Sweetness (73 page)

Toward the end, Jiggetts asked Payton if there was anything he wanted to tell his fans. Payton’s hands began to shake. He put his head on his son’s shoulder and began to cry. “To the people that really care about me, just continue to pray,” he said. “And for those who are going to say what they want to say, may God be with you also.”

Immediately after the press conference, Payton headed for O’Hare Airport to catch the forty-minute flight back to Rochester for some tests. He called Tucker and asked her to meet him outside the terminal to bring him some material. When she arrived, Tucker was shocked by what she saw: There stood Walter Payton, alongside his curbside car, moving to the music blasting from his speakers. “He looked so peaceful and so happy,” she said. “He said he was spending some time with God and he felt like dancing.”

Later that night Larry King, famed host of CNN’s
Larry King Live
, left a message at Payton’s office. “Walter,” he said, “Larry King here. Listen, I’m not calling to get you on the show. I’m calling to give you my home number if you want to talk as friends [the two had never actually met], and just to let you know that I’m thinking about you and I want to make sure you’re OK.”

When the sentiment was relayed to Payton, he told Tucker, “Call Larry King and tell him I’ll do the show.” On the afternoon of Wednesday, February 3, Tucker and Payton returned to O’Hare to fly to New York. Payton was dressed normally—jeans, collared shirt, thick jacket, sunglasses. Yet as he strode through the terminal, something staggering took place: Absolutely nothing. Nobody requested an autograph, asked for a picture, brought up that game against the Bucs in ’83. Nothing. “Not one person recognized him,” said Tucker. “That’s the first time I’d ever seen that happen.”

When they boarded the plane, Tucker tucked her head into her arms and sobbed. “I knew,” she said, “that Walter Payton was done as we knew him.”

Payton was the marquee guest on a program that also featured senators Robert Byrd, Dianne Feinstein, and Jon Kyl discussing the impeachment trial of President Bill Clinton. King introduced him by saying, “In case you are new to the planet, Walter Payton is forty-four years old . . .” and the interview took off. The majority of Americans had not seen Payton’s press conference, so this was their first glance at the emaciated star. The man who, only months ago, weighed in at 221 pounds was now hovering around 170. His skin and eyes were yellowish, and he wore the weathered appearance of a man in his seventies. As is the way of many athletes, Payton communicated with King in the lingo he knew best. “It was sort of like when I had Coach Ditka,” Payton said. “I said, ‘I’m going to believe in his philosophy, and I’m going to do as he tells me, because he’s going to take us to the Super Bowl.’ And the same way with this doctor. I’m going to use the same philosophy.”

Payton told King he was on the waiting list for a liver—not true. He either didn’t know or didn’t mention that cancer was ravaging his body. Had King done his research, he would have known the visible symptoms Payton was showing had little to do with PCS and everything to do with bile duct cancer.

The show’s finest moment came toward the end, when Payton looked at King and, for the first of many times, made an impassioned plea for organ donations. “I’ve been a donor, you know, ever since I had my Illinois license,” he said. “One of the things that I said was that, you know, being a football player for thirteen years, you know, I probably wore out just about everything in my body, but if there’s something in there that somebody can use, you know, so well. And Mike Ditka said it—in death you can give life and what better gift is there? And I think that a lot of people should look at that now. I know there are religious reasons and everybody thinks of other reasons, but I think that we all should just stand back and look at it.”

After taking a couple of phone calls, King wrapped up what would go down as one of the most moving segments of his fifty-three-year career.

Payton:
When I do cry, they’re tears of joy.

King:
We wish you everything you wish yourself. Godspeed and when you get that transplant, you’ll be sitting right here and we’ll reminisce about carrying the football.

Payton:
OK.

King:
Thanks, Walter.

Payton:
Thanks, Larry.

King:
Best of luck.

Payton:
Oh, God’s with me. I’ll be OK.

In the immediate aftermath of his appearance on
Larry King
, Walter Payton’s world shook. The calls of support were nonstop—from Mike Singletary and Mike Ditka; from Evel Knievel and Michael Jordan. Jay Leno sent a note that read, “We’re all here for you. When you get your new liver, put your old one in a jar and bring it on
The Tonight Show
.” Payton was a guest on
Oprah
and
CBS This Morning
. Connie and Brittney accepted an award on his behalf at the ESPYs (Payton watched from home, ordering in P.F. Chang’s). Columnists across the nation sang his praises as the new face of American courage. “Cry for him, pray for him,” wrote Jay Mariotti of the
Chicago Sun-Times
. “But never lose faith in him.”

Most amazing was the impact his condition had on organ donations. In the week following Payton’s press conference, the Illinois secretary of state’s office averaged 115 donor inquiries per day—compared to roughly twelve per day before the announcement. “Never before have we had anything come close to this happening,” said Jan Grines, manager of the secretary of state’s organ and tissue donor registry. “Payton has touched the hearts of Illinoisans.” The producers of the hit CBS television show,
Touched by an Angel
, asked Payton to film a commercial promoting organ donation that would air during the program. “Along with me, over sixty thousand Americans are awaiting organ transplants,” he said in the spot. “Only half of us will receive them unless a real hero steps up.”

Payton’s press conference was held on a Tuesday. By Friday, his office had been besieged by nearly twenty thousand letters, postcards, and packages (some thirty-odd letters came from people offering their livers). Bundles of flowers lined the doorway. Payton didn’t merely look at the piles from afar. He dug in, reading many of the notes, personally responding to some of the people. One letter especially moved him:

Dear Mr. Payton:

My name is Christopher and I am nine years old . . . I have a [liver ailment] too. My doctors don’t know how I got it and they don’t know what caused it. They don’t even know a name for my sick liver. . . . I’ve got an enlarged spleen, too. I can’t play any sports so my spleen won’t bust. I need to help my liver. I’m real popular at the hospital. They keep taking my blood to run tests, but they can’t figure out why I have it . . . I’m sorry that you have to go through all of this. I’ll pray for you. Mommy said God will take care of you just like he’s going to take care of me. Don’t be scared, please. Maybe you can do tests with me at my hospital. Will you please write back?

Yours truly,

Christopher Cash, Jonesboro, Georgia

Payton wrote back, and kept the piece of lined notebook paper with Christopher’s words on his desk. When a
Sports Illustrated
writer came to visit him, he picked the page up and read it aloud. “Christopher says I shouldn’t be scared,” Payton said. “God will take care of me.”
²³

In early February a spokeswoman for Payton told the
Associated Press
that his liver disease was progressing faster than expected, and private planes had been offered to speed him to Mayo when a transplant became available. In April Dr. Joe Lagattuta, one of Payton’s personal physicians, reportedly told the Itasca Business Council in a speech that Payton had an excellent chance of receiving a new liver imminently. Once again, the information was puzzling. Within weeks of Payton’s press conference, his doctors confirmed the news many had suspected: He had cancer of the bile duct. By now, Payton—despite his hear-no-evil approach to negative news—was well aware that a transplant would not be in the cards. Though the word “cancer” was being avoided at all costs (as far as the general public was concerned, Payton was only battling a liver ailment), the disease was his greatest enemy.

Payton began making regular trips to Rochester to undergo lengthy, nightmarish chemotherapy treatments. He often flew on an airplane belonging to Tom Wieringa, a wealthy sponsor of Payton’s CART racing team. One of his regular companions was Suhey, who refused to let his longtime friend go through this alone. It was during that time, seeing Payton at his absolute lowest, that Suhey saw Payton at his absolute greatest.

“Walter would get his chemo at Mayo at night,” said Suhey. “And typically he would feel horrible afterward. He’d go back to the hotel and sleep. One night it was cold, and Walter and I were going upstairs to the room. This family just drove up from Chicago; they had just gotten there. And the child, who was probably ten or eleven or twelve, had cancer. He had no hair, he looked weak. It was not great. And all he wanted to do was meet Walter. I said, ‘Walter, do you really want to?’ and he said, ‘Absolutely!’ He walked outside, and it was really cold out. He met the kid, talked to the kid, and they sat down—just he and the kid went and sat down. And Walter felt just horrible, but he sat there and talked to the kid for half an hour. Right after chemo. God bless him. The family wrote me a letter, I think I still have it. It was written a year or two after Walter passed. I don’t think the child lived, but it meant a lot to him. Under very difficult circumstances. That moment really spoke to the kindness—to walk out there and spend the time with the kid. That was Walter.”