Sweetness (51 page)

In other words: No.

Though he was but twenty-six years old in 1984, Jeff Fisher was beginning to feel the wear and tear that is high-level football. A reserve safety and kick returner with the Bears, Fisher had played four years at USC, and now was in his fourth—and final—season in Chicago. Some teammates suffered sprained knees and ankles. Others seemed to be battling concussions by the week.

Fisher’s feet chronically hurt.

One day, early in the ’84 season, Fisher approached Ray Earley, the team’s cantankerous equipment manager, and requested new insoles.

Instead of merely forking over the goods, Earley called Fisher a “damn pussy” and demanded he follow him to Payton’s locker. Earley pulled out Walter’s shoes. They were a battered pair of KangaROOS, with metal-tipped inch-long cleats.

“Stick your hand in!” Earley barked.

“What?” said Fisher.

“Stick your hand in! Stick the fucking thing in!”

Fisher did as he was told. “I actually scratched up my fingers, because Walter pulled the factory insole out of the shoe. He’d put one of those white thin baseball sanitary socks on, then put his foot in the shoe, so he could feel all seven cleats on the ground against his sole. In other words, when you put your hand in that shoe, you were feeling the nails from the screw beds normally covered by the insoles. He wanted to feel every nail.

“That,” said Fisher, “was Walter.”

Not only were Payton’s feet rubbing up against metal, but his thigh pads—thin, ratty, smelly—were the same ones he first received as a sophomore at Jefferson High School. Payton liked the lightness. The flexibility. The fact that they felt like feathers atop his body. His game pants, meanwhile, were nothing but patches and frayed threading. He only gave them up after a tackler ripped out the seat. The antiquated equipment told a story that went beyond mere nostalgia. Walter Payton would do anything—absolutely anything—to gain an edge.

“That’s why he became the all-time rushing king,” said Fisher. “Maybe there were more talented players, and certainly there were bigger players. But Walter wanted it so badly. You could see it every practice, every game. His desire to succeed was unmatched.”

Against the Cowboys, Payton had a large handful of family members and friends in attendance, just in case he broke the mark. Though falling short of 221 rushing yards can hardly be deemed an embarrassment, afterward Payton felt as if he’d let people down. Fans wanted the record. Teammates wanted the record. Coaches wanted the record. The pressure was immense.

“This is my week,” he told friends in the days leading up to the Saints. “I have to get this over with.”

In his typical hard-to-read ways, Payton longed for the attention, yet shunned the attention. He turned down very few interview requests in the lead-up to New Orleans, yet adamantly rejected the Bears’ plans for a threeminute on-field ceremony that would include Connie, Jarrett, and his mother, Alyne. “Once it’s over,” he said, “ just acknowledge it to the crowd and get on with the game. That’s the key thing.”

Of all the teams Payton could have faced with a record in the balance, the Saints were an ideal one. Though New Orleans boasted a 3-2 record and a fantastic young linebacker named Rickey Jackson, their defense was putrid against the run, allowing opposing offenses 149 rushing yards per game. Even better, the Saints players admired Payton. One of the team’s consultants was Bob Hill, the former head coach at Jackson State (“I told the guys Walter stories all the time,” Hill said), and the Saints and Bears held annual training camp scrimmages. “We formed a little bit of a bond from that,” said Frank Wattelet, a New Orleans defensive back. “We all knew and loved Walter. He was a wonderful man.” In other words, when the twelve o’clock game began, Payton wasn’t staring down Green Bay or Minnesota. Saints players certainly didn’t want Payton running all over them, but they weren’t averse to being a part of football history.

Payton slept only a handful of minutes the night before, tossing and turning at the thought of not gaining the needed yardage. He knew he would inevitably set the record, but didn’t want to do so with a meek tiptoe. “Walter ran with so much pride,” said Suhey. “He never sought out the easy way.”

With the Cubs scheduled to play San Diego in the nationally televised fifth game of the National League Championship Series, 12,000 of Soldier Field’s 66,950 seats remained empty. Beneath a pewter-colored sky, the Bears stormed the field and jumped out to a 13–7 halftime lead. Payton accumulated sixty-four yards on fifteen carries, and needed only two more to own the mark. He was running intensely even for a player who
always
ran intensely. “On one play he hit me hard—really, really hard,” said Jim Kovach, a Saints linebacker. “I remember looking up at his face mask and there was something hanging from it. It was my skin.”

The record-breaking run came with 14:11 remaining in the third quarter, on a second-down-and-nine from the Bears’ twenty-one-yard line. The play, Toss 28 Weak, was a simple one. Payton lined up behind Suhey in the I-formation, tiptoed four steps to his left, and received the pitch from McMahon. Covert, the left tackle, blocked down alongside tight end Emery Moorehead. Mark Bortz, the left guard, pulled while leading Suhey and Payton—who palmed the ball like a basketball in his right hand—into the hole. The only Saint with a shot of dropping Payton for a loss was linebacker Whitney Paul, who charged straight toward the play before being nudged inside by Bortz. Payton burst outside, took about ten rapid-fire steps up the field, and lunged powerfully into linebacker Dennis “Dirt” Winston. Paul, trailing the action, helped bring him down from behind. As soon as Payton landed, six yards from where the play began, CBS announcer Tim Ryan bellowed, “He’s got it!” With the crowd standing and applauding, Payton—football in his left hand—leapt to his feet and extended his right arm to help Paul off the ground. Teammates and opponents rushed to offer hugs and handshakes and Jim Riebandt, the Soldier Field public address announcer, shouted, “Walter Payton has just set a new National Football League career rushing record!” Payton jogged to Saints coach Bum Phillips, shook his hand, and turned back toward Chicago’s sideline, dodging a couple of TV cameramen who had slinked onto the turf. Payton held the ball aloft to even louder cheers, exchanged a leaping high-five with teammate Todd Bell, then found himself engulfed by dozens of Bears. “More than anything, it was surreal,” said Pat Dunsmore, a Chicago tight end. “You realize it’s a big moment, but you don’t realize how big until you look back.” With the fans chanting “Wal-ter! Wal-ter! Wal-ter!” Payton looked for someone with the Bears who could set aside the ball. He ended the festivities by shaking hands with Michael McCaskey, the team’s president, but when Payton turned back to the field he found himself surrounded by photographers and cameramen. “Come on!” he squealed, shaking his arms in disgust. “Get off the field! Get off the field!”

On the New Orleans sideline, members of the Saints stood in wonderment. The moment was special. Not merely for one player or one team, but for football. For sports. “He was the epitome of what our game was all about,” said Jimmy Rogers, a New Orleans running back. “It was an historic event, and we wanted him to be honored.”

Payton returned to the huddle, waving to the fans one last time. He went on to gain 154 yards on thirty-two carries, as Chicago won handily, 20–7. Immediately after the final whistle blew, Payton was brought to the sideline, handed a pair of headphones, and placed on live television with Brent Musburger, host of
The NFL Today
and the man who, nine years earlier, flew the rookie running back to Chicago for his first televised interview.

“Walter,” Musburger said, “you have been downplaying this record now for some time. But does it mean more to you personally now that you’ve accomplished it? Can you comment on what it means after you’ve surpassed it?”

With his hair wrapped in a white headband, Payton breathed deeply and deliberately. The crowd was still screaming. The air was moist and cold.

“Well, Bret . . .” he began—knowing good and well Musburger’s first name was Brent.

Moments later, Payton accepted a call in a special tent from President Ronald Reagan, who was flying to Louisville on Air Force One. Upon being handed the phone, surrounded by dozens of people, he waited to hear the president’s voice. With no one on the other end of the line, he cracked loudly, “Oh, the check is in the mail.” The room broke up.

Even with 12,400 yards, Walter Payton remained a kid.

CHAPTER 19

SHUFFLE

IN HINDSIGHT, KNOWING WHAT WE KNOW NOW, IT SEEMS EASY TO ASSIGN
ah-ha!
moments to the Chicago Bears’ inevitable greatness.

Ah-ha!
—when the franchise hired Mike Ditka!

Ah-ha!
—when the franchise drafted Jim McMahon!

Ah-ha!
—when the franchise recorded “The Super Bowl Shuffle”!

Ah-ha!

Ask members of the team, however, and the dominance and splendor of the Bears can be dated to November 4, 1984, when the rough, tough, defending Super Bowl champion Los Angeles Raiders came to Chicago.

This was the game members of the Bears had been waiting for. Los Angeles was known as the franchise of renegades and misfits, bad-assess and outright terrors. Among the team’s stars were Lyle Alzado, the steroid-loaded defensive end who had once boxed Muhammad Ali; Vann McElroy, the game’s most ferocious safety; Matt Millen, the guided missile of a linebacker; and Howie Long, football’s top pass rusher. The 7-2 Raiders snarled and barked and spewed nonstop trash, and if the antics themselves didn’t intimidate, the unyielding physicality did. “We were a team of hitters,” said McElroy. “We hit.”

The Bears entered the game with a 6-3 record, but fans and opponents remained skeptical. In past years Chicago had gotten off to fast starts under Jack Pardee and Neill Armstrong, only to inevitably fall flat.

“It’s like a boxer,” Mike Ditka said. “You hit him in the nose enough times he’s gonna respect you. The Raiders were always a physical football team, and that’s what we talked about before the game. I said, ‘We’re going toe to toe with these guys. It’s gonna be a heavyweight match, and we’re gonna slug with them.’ ”

The day was perfect—fifty-one degrees, with minimal humidity. Payton ran for 111 yards and two touchdowns, and walked off the field with his head pounding, his knees throbbing, his fingers twisted and crooked. He didn’t get the worst of it.

Chicago’s 17–6 win was an ode to violence. Fights broke out following seemingly every other play. McMahon, the Bears gutsy quarterback, had to leave the game after lacerating his kidney. When he went to the bathroom and urinated blood, the team sent him to a hospital. “I could have died,” McMahon said. “It was bleeding for two days. The doctor told me, ‘Look, you’re gonna die if we don’t cut [the kidney] out.’ I said, ‘You can’t cut it out. You cut it out and I’m finished. Just keep giving me morphine and leave me alone.’ That’s what he did.” McMahon remained in the hospital for ten days. His season was over.

The Bears sacked Los Angeles’ quarterbacks nine times—knocking starter Marc Wilson out of the game with hand and head injuries, then doing the same to David Humm by bruising his knee. “Our third-string quarterback was [veteran punter] Ray Guy, and we’re standing there watching him about to pee on himself,” said McElroy. “At halftime [Coach] Tom Flores is talking to Ray about possibly having to go in, and we’re looking all over for a pack of cigarettes to give him to calm his nerves. Because he was freaking out.”

A hobbled Wilson wound up returning to the game, but it mattered not. No Raiders quarterback was going to survive the Bears defense. “They were just sick,” said McElroy. “Everyone was threatening everyone else, guys trying to kill each other. On that day, we had no shot.”

Shelby Jordan, the Raiders’ offensive tackle, slugged defensive end Richard Dent in the face and later accused him of excessive head slapping and throwing elbows into his nose. Late in the game, after Long was repeatedly cheap-shotted by right guard Kurt Becker, the Raider star screamed, “I’m going to get you in the parking lot after the game and beat you up in front of your family!” Becker laughed—but there was Long, after the players had dressed into street clothes, standing outside the Bears locker room, waiting for his nemesis. Becker never emerged.

Ditka and his coaches were elated. The Raiders bullied the NFL, and the Bears punched them in the mouth.