Sweetness (50 page)

Brown had mostly kind words for Payton, referring to him as a “gladiator.” But Payton, to his credit, wasn’t swayed. He found Brown to be an arrogant, dismissive, rude old man crying for a breadcrumb of attention. Were he to eventually own the mark, Payton promised himself he would never behave as Brown had.

Although Payton had been burned by optimism before, 1984 seemed
different
. From the spectacular new contract to the dream home he and Connie were building in South Barrington (featuring a lake, a fishing pond, a miniature par-3 golf course, and the soundproof gun range in the basement) to the hype over Brown’s record, Payton reported to training camp (now being held at the University of Wisconsin–Platteville—aptly described by Ted Plumb, the receivers coach, as “miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles”) feeling euphoric.

Over the preceding few years Payton had spent his off-seasons working out in Chicago, sprinting up and down a hill that teammates describe as “dizzying” (Ted Albrecht), “vomit-inducing” (Jerry Doerger), and “so steep, you were kissing it while running up” (Dennis Gentry).

In the lead-up to 1984, however, Payton—fresh from arthroscopic surgery on both knees—returned to Jackson, Mississippi, where he stayed with his mother and ran through the sand hills and along the banks of the Pearl River while pulling a tire with a rope tied around his waist.
¹⁵
It was meant to be a time of rejuvenation; of returning to his youthful ways in search of an extra spark. “You have to have a goal, a challenge to motivate you,” Payton said. “I’ve accomplished most of my goals, but you have to have something to motivate you more, to stimulate you to bigger heights.”

If Payton needed motivation, all he had to do was look around the Chicago locker room, where the fruits of a series of wise drafts were beginning to pay off. “We wanted intelligent people,” said Bill Tobin, who headed the team’s personnel department. “We didn’t care if Mike Singletary was too short or Jim McMahon had an eye problem. We looked for smarts, drive, heart.” The pathetic offenses of Jack Pardee and Neill Armstrong were long gone, replaced by a cast of dynamic, talented characters and, in Ditka, a coach excited to utilize them. On defense, meanwhile, coordinator Buddy Ryan had built a ferocious unit about to take the NFL by storm.

In the waning days of the 1981 season, when Halas was preparing to fire Armstrong and his entire coaching staff, Singletary, the rookie middle linebacker, urged his fellow defensive players to send a note to the owner, begging him to keep Ryan. “[Defensive end] Alan Page wrote it, because he had a law degree,” recalled Jim Osborne, a lineman and Payton’s teammate for ten seasons. “We knew if they let Buddy go the defense would be set back another three or four years. We all signed the letter and sent it off, hoping for the best.”

“When you write something like that, you never know how it will be perceived,” added Page. “We could have been looking for work.”

A couple of days later, Halas met with the entire defensive unit. Most of the men figured they were about to be fired. Instead, Halas praised them for their loyalty. He promised to retain Ryan. Consequently, when Ditka was hired, it was with one major condition—not only did the defensive coordinator have to stay, but he would have final say on that side of the ball. “I was fine with it,” said Ditka. “But Buddy wanted to be the head coach, so he never accepted me. I was thrilled to have someone so talented on my staff. Whether we got along was irrelevant, as long as we could win together.”

The two clashed. They were water vs. oil. Ali vs. Frazier. “The tension existed because they were very similar,” said Al Harris. “They were both hamstrung, hardheaded men who were convinced they alone had the winning formula.” The result of the Ditka-Ryan divide was a pair of units that genuinely loathed one another. During practices, Ryan instructed his players to hit, and hit at will. Ditka echoed the order to his offense. “Don’t let them walk all over you!” Ditka would yell. “Fuck the defense!”

Although the Bears had failed to qualify for the play-offs in 1983, the team won five of its final six games to evoke genuine optimism. Even
Sports Illustrated
, which regularly dismissed the team, picked Chicago to win the NFC Central the next season.

“Sometimes a seed has to be planted,” Singletary told
The Sporting News
.

“I feel that, for the past two years, a seed has been planted. I feel it’s grown and ready to reach its potential. Whatever growth it has, it has to be this year.”

The Bears opened at home against Tampa Bay, and while the city was euphoric over an easy 34–14 triumph, Payton, who ran for sixty-one yards on sixteen carries, was back to brooding. In order to protect the thirty-year-old’s knees, Ditka removed him when the Bears jumped out to a 27–7 lead early in the fourth quarter. It was a decision any head coach would have made, and no one on the Bears—even the backstabbing Ryan—found it objectionable.

As he walked toward the locker room afterward, Payton sulked, refusing to acknowledge the fans who called his name. Payton then blew off the media, speaking only to the hosts of the postgame TV show that paid him to appear.

A couple of days later, Payton attempted to explain his behavior, saying he was upset over not “playing my type of game.” Ditka was incredulous. So were several teammates. “It was supposed to be all about winning,” said Bob Avellini, the Bears’ backup quarterback. “But sometimes it wasn’t.”

The poor mood didn’t last. Payton ran for 179 yards in a Week 2 rout of Denver, during which he surpassed Brown’s NFL record of 15,459 all-purpose yards. The following week he gained another 110 in a tight 9–7 triumph at Green Bay. (Afterward, some Packers were incensed over Chicago’s dirty play. Said guard Greg Koch: “They’re a bullshit team and a bullshit organization.”)

“Walter was as good at that time as he’d been when he was younger,” said Lynn Dickey, the Packers quarterback. “We made it our goal as a team to bust him up and destroy him with hard hits. But Walter just demoralized us. We couldn’t stop him.”

When Payton looked over the schedule before the start of the season, a September 23 trek to Seattle hardly jumped off the page. In the chase to overtake Brown, however, much had changed since the preseason. In a nod to the business-before-loyalty approach of the NFL, the Steelers had cut loose Harris in late August when he refused to agree to contract terms. The decision was a shocking one, considering Harris’ proximity to the record, and the publicity-starved Seahawks eagerly picked him up.

As a result, a normally ho-hum matchup held genuine intrigue. Harris led Payton by thirty-four yards, and the Seahawks arranged a joint press conference for both men on the Saturday before the game. Payton, perhaps sensing Harris was on his last leg, arrived giddy, talkative, and gracious. He confessed the record meant a great deal, then used part of the session to lobby for a law in Illinois to require motorcyclists to wear helmets, noting that someone he knew had recently died.

Harris didn’t show for the event.

Or, really, for the game.

Seattle won 38–9, but it was the duel-that-wasn’t that generated the buzz. With 2:05 remaining in the first quarter, Payton took a pitch and scooted nine yards around right end. The run was unexceptional, but with it Payton trailed one less man. He outgained Harris for the game, 116 yards to 23 yards, and it became clear to most everyone that Seattle’s veteran halfback was a dead man running.

Not that Harris agreed. “As far as I’m concerned, the race is on,” he said. “It’s up to me to see if I can make it a race. I think I can.”

He couldn’t.

The Seahawks released Harris six weeks later.

In the days following the Seattle defeat, all Payton could think about was Jim Brown. Save for their joint appearance on
Donahue
, the two legends had never spent any time together. In fact, Payton never even viewed footage of Brown running the ball until a week after Seattle, when he found himself watching a TV highlight film of the NFL’s greatest running backs. “Jim Brown was big and strong and quick,” Payton said afterward. “And he even made a one-handed catch. Hey, that’s what football is all about.”

The men were polar opposites. Although Brown was raised by a great-grandmother in an all-black community on St. Simons Island, Georgia, for the first eight years of his life, the remainder of his childhood was spent in Manhasset, New York. He was a five-sport star who went on to dominate in football and lacrosse at Syracuse University before entering the NFL for nine incredible seasons. “Jim Brown was the best who ever played,” said Ross Fichtner, Brown’s former teammate who later served as Chicago’s secondary coach. “He’s so far ahead of everyone else, it’s not even funny. But Jim didn’t have Walter’s heart. Walter gave one hundred percent all the time, and sometimes teammates didn’t think Jim was giving his all.”

Unlike Payton, who rarely voted and
never
talked politics,
¹⁶
Brown dove headfirst into social causes. He spoke out forcefully about the plight of black athletes and infuriated many by supporting Muhammad Ali when the boxer avoided serving in Vietnam. “Jim really stuck his neck out,” said John Wooten, a former teammate. “There were a lot of people that hated Ali, and because Jim supported Ali they now hated Jim.” Brown founded the Negro Industrial and Economic Union, a group that provided funding to hundreds of black-owned businesses, and condemned the bigotry that plagued America.

Having watched from afar as black athletes like Jackie Robinson and Joe Louis swallowed their tongues and accepted abuse from whites, Brown promised himself he would never follow suit. “My attitude was, in no way was I going to be that way,” he said. “In no way did I ever feel that I would accept discrimination.”

When asked about Payton’s intelligence, friends focus on his ability to read people and gauge the mood of a room. “Walter’s skill was in the power of observation,” said Mark Alberts, a future business partner. “He could look over someone and perfectly understand him.” Brown, on the other hand, was bright and worldly, quick with an opinion and well-versed in books and newspapers. He dared people to challenge his opinions, and cherished the look of befuddlement as he rattled off numbers and facts.

Brown retired from football at age twenty-nine to pursue a career in acting, and though the move saved his body from more abuse and provided him with a successful second career (Brown’s film credits include
The Dirty Dozen
,
Three the Hard Way,
and
Mars Attacks!
), there was a part of the man that couldn’t fully let go. He routinely expressed disdain—and disgust—toward the so-called “modern player,” what with his fancy gear and thick pads and stuffed wallet. “My feeling is you’re a sportsman or a capitalist,” he told the
Tribune
’s Sam Smith. “I was a sportsman and played the game to win, not for records. We didn’t stay in the game to set records. It was a question of dignity and true performance. Today, players want a million-dollar salary and won’t play because their big toe is hurt.”

When Payton ran over the Dallas Cowboys for 155 yards in a Week 5 loss, the anticipation of history was palpable. He needed a mere sixty-seven yards against the visiting Saints the following Sunday to finally become the NFL’s rushing king.

In the days leading up to New Orleans, Payton was regularly prodded about Brown. It was predictable stuff—the media wanting sound bites about his admiration for the great hero. Payton, however, refused to comply. Yes, he was aware that Brown played in twelve- and fourteen-game seasons, and that he set his mark in fewer carries. But, to Payton, Brown was pathetic. When asked by Michael Janofsky of
The New York Times
whether he respected Brown, the answer was short and pointed. “Next question,” he said. Would Brown be invited to the Saints game? “If he wants to come, that’s fine with me,” Payton said. “I have no control over that. It’s up to the Bears’ organization. We’re trying to keep this as professional as possible. My job is to get the record; I’ll leave the details to the organization.”