugged the hole, six inches of brown sludge coated the floor. “It was a nightmare,” said Bob Newton, an offensive lineman. “The whole room flooded, and we had to take all our gear across Soldier Field and dress on the visiting side.”

“That was our greeting to Chicago in 1975,” said Fred O’Connor, the backfield coach. “A foot of sewage.”

It turned out to be the day’s highlight. Though the Colts had finished 2-12 in 1974, their new coach, Ted Marchibroda, knew enough about Chicago’s limited abilities to draw up a two-point defensive game plan:

• Let quarterback Bobby Douglass throw all day.

• Suffocate the rookie running back.

“That was it,” said Joe Ehrmann, a Colts defensive tackle. “The entire goal was to stop Payton, who was supposed to be this stud, and have them have to pass.”

“They were just a horrible team,” added Tom MacLeod, a Baltimore linebacker. “The coaches told us, ‘Watch out for the kid.’ So we did.”

The weather was pleasant, with temperatures in the mid-fifties and the majority of players wearing only pads and T-shirts below their jerseys. A raucous ovation greeted the Bears as they took the field for the opening kickoff. Payton was euphoric. It had been a long, injury-marred preseason, and he often questioned whether this day would actually come.

The Bears lost 35–7.

When P.A. announcer Chet Coppock said, “The Bears thank you for your attendance,” deep into the fourth quarter, fans laughed. Even Baltimore took pity. Midway through the third quarter, Chicago defensive back Ted Vactor tore a calf muscle and could barely move. The only other available player, Nemiah Wilson, had already suffered an injury, so Vactor had to remain on the field. “I was lined up against [Colts receiver] Roger Carr,” said Vactor. “And he refused to run past me. He could have scored every time had he wanted to. But we were already dead and buried.” The day’s lone standing ovation was bestowed upon Abe Gibron, the fired head coach who watched from the stands. Wrote the
Tribune
’s Don Pierson, in a game recap that read like Roger Ebert’s
Ishtar
review: “The Bears offered no offense, no defense, and no expectations except the sewage. Pardee said he ‘hasn’t given up,’ which is comforting since it was their first game.... The Bears look as remodeled as their Soldier Field home—new paint and new names on the outside, same old problems on the inside. No one knew why the sewers apparently backed up in the Bears’ dressing room, any more than the Bears knew why the Colts, who really aren’t that good, beat the hell out of them.”

Payton’s first carry of the day netted zero yards. His second carry of the day netted zero yards. His third carry went for three yards, but he lost ground on his next two attempts. Overall, Douglass handed Payton the football eight times, and he wound up with no yardage. When he exited the Bears’ locker room, tearstains could be spotted on both of his cheeks.

“Zero yards for the number one pick?” he would later say. “I was so embarrassed. Like any rookie, I wanted to get to Chicago and prove I could play.”

Truth is, Payton could play. His offensive line, however, was a mess. The six men blocking for him were an ode to NFL mediocrity. Center Dan Peiffer was the St. Louis Cardinals’ fourteenth-round pick in 1973, and right tackle Jeff Sevy was a Bears’ twelfth-round selection in ’74. Left guard Noah Jackson had recently been signed from the Canadian league, and right guards Bob Newton and Mark Nordquist—who, oddly, alternated downs while running in plays from the sideline—were marginal veterans. The most starcrossed of the bunch was Lionel Antoine, the third overall pick in the 1972 Draft (one spot ahead of Ahmad Rashad, ten ahead of Franco Harris). Coming out of Southern Illinois, George Halas had likened Antoine to the great left tackles in NFL history. He was big (six foot six), he was strong, and he smoked a pack of cigarettes during most halftimes. A serious knee injury in 1972 downgraded him from line anchor to mediocrity, and he never came close to realizing his potential. “Lionel was a fairly OK player,” said Ray Callahan, the team’s offensive line coach. “Not much more.”

Against the Colts, Payton would take a handoff, move half a step, then—nothing. The lanes were clogged. “They kept trying to run sweeps and we kept tackling him for a loss,” said MacLeod. “He didn’t have a chance. He could never get started.”

Throughout the game, Payton jogged to the sidelines and caught an earful from O’Connor, his position coach. The fans, too, reigned boos upon him, the likes of which he had never before heard. Only afterward, when coaches and teammates studied film from the debacle, did they notice something startling: Payton had pieced together the most breathtakingly inept game anyone had ever witnessed.

“He ran for zero yards, but it was like I’d just watched someone gain a hundred and fifty,” said Mike Adamle, Payton’s backup. “He made a couple of moves in the backfield after he was trapped for losses just to get back to the line of scrimmage and I said, ‘This guy’s great.’ ”

“When the coaches said we were going to run a sweep right or left, Walter had to make every inch by himself,” said Virg Carter, a backup quarterback. “Some of his runs to gain ten yards, he had to take on four or five guys on his own.”

Many remained skeptical. After the final seconds had ticked off the clock and players from the two teams exchanged pleasantries, Ehrmann found himself jogging to the locker room alongside Stan White, Baltimore’s outstanding outside linebacker.

“So much for the great Walter Payton,” Ehrmann said. “That kid will never make it.”

Stuck in a foreign city, plagued by a certain brand of Southern shyness, bewildered by the plummeting temperature, the twenty-two-year-old Payton had few people to turn to. Unlike the majority of his fellow rookies, who basked in their newfound independence, Payton hungered for structure and familiarity. He lived with his mother Alyne in a small one-bedroom apartment in Arlington Heights, a Chicago suburb. She cooked all of her son’s favorites (in particular, biscuits and gravy), folded his laundry, and took his messages, but wasn’t especially useful when it came to relieving him of his football-related anxieties. Eddie, his older brother, was off teaching high school P.E. in Memphis. They spoke via phone, but infrequently. Rickey Young, Payton’s blocking back at Jackson State, was a rookie with the San Diego Chargers, busy trying to navigate his own way through the league. “There were many two A.M. phone calls,” said Holmes. “Walter just needing to talk.” Connie Norwood, Walter’s girlfriend, was back at Jackson State, beginning her sophomore year. Her photograph sat atop his dresser, with each glance his mood growing increasingly forlorn. The two talked regularly (Payton only called from the Bears’ headquarters, where players could use the phone free of charge), and Connie would come to Chicago for occasional visits. Marriage seemed to him like a wise idea. “You can move here to the city,” he pleaded. “You’ll love it.” Connie knew better. She could wait.

Sometimes Payton would take his 280ZX and tear through the back roads, zipping past traffic lights and stop signs as the speedometer read 80 . . . 90 . . . 100 . . . 110. Other times he would lose himself in television—
Starsky & Hutch
,
Kojak
,
Happy Days
. Not one for the books, Payton’s reading would come either via the
Chicago Tribune
or the Bible, which he opened each morning before driving off for practice or games.

Beginning with the preseason, many of Chicago’s players met for beers and burgers every Monday night. Payton occasionally stopped in, but quietly, and only for ten to fifteen minutes. Never did anyone see alcohol touch his lips. When the regular season began, members of the Bears would congregate in Soldier Field’s belowground parking lot after home games, then head out to the local bars and clubs. Payton almost never attended. “He didn’t know what to expect, so he was kind of standoffish,” said Bo Rather, a wide receiver. “Walter didn’t speak to many people. He was extraordinarily uncomfortable.”

The headaches first arrived during the exhibition season, then refused to leave. The pain was akin to a drill digging into his temples. Payton had never suffered from pressure-related anxiety while at Jackson State, probably because there wasn’t much pressure. The Tigers were good, Payton was great, and winning came easily. Now the burden was overwhelming. “The headaches got really bad, to the point that he was missing practices,” said Steve Schubert, a Bears wide receiver. “The skill he had was unbelievable, but that first year was a real struggle.”

“Walter was very sensitive, and he put a lot of pressure on himself,” said Peiffer. “Us not being a very good line surely exacerbated that.”

Temporary relief came in the second week, when Chicago hosted the Philadelphia Eagles and, against a more-talented team, pulled out a 15–13 victory on a Bob Thomas field goal with eight seconds remaining. Payton, in the words of the
Tribune
’s Pierson, “[Shedded] his goat horns with uncanny brilliance,” rushing for ninety-five yards and making several key catches from quarterback Gary Huff after Douglass was benched. “I recall that game very well,” said John Bunting, an Eagles linebacker, “because afterward I remember thinking, ‘I need to get out of this league, because some rookie just made a fool out of me.’ Walter was young and raw, but he had a different speed, a different twitch, a different quick.”

The victory, however fulfilling, proved to be a mirage. The 1975 Chicago Bears were bad, bordering on putrid, and if anyone held out hope of a play-off run, eight losses over the ensuing nine weeks shut those thoughts down. Having coached the Florida Blazers to the World Football League’s World Bowl only a few months earlier, Pardee had a vision of success. This wasn’t it. Consequently, Chicago’s roster became a conveyor belt, with seemingly every available former Blazer coming in for a game or two, then being deemed substandard and shipped off to the scrap heap. Midway through the season, Chicago’s offense featured an unheard-of seven new starters from the previous year. Payton was essentially playing for an expansion franchise. “You tried remembering names,” said Richard Harris, a veteran defensive lineman. “But guys were in and out so quick, it wasn’t always worth the effort.”

“We realized we had to bite the bullet and rebuild the franchise one player at a time,” said Pardee. “If you played for me in the past and you had some talent, I was giving you a look. Just take a number and line on up.”

With the Lake Michigan winds becoming increasingly fierce and the losses piling up like mounds of icy snow, life with the team turned unbearable. The Bears traveled to Bloomington, Minnesota, and were pasted by the Vikings, 28–3 (Payton’s postgame quote—“They weren’t as good as I expected”—was greeted with dumbfounded silence by teammates), then visited Pontiac, Michigan, for what many of the players hoped could be a win over the mediocre Lions.

Instead, Detroit handed Chicago one of the most humiliating losses in the history of the franchise. Though the scoreboard read 27–7, Lion players mocked their rivals throughout. “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen an opponent laugh at the other team,” Pardee said afterward. “That’s what they were doing out there. Laughing at us. We looked like a bunch of little boys playing grown men.”

Payton accrued no yards for the second time in four weeks, and left midway through the game with a calf bruise. In the following morning’s press conference, Pardee protected the rookie (“He played a good game. He blocked well.”) and ripped the offensive line as a dysfunctional band of dolts. Unlike earlier in the season, however, when hope still existed and the mood remained upbeat, now fewer veterans were willing to hear such drivel. Payton and his little shoelace bells had been cute during camp, and talk of his inevitable greatness could be chalked up to giddy optimism. But now, when the games mattered, the kid wasn’t performing. Did Franco Harris ever have the offensive line as a scapegoat in Pittsburgh? Did O. J. Simpson in Buffalo? Lydell Mitchell with the Colts? No, no, and no. So why wasn’t Payton taking some of the blame and admitting he missed a lot of open holes?

Truth is, while Payton was liked from the beginning, many teammates found him perplexing and, as the season progressed, increasingly irksome. “He had this loud whistle that he’d do for no reason in the locker room,” said Don Rives, a veteran linebacker. “I’d hear that and want to strangle him around the neck. But he was twenty-two. At that age, people are immature and stupid.” Before the game in Detroit, Payton—who steadfastly attended team chapel services on Sunday mornings—asked all of the offensive linemen to join him in the shower of the visiting locker room. Bob Asher, a backup tackle, thought he wanted to review the Lions’ defense. “Walter had us all join hands,” Asher said, “and then he started praying—this really spiritual prayer that made everyone very uncomfortable.”