Sweetness (43 page)

As far as wins and losses go, 1979 was a banner year for the Bears, who went 10-6 and reached the play-offs for just the second time in sixteen seasons. Yet Payton, by now in his fifth year, wasn’t blinded by the mirage of a soft schedule and some lucky bounces (the Bears beat two two-win clubs, needed a desperation last-second play to overcome San Francisco, and defeated a Jets team lacking its star, wide receiver Wesley Walker). In what many considered to be the best sustained showing of his career, Payton rushed for 1,610 yards and fourteen touchdowns, and caught another thirty-one passes for 313 yards and two touchdowns. “Even that great year he had [1977],” linebacker Doug Buffone raved, “I don’t think he was running like this.”

With Harper, his invaluable fullback, out for the entire season with a knee injury, Payton was
still
unstoppable. He opened the year with 125 yards in a loss to Green Bay, and tore up the usually impenetrable Vikings for 182 yards a week later. He killed the Cowboys for 134 yards and, in a must-win regular season finale against the Cardinals, cruised for 157 yards and three touchdowns (Chicago dominated, 42–6, and Payton clinched his fourth-straight NFC rushing title).

Even with those magnificent showings, however, the Bears remained a bubble team that could not reach the next level. Now in his sixth year as the general manager, Finks still refused to draft or trade for a top-flight quarterback, believing he could always find some passable schlub for the position. When the Raiders offered Ken Stabler before the October 9 trading deadline, Finks barely picked up the phone. “We told [the Raiders] that we weren’t interested,” Finks said. “We felt like our quarterback situation was OK.”

Payton was incredulous. OK?
OK?
Stabler was a four-time Pro Bowler who led the Raiders to victory in Super Bowl XI. The Bears, meanwhile, were continuing their maddening, never-ending tactic of sticking with one quarterback until that person messed up. Avellini, underwhelming in all phases, started the first three games before giving way to Evans, an athletic phenomenon whose balls went everywhere but straight. “Vince,” said Tim Clifford, one of Evans’ backups in later years, “was a quarterback who would have been better off playing linebacker.” He lasted three starts as well, until Mike Phipps, thirty-two years old and in his tenth NFL season, took over. Together, the three men combined for fifteen touchdowns and sixteen interceptions. “We all got along well, because I think we bonded over the pathetic nature of our offense,” said Avellini. “Me, Vince, and Mike were fighting for the job, and we had no receivers to speak of. San Diego gets rid of a wide receiver like John Jefferson [after the 1980 season], and instead of finding a way to get him, we get Golden Richards, the worst player I ever played with. That kind of thing brought us quarterbacks even closer. People blamed us, and probably with some good reason. But we weren’t alone. The efforts to improve our team were pathetic.”

Particularly depressing was the Bears’ October 28 trip to San Francisco, where they faced a 49ers team coached by Bill Walsh, the man Finks failed to hire as head coach. Though he was burdened with a shabby roster filled with crumbs and leftovers, Walsh’s revolutionary West Coast offense rolled up 455 total yards against the Bears. Steve DeBerg, a quarterback no more talented than any of Chicago’s, passed for 348 yards and three touchdowns, and the Bears could only watch and dream. Though they won 28–27, it felt like a defeat. “To think of what we could have been doing under Walsh,” said Avellini. “It was torturous.”

By virtue of their 10-6 record, on December 23 the Bears traveled to Philadelphia to play in the NFC Wild Card game. Though the Eagles captured the NFC East title with an 11-5 mark, Chicago’s players were confident. When asked about Harold Carmichael, Philadelphia’s star receiver, defensive back Allan Ellis shrugged. “What about him?” he said. “The thing about Carmichael is you have the challenge of not forgetting the other receiver . . . I forgot his name.”

“We have as good a chance to go to the Super Bowl,” added Armstrong, “as any other team.”

Known throughout the league as home to the most vile, most insidious fans, Veterans Stadium was a miserable place to play. The screams were loud, the taunts were tasteless, the artificial surface flimsy and unforgiving. Yet despite being three-point underdogs, the Bears came ready to play. Payton punched it in for two first-half touchdowns, and at halftime Armstrong’s scrappy team held a 17–10 lead.

Early in the third quarter, on first and ten at their own fifteen, the Bears called for Z Crack 28. Phipps handed the ball to Payton, who—despite suffering from a painful pinched nerve in his shoulder—busted wide right, turned upfield and took off. He ran eighty-four yards to the Eagles’ one before being pulled down by cornerback Herm Edwards. “That was the prettiest run I’ve ever seen,” said Claude Humphrey, an Eagles defensive end. “I was on the field, and the way he ran after he broke into the secondary, he looked like a fine racehorse taking off into the open.”

There was one problem. Seconds before the ball was snapped, receiver Brian Baschnagel moved. The left-to-right trot was legal to everyone in the stadium, but not referee Red Cashion, who threw a flag and penalized the Bears for illegal motion. “The official told me I was going toward the line when the ball was snapped,” said Baschnagel. “I was confused and uncertain about what I’d done. The next training camp Dave McNally, the NFL’s head of officials, came to talk to us about the rules. He walks into the room and said, ‘Before anyone says anything, it was a bad call.’ ” Payton’s eighty-four-yard scamper was voided. Momentum vanished. “From there,” wrote the
Tribune
’s Bob Verdi, “the Bears slipped from great expectations into the Schuylkill River.”

Chicago wound up punting—and losing, 27–17.

Following the game, the locker room was library quiet. Even though his gut told him the officials had erred, Baschnagel was devastated. The stereotypical scrappy, slow, undersized (five foot eleven, 187 pounds) white receiver, Baschnagel stuck for ten years with the Bears primarily because of his attitude. “You wished all your players had his heart,” said Armstrong. “He was like Walter in his devotion to hard work.” Baschnagel’s parents, Arthur and Dorothy, Philadelphia residents, had attended the game, as did his younger brother, Steve. The day meant everything to him. “I had my head down in my locker, hurting,” he said. “And at that moment Doug Gerhart, our receivers coach and someone I was very close with, told me in private he’d be leaving coaching to get into the family business. The combination of the loss, the penalty, and Doug’s words got me glassy-eyed, and I started crying. Walter comes up, puts his arm around me, and he said, ‘Brian, I know you feel terrible about that call.’ And he consoled me and said, ‘If everybody on the team had the attitude you have, we’d be going to the Super Bowl.’

“It was so classy. Walter had eighty-four yards taken away from him. He easily could have blamed me. Instead, he saw I was hurting and tried to make me feel better. I’ll never forget that.

“Never.”

The Philadelphia Eagles advanced to the Super Bowl.

The Chicago Bears went home.

Payton spoke optimistically of better days to come; of a franchise headed in the right direction. He was encouraged by some of the changes being made from within. In the summer of 1980 the team moved into Halas Hall, the $1.6-million meeting spot/dormitory/operations center located adjacent to Lake Forest College’s Farwell Field. No longer were the Bears’ facilities fourth-rate. No longer would players think of the team as a haven for cheapskates.

Despite Finks’ failure to land a quarterback of note, high-quality drafts were slowly beginning to yield results. “I don’t like the word ‘building,’ ” Finks said. “I just think we have the right people here to continue being a good football team.” In 1979, the Bears used their two first-round picks on defensive players, a tackle out of Arkansas named Dan Hampton and a defensive end from Arizona State named Al Harris. The two became key contributors, and started for most of the ensuing decade.

The following year, Finks once again hit big in the first round, selecting an athletic linebacker from Louisville named Otis Wilson. Payton was ecstatic (the Bears’ overall philosophy started with defense, and he was comfortable with that) until he learned that Finks spent a second-round selection on a fullback.

In taking Matt Suhey, a five-foot-eleven, 217-pound bowling ball out of Penn State, Chicago seemed to be giving up on Roland Harper, Payton’s longtime blocking back who missed the entire 1979 season with a tear in the anterior cruciate ligament in his right knee.

Although not quite as tight as they had been as rookies, Payton and Harper remained close friends and devoted on-field comrades. Dave Williams did a serviceable job in Harper’s stead, but Payton missed the crushing blocks that had been his pal’s staple. As the Bears won ten games and advanced to the postseason, Harper watched from his couch, miserable and depressed. “I prayed,” Harper said, explaining his recovery. “I prayed for His will to be done. If He gives you the strength, that’s all you need.”

Payton applauded Harper’s efforts. He encouraged him and cheered for him and assumed normalcy would return in 1980.

Then, Suhey arrived.

Payton hated him immediately. “Walter assumed I was brought in to get rid of Roland,” said Suhey. “He wasn’t nice to me at all. He didn’t talk to me and barely acknowledged me.” Suhey long believed that Payton’s negativity was solely about Harper. It was, however, more than that. For the first time, Payton was able to see the reality of his inevitable gridiron mortality. Harper had been one of the Bears’ offensive captains for three seasons. He was quiet and respectful and universally beloved by coaches, players, and administrators. He played hard and worked out even harder.

What did it say about the Bears—about the NFL—that all the sacrifice and effort rendered Harper replaceable? One day, Payton realized, he would be replaceable, too.

Although Harper returned to start twelve games in 1980 (and limit Suhey to special teams duties), Payton was shaken by what Suhey’s arrival signified. He was also shaken by the death of hope and optimism. Based upon their previous campaign, Chicago was the thinking man’s pick to win the NFC Central and, just maybe, the Super Bowl. Yet the ’80 Bears were once again dreadful, finishing 7-9 as an all-engulfing listlessness cloaked the offense. The discipline that Pardee once tried to instill had all but vanished. John Schulian, a columnist for the
Sun-Times
, recalled watching Evans and Payton, standing ten feet apart along the sideline during practices, blistering the ball to one another. “It was begging Walter to break a finger or hand, and a person with real authority steps in and stops it,” said Schulian. “But Neill didn’t say anything because Walter was bigger than the team. It was a sad scene.”

What irked Payton most was the offensive coaching staff’s continued devotion to dull, outmoded football. On the other side of the ball, defensive coordinator Buddy Ryan had transformed his unit into a snarling, barking, growling pack of animals. “If I never face another defense like them, it’ll be too soon,” Cleveland quarterback Brian Sipe said. “They’re terrific.” The Bears defense ranked fourth in the league, and while the talents of players like Hampton, Wilson, and hard-hitting safeties Gary Fencik and Doug Plank were substantial, it was Ryan’s attitude and gusto that fed the monster. “Buddy took the players he had and said, ‘I’m gonna design a scheme for these players and make it work,’ ” said Plank. “And we fought for him. There were times he’d ask two safeties to be linebackers and we’d think, ‘What are you doing?’ But Buddy believed in us, so we believed in him. You wanted to win for him.” Throughout the week, Ryan encouraged his players to punish those on the other side of the ball. Defensive linemen threw punches, cornerbacks taunted, linebackers gauged eyes and pulled hair. The result was a strained locker room, as well as a gaggle of black-and-blue offensive linemen and receivers. The only player defenders couldn’t mess with was Payton. “That’s because of how much respect and love I had for Walter,” said Ryan. “I counted him as a defensive player, because if our quarterback threw an interception it’d almost always be Walter making the tackle. Also, I didn’t want my guys hitting him because he was all we had. Without Walter, we wouldn’t have scored a point.”

On November 3, in a nationally televised
Monday Night Football
game in Cleveland, the offense hit a new low. With the Browns leading 3–0 early in the second quarter, Chicago marched down to the Cleveland twenty-three-yard line. Facing a third-and-eleven, Ken Meyer, the offensive coordinator, called a draw play to Payton. “A resoundingly innovative draw play,” Bob Verdi wrote in the next morning’s
Tribune
. “It put the Bears five yards closer to a field goal, which they missed. But that’s not the point. Going for three points on third down, let alone fourth down, is the point.”

Payton’s frustration mounted with each loss. He complained to the media about the pounding he was taking (Payton often joked with John Skibinski, a white fullback, that “It’s hard to see the bruises on a black guy.”), and rightly wondered whether Chicago would ever field a Super Bowl–caliber club. By season’s end, Payton had turned into the one thing he thought he would never become: a man after the money. As Bud Holmes reminded him on multiple occasions, winning wasn’t the only way to win. According to his contract, Payton could earn an extra ten thousand dollars for clearing twelve hundred yards, five thousand dollars for fifteen hundred yards, seventy-five hundred dollars for two thousand yards and seventy-five hundred dollars for being involved in 70 percent of the Bears’ offensive plays. On December 7, as Chicago cruised to a meaningless 61–7 home decimation of Green Bay, Payton kept on running. And running. And running. He scored his third touchdown to make the score 48–7, then defied Armstrong by returning to the game when the scoreboard read 55–7. “When you see guys like him coming back in with the score that lopsided, it kind of sticks in your mind,” Estus Hood, a Packers cornerback, said afterward. “We’ll remember it next time.” By the time the final whistle blew, Payton had run for 130 yards on twenty-two carries, vaulting ahead of Detroit’s Billy Sims and the Cardinals’ Ottis Anderson into the NFC rushing lead. It was a rare happy moment in an otherwise dark run. “He wants that rushing title,” guard Noah Jackson laughed afterward. “Probably means ten thousand dollars, and I get a piece of that rock, too.”