Sweetness (36 page)

Beginning in the second half against the Chiefs, however, the unit inexplicably clicked. Payton was running hard, and the linemen were blocking even harder. Jackson pancaked Lanier on a brutal Payton sweep, then Sorey drove Lynch into the ground with equal force.

And then came the greatest run of Payton’s career.

Early in the third quarter, with the Bears still down by seventeen, Payton grabbed the ball from Avellini and swept right, where he was immediately met by Lanier and cornerback Tim Gray. Trapped, Payton spun around and retraced his steps back toward the middle of the field. The first to miss was Tom Howard, a rookie linebacker who grazed Payton with his right arm as the running back paused, skipped, then zoomed by. (“The idea of tackling Walter with one arm is crazy,” said Avellini. “Couldn’t be done.”) Two Chiefs, Lynch and defensive end Whitney Paul, converged on Payton, who appeared momentarily trapped. His white shoes and blue jersey a blur, Payton turned upfield, extending away from the grasps of Lynch and Paul and into the waiting arms of Thomas. A future Hall of Famer who would retire with fifty-eight interceptions and a sterling reputation, Thomas did everything right. He squared his body, bent his knees, reached with both arms, and—BOOM! Payton trampled over him. “I threw two blocks on that play,” said Robin Earl, the Bears’ rookie fullback. “That’s how long that play went on. I cut the defensive tackle and then I got up, saw Walter dancing around, and jumped on someone else’s back.”

Next up for Payton was Gary Barbaro, a second-year free safety. Like Thomas, Barbaro approached the situation perfectly. Empowered by a running start, he lowered his head and slammed into Payton. “Man, I exploded into him,” said Barbaro, known throughout the NFL as a dangerous hitter. “I thought I knocked him off his feet, I hit him so hard. But I didn’t wrap him up.” Payton plowed into Barbaro and the safety dropped like a sack of bricks. “He actually stepped on me as he continued on,” Barbaro said. “That’s domination.” Though he was momentarily slowed from nearly tripping over Barbaro’s prone body, Payton outran Howard, who somehow returned to the play, and defensive tackle Willie Lee. By the time Payton was finally brought down, he had broken seven tackles and gained eighteen miraculous yards. A better run has never been caught on tape.

“If you look at the video I’m within three or four feet of him four times,” said John Lohmeyer, a Chiefs defensive tackle. “I didn’t give up, because it was well known that you couldn’t get him down with ease, and he was an escape artist. I tried tackling him—we all did. But when I got near him, he’d already changed his mind and gone another direction.”

Payton went on to score moments later, and added two more touchdowns while running for 192 yards in the Bears’ 28–27 triumph.

Watching the highlights from his home in Los Angeles was Jim Brown, the NFL’s all-time rushing king. Now forty-one years old and retired for twelve years, Brown had largely divorced himself from the sport. He tuned in sporadically, and only knew the names of a handful of players—Walter Payton not being one of them. “It was the first time I saw him,” recalled Brown. “And I didn’t know who he was and I saw him make this run. He fought for every inch. He must have twisted and knocked three or four guys over. Spun around, accelerated. And I said, ‘Oh, my goodness—what kind of animal is this?’ ”

Seven days later, the Bears were scheduled to host the Minnesota Vikings at Soldier Field. Throughout the 1970s, the Vikings had dominated Chicago, beating them eight out of their last nine meetings while owning the rugged NFC Central. They were everything the Bears were not: balanced, well coached, disciplined, talented. Even without the services of Fran Tarkenton, their injured quarterback, the Minnesota offense was explosive, with the punishing running of halfback Chuck Foreman and a pair of dangerous receivers, Ahmad Rashad and Sammy White. Their defense, the famed Purple People Eaters, was stacked. “We weren’t in Minnesota’s class,” said receiver Brian Baschnagel. “But we wanted to be.”

The days following the Kansas City game had been rough on Payton. Still learning how to handle Chicago’s bitter winters, he came down with the flu, and was stuck in bed with a 104-degree temperature. Fed a steady diet of soup and tea by Connie, Walter made every effort to recover quickly. He tried practicing, but was largely useless. He tried attending practice as a spectator, but was even more useless. “We sent Walter home,” Pardee said on Thursday. “I still hope he’ll be ready to play on Sunday.”

In normal circumstances, the Bears might have deactivated Payton. They were 4-5 and, despite the thrilling victory over the Chiefs, apparently going nowhere fast once again. Yet Vikings-Bears was more than a game. Finks, the Bears GM, had held the same position for ten years in Minnesota, and if there were one matchup that mattered to him, this was it. Finks wanted to show that his success with the Vikings was no fluke. Do something once, you might have gotten lucky. Do something twice, you’re a proven commodity.

With a 6-3 record, the Vikings once again led the division. They were coached by Bud Grant, the icy legend Finks had hired in 1966. Five weeks earlier, the Vikings downed the Bears at home, 22–16. The game had gone into overtime, but that was considered to be a fluke. Asked now to assess the Bears, Grant had little positive to contribute publicly. “One more loss,” he said coldly, “and they’re out of the play-offs.”

A couple of days before the game, Bob Holloway, the Minnesota defensive coordinator, told Bobby Bryant, a starting cornerback who specialized in pass coverage, that most of the playing time would go to the younger, stronger Nate Allen. “They wanted the focus to be on bringing down Walter,” said Bryant. “We knew he was all they had.” Moments before his club took the field, Grant warned of an imminent tornado. Dressed in their road whites with purple trim, the players quietly sat at their stalls. “The Bears as a team are not very good,” he said. “You’re better. But I hope you guys are prepared for this, because you’re about to face one of the best football players I’ve ever seen play the game. He has raised the level and standard of play. And if you don’t come up and meet him at that level, he will destroy you.”

Even in the seconds leading up to his first carry, Payton felt queasy. He had prayed throughout the week for health, asking God and Jesus and anyone listening to bring power to his legs and speed to his feet. Instead, as he prepared for the noon kickoff, his body was besieged by hot and cold flashes. “When I left the dressing room,” he later said, “I didn’t think I could put on a Walter Payton performance.”

It was a typical November day in Chicago—cold, brisk, unpleasant. Save for his ubiquitous white elbow pads, Payton wore nothing but a jersey to protect his upper body from the elements. Having blocked out Gillman and his pass-pass-pass game plans, Pardee’s offensive strategy was simple: Payton. “We had three plays to run against Minnesota,” said Fred O’Connor, the backfield coach. “One was a power run off tackle. One was an outside sweep to the strong side. And the last one was a run right down the middle, where we isolated on the middle linebacker.”

The Bears began the game with the ball on their own twenty-six. On first down and ten, O’Connor signaled a play called Ride 38 Bob Odd 0—both guards, along with the tight end, pull, leading Payton around the corner. “My guy to block was Paul Krause, their safety,” said Earl, the fullback. “We had a moat alongside the field, and I drove Paul so hard that I got under his pads and dumped him into the moat. I looked down at him and said, ‘All day, Paul. All day.’ ” Payton gained twenty-nine yards, and the fans cheered in delight.

Avellini was Chicago’s quarterback in name only. He waited for O’Connor to call a pass play, but to little avail. His line for the day: four completions, six attempts, thirty-three yards. “If your running back is gaining ten yards a clip,” said Pardee, “why would you ever throw the football? We wanted to run to the left side of their defense, and the Vikings kept lining up perfectly. So we ran it down their throats.”

By the time the first quarter was over, Payton had carried thirteen times for seventy-seven yards. He broke a hundred yards on his twenty-second carry, and by halftime was up to 144 yards on twenty-six attempts. As was the case against the Chiefs, Chicago’s blockers—largely inspired by Payton’s determination—were beating up the overwhelmed Vikings. (“We’re the only line you’ll see running forty yards downfield, looking for someone else to block,” a giddy Sorey said afterward.) Yet the story was Payton. Though often credited for brute strength and a hawk’s sense of vision, Payton’s greatest gift might have been his balance. As other running backs spent their off-seasons lifting weights and sprinting down a rubberized track, much of Payton’s time was devoted to either running through the muddy banks of the Pearl River or finding the sandiest dunes and clawing up their slopes. As far as he was concerned, the man who could bolt through mud and muck and sand without falling was the man who could take a hit and keep going. “His balance was unmatched,” said Brent McClanahan, a Vikings running back. “There were so many times I would have fallen down if I were him. But he bounced off people like a rubber ball.”

“I remember watching Walter from the sideline,” said Bryant, the benched Viking cornerback. “All I could think was one thing—‘I sure am glad I’m not out there.’ ”

Despite the awe-inspiring performance, Chicago was struggling to break through. Payton’s one-yard touchdown run in the second quarter gave his team a 7–0 lead, and a thirty-seven-yard field goal from Bob Thomas with forty-three seconds remaining in the half made it 10–0. Having been reduced to a well-paid spectator, Gillman could be seen pacing the sideline, cursing audibly and casting dirty looks toward Pardee. Of all the events he had witnessed through his forty-six years in collegiate and professional football, nothing infuriated Gillman more than the day Payton tore up the Vikings. Where, he wondered, were the passes? The play-action fakes? The draw plays? The varied formations? “Someone told me Sid wanted to quit after that game, because any plays he called were changed to handoffs to Walter,” said Terry Schmidt, a Bears cornerback. “Jack was old school, so we were old school. But it’s a fair question—how does a guy run for that many yards and his team doesn’t win big?”

At the end of the third quarter, the Bears led 10–7, and Payton was up to 192 yards on thirty-four carries. One year earlier O. J. Simpson had set the single-game rushing record with 273 yards against Detroit. Payton knew he was having one hell of a game, but there was no mention of Simpson’s mark along Chicago’s sideline. “It never came up,” he said afterward. “I don’t like people telling me stuff like that when the game’s on the line.”

With five minutes remaining, Payton needed sixty-three yards to top Simpson. Were this any other team operating any other offense, the cause would have been a lost one. But Pardee was unbending, Avellini untrusted, and Gillman uninvolved. The ball would be handed to Walter until his arms and legs fell to the ground. “When an opposing defense is told what is about to happen, they usually find a way to stop it,” said John Hilton, the Bears’ special teams coach. “But not that day. I found myself watching like a fan. All day he would fake like he was about to go out of bounds, then come back and knock someone in the keister.”

With less than four minutes on the clock, Payton took a handoff from Avellini on the Bears’ thirty-three, charged over right tackle, slashed right, and motored down the sideline. He stiff-armed two Vikings, ran over two more, and finally stepped out of bounds at the Minnesota nine. He was five yards away from tying the Juice. “We had to get it for him,” said Don Rives, a Bears linebacker. “To be that close . . .”

After gaining three yards on a sweep around left end, Payton’s fortieth and final carry of the day was another sweep, this time to the right. The run was unexceptional but also magical. Payton picked up four yards, good enough for 275.

The Bears held on to win, 10–7—“Ugly and beautiful,” said Steve Schubert, a Bears receiver. “Ugly because we scored ten points with Walter running for 275. Beautiful because Walter was amazing.”

Afterward, an exhausted Payton sat on his stool and took questions. His miniature Afro was tussled. His shoulders were slumped. Four hours earlier, he was unsure whether he was even going to play.

Can you do it again?
he was asked.

“Nobody knows that far ahead,” he said. “Nobody knows what can happen. Only God knows.”

Is a three-hundred-yard game possible?

“I don’t know. You have to call Him up.”

When the pack cleared,
Sports Illustrated
’s John Underwood approached. “One question,” he said. “How would
you
defend Walter Payton?”

For the first time all day, the running back seemed stumped.

“Well,” he finally said, “the night before the game I’d kidnap him.”