Sweetness (40 page)

In the case of one legendary Bear, the words served as a final straw. While making an appearance at the Illinois State Fair, Gale Sayers, the Hall of Fame Bears running back who retired because of injury in 1971, was asked about the contract dispute. “There’s a lot of things involved in contract negotiations, but I really feel Walter is making a mistake because it can happen anytime—a knee can go, he might have a bad year,” Sayers said. “Anytime someone will give you $375,000 or $400,000 for being in the league three years, I think he’s very foolish for not taking it.”

In the way a young Mickey Mantle had once been shunned by a retired Joe DiMaggio, Sayers rarely had time—or kind words—for his heir apparent. “Walter and Gale had nothing in common,” said Fred Caito, the team’s trainer from 1972 to 1997. “They were opposite people and opposite running backs. I always said Gale Sayers could have played in a tuxedo, he was so smooth. Walter would have the tuxedo ripped and bloodied in two minutes.” When he first arrived in Chicago, Payton craved Sayers’ approval and guidance. Just as a groom longs for the blessing of his soon-to-be father-in-law, Payton wanted Sayers’ nod. Instead, he received brief greetings and awkward silences; sly jabs and off-the-record criticisms. (In 1997, years after both men had retired, Sayers went out of his way to call Eric Dickerson the best running back of all time—even though Payton held nearly every important record.) To say the slights irked Payton is to delve into great understatement. They stung.

“Gale was jealous, and he never gave Walter credit,” said Mike North, a longtime Chicago media personality who worked with both men. “It was a problem. As soon as Walter hit the scene, Gale became an afterthought. But if you ask Gale Sayers who was the greatest Bears running back of all time, alone, he’ll tell you, ‘Gale Sayers.’ He was jealous of Walter. And Walter would say, ‘I tried to befriend the guy. I don’t know if he’s bitter or what, but he had no interest in me.’ ”

Burdened by Sayers’ criticism, as well as that of offensive guard Noah Jackson (“Walter’s not running as well as he had,” he said during training camp. “I know how Walter Payton can run. It’s in his own mind.”), Payton was residing in a hell of his own making. A part of him wished he had accepted the initial offer—just grabbed the loot and moved on with life. Now, however, it was too late, and the negative reviews were pouring in. “Somewhere along the way he became convinced that he should be the highest-paid player in football history,” wrote David Israel in a
Tribune
column. “Walter is convinced that when he gets his freedom, and goes shopping someone is going to offer him that kind of money. He’s crazy.”

Finally, one day before the Bears’ 1978 season opener against the Cardinals at Soldier Field, an agreement was reached. “Walter actually came into the room and said, ‘They’re offering me more than four hundred thousand dollars—what should I do?’ ” recalled Mike Raines, a free agent defensive end out of Alabama who roomed with Payton at Lake Forest. “I’d just played a season in the Canadian Football League making minimum wage. I told him he had to take it.”

Payton signed three one-year contracts that would pay him $400,000 in 1978, $425,000 in 1979, and $450,000 in 1980. With incentive clauses that could add as much as $97,000 annually, Payton was now a $1.3 million man. As soon as the news was announced, Payton sat down with reporters, beaming from ear to ear. Even if it was not quite O. J. money, he was happy to be rich. He was even happier for the whole ordeal to be over.

The call came to the Chicago Bears headquarters on the morning of Sunday, September 3, only seventy minutes before the opening-game kickoff against St. Louis. A receptionist picked up the telephone, held it to her ear, and heard this: “If Walter Payton plays today, I will shoot him.”

The man identified himself as a member of the American White People’s Party, an organization with the stated goal of “returning control of this continent to the Aryan peoples who originally conquered, populated, and created its culture and political institutions.” He said that four party members armed with rifles and bombs were stationed inside Soldier Field, and that Payton, as well as any blacks sitting in the stands, would be gunned down.

The Bears front office faced a major decision. Finks learned of the threat and debated whether to say something. On the one hand, a person has the right to know about someone itching to assassinate him. On the other hand, the Chicago offense with a distracted Payton was barely an offense at all.

The information was kept quiet.

The Bears won 17–10, and Payton played brilliantly, running for 101 yards on twenty-six carries, catching three balls for twenty-two yards, and scoring a touchdown. Afterward, safety Doug Plank was euphoric. “No one can run an end like he can or add excitement and enthusiasm,” he said. “Even when he lost six yards that time when he cut back and danced around, everyone was cheering. He transfers electricity to the team.”

As Payton undressed by his locker, Stevie Wonder’s
Greatest Hits
blaring from a small tape recorder, he was approached by Israel, the
Tribune
columnist. Midway through the game the media was told of the death threat. Israel asked Payton for a reaction.

“To what?” he said.

Israel explained, and Payton giggled. “When I go out on the field, I believe it’s with Jesus Christ’s help,” he said. “If he said it’s my time, it’s my time. I can’t do anything about it.”

Upon further reflection, however, Payton was taken aback. Even though Finks made the decision to keep Payton out of the loop, the running back blamed Armstrong. Shouldn’t someone have at least filled him in beforehand? Even if these guys were cranks, wasn’t he owed a heads-up? Though never especially close with Pardee, Payton did trust him. The relationship with Armstrong, on the other hand, was off to a rocky start.

Chicago followed up the Cardinals triumph with wins over the 49ers and Lions, then dropped a nail-biter to the rival Vikings, 24–20. Throughout the city, fans were elated by a 3-1 start that had the Bears looking like contenders. Payton, however, was miserable, and needed to let everyone know how he felt. Through the first four games, Payton ran for 298 yards—164 less than the previous season. Usually jovial and upbeat around teammates, he now could regularly be found sitting alone at his locker, a pair of enormous black headphones blocking out the world. Like most of his peers, Payton gave constant lip service to the importance of winning. Football, he repeatedly said in good times, was a team game. “If the team wins, I’m happy.” But now the team, led by a rugged defense, was winning, and he wasn’t happy. To friends and family members, Payton whined about Armstrong’s boring, predictable offense; about Avellini’s limited ability at quarterback; about a line that seemed to take plays off and contribute to his pummeling. Following the Vikings defeat, Payton noticed a golf ball-sized lump on his forearm that was filled with puss and blood. “Walter was poking it, and he looked like he wanted to throw up,” said John Skibinski, a fullback. “His body was thrashed week after week.”

Most of his complaints were valid, but the team was 3-1. “People at Walter’s level of performance are often moody and guarded, and Walter was no exception,” said Caito, the longtime Bears trainer. “There were times when you just left him alone and walked away.”

“When Walter got all quiet, all bets were off the table,” said Ted Albrecht. “It wouldn’t last for long, but when it did, well, you stayed away. Far away.”

This was the first time many teammates were exposed to their superstar’s underbelly, and they didn’t much care for it. Through his first three years in the league, hundreds of adjectives had been used to describe Payton, but never “selfish.” He played hard, he played hurt, he stayed in games until the very end. Yet perhaps winning wasn’t quite as singularly important to Payton as he’d initially let on. Even Harper, his blocker and best friend, was at a loss. “He wouldn’t talk to anyone,” Harper said. “He’d get in his own world, put those headphones over his ears, and ignore everything.”

Never great with the media, Payton was now avoiding the press altogether. He would agree to interviews, then fail to show up. Or he’d respond to lengthy questions with dismissive one- or two-word answers.
Yes. No. Maybe. Don’t care. No comment.
Pierson, thirty-four years old and the best of Bears beat writers, wasn’t one to let an athlete walk all over him. In the September 29, 1978,
Tribune
, he teed off. “Payton is acting like a very hollow person these days,” he wrote. “Writers and even some teammates are thinking of changing his nickname to ‘Sourness.’ Or at least to ‘Sweet and Sour,’ befitting his moodiness. Some wondered if he really did sign a new contract.”

“Walter didn’t like dealing with the press, and he let it show,” said Pierson. “You had to ask him the same question three or four times before you got an answer, and it usually wasn’t a good one. I think he took pride in being an opposite sort of guy—you ask him to do something, he takes the opposite route.”

Had Pardee still been coach, Payton surely would have been called into the office for a talking-to. “Just so I get this straight, Walter,” he’d likely say. “We’re three-one, and you’re moping.
Really?
” Armstrong, however, was no Pardee. He wanted to win, but he wanted to win with happy players. “Neill had great credentials, but he was too nice,” said Dan Neal, the Bears center. “Discipline fell off, because not as much was asked of us. Football coaches can’t please everyone, and Neill probably tried too hard.”

Chicago was the least-happy 3-1 club anyone had ever seen, and the outlook only worsened as the losses began to mount. Following the setback to the Vikings, the Bears dropped seven straight games, including humiliating showings against the lowly Buccaneers and Seahawks.

For Payton, there was a series of troubling incidents:

• In the days leading up to a matchup at Green Bay, Payton told a reporter from the
Milwaukee Journal
that the Packers were overrated and unworthy of their 4-1 record. Green Bay’s Steve Luke, the starting strong safety, was incensed. “I made a point that week of shutting down Walter and shutting down their sweeps,” said Luke. “Every player has one game from their career that sticks out. That’s mine.”

Though Payton ran for eighty-two yards on nineteen carries, he was merely an afterthought in the Packers’ 24–14 victory. Luke, meanwhile, returned an interception sixty-three yards for a touchdown. Whenever he tackled Payton, he made sure to remind him of his words. “It became a matter of pride,” Luke said afterward. “Pride is all-important.”

• On October 10, two days after the Green Bay loss, police arrested Ronald Schons, a twenty-six-year-old Arlington Heights resident who had been making threatening calls to Payton and the Bears. Law enforcement officials nabbed Schons only after Payton noticed his car slowly circling his home.

Schons’ initial threat came on October 1, when he called sportscaster Johnny Morris and said that unless he received one hundred thousand dollars, he would kill Payton. When the demand wasn’t met, Schons telephoned the Chicago Park District’s central switchboard and promised he would shoot Payton during the next game at Soldier Field.

Schons told police that he was a frustrated football player who had “applied with the Bears to become a member of the team.”

• Following a 16–7
Monday Night Football
loss at Denver, Payton was asked by Morris in an interview with WBBM-TV to assess Armstrong’s coaching. “I kind of liked Jack Pardee’s philosophy when he was here,” Payton said. “He was the type of guy . . . he did everything and used every resource he had to win that particular game, even if it was overlooking running one extra player or using three plays more than the average, he did it. And that was the difference, I guess. Because when you get in a close situation, you put yourself where you stop thinking about your players. With Pardee, he was thinking about his players as well, but he was thinking about winning that game at the time at all costs.”

Payton apologized a day later, but the mea culpa was unwarranted. His take on Armstrong was 100 percent correct.

• Back in 1978, two years before they became parents, Walter and Connie purchased a giant Airedale terrier. They named it Sweetness, and took the animal everywhere. Having always desired a pet of his own, Walter was enamored by Sweetness, who possessed the hulking stature of a medium-sized house.

Although the Bears had a strict no-pet policy inside their locker room in Lake Forest, who was going to tell Walter Payton that Sweetness wasn’t welcome? On most mornings Payton strolled into the locker room accompanied by Sweetness. The dog snarled, Payton laughed. The dog jumped up on teammates, Payton laughed. The dog defecated on the carpet, Payton laughed. While a couple of Bears players liked Sweetness, the majority thought the dog would be better served elsewhere. Like in a casket.