Sweetness (53 page)

Payton politely called the Gordon Gin folks and told them he’d have to be late—“Something important has come up.” That something important was T. J. Baker, a seven-year-old boy from Davenport, Iowa, who was fighting a malignant brain tumor. Baker’s hero was Payton, and when the running back learned last minute that a fund-raiser was being held in Moline, Iowa (just over the Illinois state line), he committed to stopping by for a quick visit.

Payton stayed for four hours.

“We just chatted,” he said. “I’d rather not say about what. Just being there, showing concern, caring, means more than what you talk about. It stays with you. You don’t forget.”

Payton never uttered another word about Baker. He didn’t want to delve into details of his visit, because, frankly, it was nobody’s business. A young child was dying. Wasn’t that enough? “Walter could comfort people and love people and be there for people,” said Holmes. “He had moments of amazing warmth.”

Chicago’s defensive line coach, Dale Haupt, had a teenage daughter, Helen, who baked Payton chocolate chip cookies before every home game for a stretch of five years. When Payton’s son, Jarrett, was born, she made the baby a quilt—“ just so Walter knew we were happy for him.” Helen never expected anything in return. He was friendly and kind, and that was good enough. “So now I’m a freshman at Wake Forest and I’m home from school, and Walter calls,” she said. “He wanted to see if I was home because he had something to give me. He drives to our house, and he hands me a beautiful gold bracelet. He stayed and we talked for the longest time. I think he just wanted me to know he appreciated the kindness through the years. A lot of athletes never thought like that. He did.”

The Bears used their fourth-round pick in the 1985 NFL Draft to select Kevin Butler, a kicker from the University of Georgia. Bob Thomas, Payton’s fellow rookie in 1975, had held the job for the majority of the decade, and the transaction did not bode well for his future. Still, when the team finally cut him on September 2, Thomas was despondent. Not wanting to bump into any teammates, he waited until nine fifteen A.M., when meetings began, to clean out his locker. “I was thinking how festive and lively the locker room usually was, and now it was perfectly quiet,” said Thomas. “Well, I walk to my locker and Walter’s sitting there, waiting for me.” At Payton’s behest, the two longtime friends walked outside the equipment room and rested on some old railroad irons. “For twenty minutes, he told me—a broken-down kicker—what it meant to play with me for ten years,” Thomas said. “I was crying, and he buried my tears in his chest. I made some great kicks, I had some amazing memories, but that moment more than any other sticks out from my twelve-year career.”

And yet, Payton’s deep kindness was coupled with deep insecurity. Or, as Holmes said, “He could also be incredibly vapid and thin-skinned. It really depended on the day. Sometimes on the hour.”

Indeed, two months after granting Baker a wish come true, Payton was in Chicago, pouting. According to a report in the
Tribune
, McMahon, the savvy-yet-brittle quarterback with all of three NFL seasons under his belt, was now the Bears’ highest-paid player, earning $950,000 for the upcoming season. Payton, meanwhile, was a distant second at $685,000 (annuity not included).

The $265,000 contract disparity between McMahon and Payton made the running back’s blood boil. So, for that matter, did the mounting dismissiveness he perceived to be coming from the press, the fans, and the Bears organization. “This is my eleventh year, and nobody takes me seriously,” he moaned to
Sports Illustrated
. “You talk about the running backs that have been in the league, you ask, ‘What about the running backs?’ and the first names that pop into people’s minds are Eric Dickerson, Tony Dorsett, Curt Warner, or Billy Sims, William Andrews, George Rogers. Every year, Payton’s on the back burner.

“If you chart [the careers of other runners], you see peaks and valleys. Whereas my career, I like to think, has been like IBM or Xerox. I’ve been playing at the same level, and sometimes above, for at least nine years. I guess the people have come to expect that. Rain, sleet, snow, sprained ankle . . . or whatever, he’s going to be there. Sometimes people tend to—not knowingly—they sometimes take things for granted. I guess I’ve been the Rodney Dangerfield of running backs.

“But it doesn’t bother me. Rodney makes a lot of movies, drinks a lot of light beer.”

Only it
did
bother him. While his rant concerned, in a literal sense, the NFL’s other marquee running backs, the words had more to do with the Chicago Bears. Entering the 1985 season Payton was, for the first time, not the team’s sole focal point. There was McMahon, the hard-living, attentionseeking quarterback who talked smack and wore sunglasses indoors. There was Willie Gault, the speedy wide receiver who longed for a career in movies. There was Mike Singletary, the Butkus-esque middle linebacker, and his two high-flying cohorts, Wilber Marshall and Otis Wilson. And, of course, there was Ditka, the snarling head coach, and Buddy Ryan, the defensive coordinator who hated him. So loaded was the team that, shortly after reporting to training camp and soaking in all the talent, Butler called Cathy, his fiancée, and told her their wedding had to be moved from January 25, 1985—the day before the next Super Bowl. “We had so many weapons, and Walter wasn’t the center of it anymore, even though he was so valuable,” said Covert. “And while I’m sure he really enjoyed being part of all the winning, the other side of the coin was that it wasn’t all about him. I think that was sometimes a little bit difficult for him. The other personalities came into play, and it wasn’t that he was ever overshadowed, but he had competition.”

With the cutting of Thomas, only defensive lineman Mike Hartenstine, receiver Brian Baschnagel, and safety Gary Fencik remained from the dark ages. Few of the modern Bears understood what made Payton go—the intensity, the need to prove people wrong, the insecurity. He was confused by the public gloating of younger athletes and turned off by what he perceived to be the constant cries for attention. It was one thing for the NFL’s all-time rushing leader to crave the spotlight. It was another altogether for teammates who had accomplished precious little. “The challenges of being as recognized as he was and the face of sports for a city for many years would wear on anyone,” said Shaun Gayle, the defensive back. “I’m sure it weighed on Walter, too.”

What irked Payton most was the emergence of a rookie defensive lineman named William Perry. Drafted in the first round out of Clemson, “the Refrigerator” (as he was called) was immediately lambasted by Ryan, who labeled him too slow, too fat, too dumb to master Chicago’s complex 46 Defense. Yet in an era when players rarely exceeded 300 pounds, the Fridge stood out. Gap-toothed and wobbly, he tipped the scales at 325 pounds, making him one of the league’s largest players. He had a twenty-two-inch neck and a size fifty-eight coat. “I was born to be big,” he told
Sports Illustrated
, “and I ain’t disappointing nobody.”

Upon seeing his new teammate at training camp for the first time, defensive lineman Dan Hampton nicknamed Perry “Biscuit”—as in, he was one biscuit short of 350 pounds. When Perry removed his T-shirt in front of other players, revealing mounds of Shamu-esque blubber, the moniker de jour changed to “Mud Slide.”

“Funny thing is, Fridge was a great athlete,” said Andy Frederick, an offensive tackle. “I saw him jump atop a thirty-six-inch table from the ground while holding weights in his hands and I saw him dunk a volleyball from below the rim.”

It wasn’t that Payton disliked his new teammate. Even for Ryan, who vehemently opposed the Bears selecting him (on his second practice with the team, Ryan called the Fridge “a wasted draft choice and a waste of money”), Perry was a big, loveable lug. No, what irked Payton was what the rookie symbolized.

Chicago won its first five games of the 1985 season, and the Bears were again legitimate Monsters of the Midway. Yet while triumphs over the divisionrival Vikings (during which McMahon, suffering from a leg infection and fresh off of two days in traction for back problems, came off the bench in the third quarter to throw three remarkable touchdown passes—one made possible by a vicious block by Payton on a blitzing linebacker) and Buccaneers were satisfying, Ditka used a bright red Sharpie to mark October 13 on his calendar—the day the Bears were to face the 49ers at Candlestick Park.

Before the previous season’s play-off loss, Ditka had never given much thought to San Francisco. It was a top-flight organization with one of the best coaches (Bill Walsh) and quarterbacks (Joe Montana) in the game, but the 49ers were hardly a heated rival. With that 23–0 slaughter, however, everything changed. Ditka didn’t merely want to beat Walsh. He wanted to destroy and embarrass him.

Led by Payton’s two touchdowns and 132 rushing yards, as well as a defense that sacked Montana seven times, the coach’s wish came true. The Bears routed San Francisco, 26–10. “Unfortunately, when the 49ers beat us last year they didn’t show much courtesy or dignity,” Payton said. “They said negative things about our offense after shutting us out. We thought about that all during the off-season and the preseason.”

Armed with a bad temper and a long memory, Ditka wasn’t settling merely for a win. Here was a coach who, two years earlier, ordered his special team players to “get” Detroit kicker Eddie Murray, whom Ditka thought to be showboating. Here was a coach who once broke a bone in his hand by punching a steel locker after a loss. Now, in the waning minutes of the fourth quarter, with the game out of reach and the image of Guy McIntyre at fullback dancing through his cerebrum, Ditka made a lineup change. He inserted Perry, thus far only a defensive player, into the backfield, handing him the ball on the game’s final two plays (Perry ran for four yards—one more than the 49ers’ entire second-half total).

“Gives you a little food for thought on the goal line, doesn’t he?” Ditka said afterward. “I mean, it’s really something you’ve got to think about realistically. There’s a chance that could happen.”

In the following week’s 23–7 whitewashing of Green Bay, Perry ran for a one-yard touchdown and was Payton’s lead blocker on two more scores (Chris Cobbs of the
Los Angeles Times
described Perry’s block of Packer linebacker George Cumby “as if [Cumby] were 225 pounds of prime rib”).

With that, a pop culture phenomenon was born.

In the ensuing days Perry became the talk of a sports-obsessed nation. He was invited to be a guest on
Late Night with David Letterman
and, before long, also appeared on TV with Johnny Carson and Bob Hope. Perry signed a six-figure endorsement deal with McDonald’s (Asked the
Los Angeles Times
: “Can McPerry be far behind?”), as well as smaller spokesperson agreements for companies that peddled bacon, thermal underwear, macaroni-and-cheese dinners, and paper towels. One Chicago TV station ran a Perry-related story every night for three straight weeks.

“The Fridge became an overnight rock star,” said Greg Gershuny, the Bears’ director of information services. “He could walk up to any restaurant and be ushered right into the place.”

When asked, Payton said all the right things about Perry. But inside, he hurt. The kid had been with Chicago for half a year, and he was already earning pitchman deals Payton could only dream of. The same went for McMahon, a teammate Payton enjoyed and admired, but one who never worked especially hard and who also lived off of image more than reality. McMahon’s initial reputation in Chicago—that of an unflappably cool cat—was born largely off of the mythology of sunglasses. Far from trying to make a fashion statement, though, McMahon wore shades at all times because, at age six, he accidentally speared his right eye with a fork, resulting in permanent ocular damage. Furthermore, McMahon’s Mohawk haircut—one being emulated by hundreds of Chicago schoolchildren—came into existence only when Willie Gault attempted to salvage a self-service trim the quarterback had botched.

Yet the details didn’t much matter for a public suddenly caught up in Chicago Bear fever. Well before Andre Agassi declared, “Image is everything” in his iconic Canon commercials, the Bears were bringing the slogan to life. Ten members of the team (including Ditka) had their own radio shows. Ditka was appearing in three television commercials, and the offensive linemen
(offensive linemen!)
were being featured in a Chevy advertising campaign. Perry and McMahon were both good, solid, above-average NFL players—who were suddenly anointed rock stars.

Payton, meanwhile, signed on to star in a spot for Diet Coke. One lousy spot. He did his best to adjust to his new place in the shadows. He kept his mouth shut, offered up boring canned quotes when asked and, on the field, peeled off an NFL record nine straight hundred-yard rushing games. Few people noticed.

Blessed with the NFL’s best offensive line, Payton no longer had to create his own holes and hope for random openings. He had evolved, in a way that other top running backs never could. To the day his career ended, Earl Campbell wanted to barrel over people. To the day his career ended, Terry Metcalf wanted to juke and shake. Neither lasted long. Age and fatigue are a football player’s two greatest opponents, and styles either change or die. Payton, a man always in touch with his body, realized quickness could not serve as a primary weapon. He finally had a top-flight school of blockers at his disposal, and he needed their help. “Later in his career Walter was the easiest running back in the world to block for,” said Jay Hilgenberg, the All-Pro center. “If we had the six or seven hole called, that’s where Walter was going to be, and he’d come with a lot of force.”

It was a strange time to be Walter Payton. His out-of-wedlock son, Nigel, and in-wedlock daughter, Brittney, were born months apart. His team was hot and his Q-rating on the wane. He was piling up Pro Bowl–worthy numbers (he finished the season with 1,551 yards, the fourth-highest total of his career), yet wasn’t the same back he once had been. He put on the happiest face possible, but came across to teammates as moodier and crankier than ever. “Walter was the personality of the team,” said Butler, the kicker. “If Walter was loud and rambunctious that day, the pace of practice took off. But if things weren’t going well, Walter would wear it on his forehead.”