Sweetness (78 page)

In the summer of 2008, a handsome twenty-three-year-old biracial man took his first-ever flight from Chicago to Jackson, Mississippi.

Though he knew some about the faraway city in the faraway state, any details had always been in the abstract. “Your father is from down South,” he’d been told. “That’s where your roots are.”

Until now,
Nigel Smythe
, Walter’s second son, had never looked especially hard into this part of his life. He understood that his biological father was one of the most famous sports figures in the United States. But he also knew the same man—one adored by millions of people—had made no effort to be a dad. From the day Nigel was born in 1985 until Walter’s death in 1999, the two never lived more than thirty miles apart from one another. Despite that, Walter Payton—the onetime Illinois Fatherhood Initiative Chicago Father of the Year—wanted nothing to do with the boy.

Now, however, his father was nine years deceased, and Nigel sought answers. With his grandmother and girlfriend by his side, he flew to Jackson to meet the family he never knew. He was, as they say down South,
nervous as all heck
.

The trepidation vanished, however, as soon as Nigel touched down in the Magnolia State. Alyne Payton, his long-lost grandmother, squeezed him tight and fed him Southern delicacies. His aunt Pamela told stories about her brother that made Nigel laugh. He looked at pictures and asked questions about a father he both loved and resented. Cousins stopped by—Brandi, Pam’s daughter; Erica, Eddie’s girl. He even met Holmes. “He was a real nice kid, and I think he really appreciated coming to Mississippi and understanding where he comes from,” said Holmes. “He looks a whole lot like Walter. Has that same glow.”

Wary of the attention that could come should people learn of her son’s heritage, Angelina and her husband raised Nigel cautiously. He was homeschooled for much of his youth, then attended a high school for the intellectually gifted. Now twenty-six and living in Illinois, Nigel is completing his college education. He tells precious few people of his lineage and chose not to speak for this book. “He’s an incredible person,” said Angelina. “Despite it all, he’s a man I’m very, very proud of. It wasn’t always easy, but it’s worked out well.”

Though the Mississippi branch of the Payton family has come to embrace Nigel, the same cannot be said for the Illinois faction. Connie has never mentioned his existence in public. When Jarrett and Brittney are asked about their family, they never broach the subject of their half-brother. They know he resides nearby, yet seem to treat him as they would a cardboard cutout—present, but mostly ignored. Perhaps they have good reason; perhaps the embarrassment that would accompany the revelation of a philandering father outweighs the potential positives.

Whatever the case, it is heartbreaking.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I AM WRITING THESE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS FROM THE BOYHOOD BEDROOM OF Elliot Lieberman, my wife’s twenty-eight-year-old cousin and a kid who, judging by the CD rack situated alongside my laptop, once had an inexplicable thing for the pop band B*Witched.

Elliot’s room is an ode to the eternalness of youth. There are Little League trophies and academic plaques, a poster of the 1994–95 Luveabulls, a small wooden bat, baseball cards, a pair of weathered KangaROOS sneakers. Over the course of the past two and a half years, I have spent a great amount of time here. Thanks to Elliot’s wonderful mother, Cathy Lieberman, I come and go as I please, often flying into Chicago on a second’s notice and taking up residence—rent, meals, towels, Internet, Molly the dog, and engrossing conversation included free of charge. As a result, I know the intricacies of this room by heart. The large green pillow at the foot of the bed. The photo montage of various family vacations. The dusty books lining the shelves.

Of the myriad objects, my favorite is a simple one. In the corner of the room, at the base of a hat rack, sits what appears to be a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap. It is red and a bit bulky, and on the back the words CHAMPION COACH MARK are stitched in white capital letters.

Whenever I enter Elliot’s room, I inevitably pick up the hat and smooth over the embroidery with my fingers. I think about Mark raising two wonderful kids, Elliot and his sister, Lisa, and how proud he’d be today had he not passed seven years ago. Mark was a passionate Chicago sports fan, and as I lie in bed at night I often imagine him sitting on the edge of the mattress, asking aloud whether I’ve yet spoken to Mike Ditka; if Jimmy Mac has returned my phone calls; if I’m happy with how things are going thus far.

Like Walter Payton, Mark Lieberman passed from cancer. And while his death was a tragedy the family will never fully recover from, it has allowed me to personalize parental loss; to understand the harrowing void that comes with no longer having a father to turn to. The pain can never be fully healed. The reminders of a lost hero serve to both soothe and bruise the psyche. One wants to move on. One can never fully move on.

I cannot overstate my appreciation and gratitude toward the Lieberman clan. At the start of this project, they were my wife’s family. Now I feel as if they are mine, too. So, to Cathy, Lisa, Aaron, Julia, Elliot, Emily, and Bart—huge thanks. This project does not exist without your assistance and compassion.

Writing a book is a nightmare.

Those exact words appeared seven years ago in the acknowledgments of my first release, and while I try and wear a happy-happy-joy-joy face whenever possible, the sentiment remains undeniably true. I am, on the one hand, blessed to be able to do what I love. Journalism is my passion, and the long-form journalism that is the 180,000-word biography is my überpassion. Yet this sort of endeavor is also the most anomalous of pursuits. As the great Leigh Montville once told me, “It’s an unusual thing. You spend two years in a cave, you pop your head out to see the light for a couple of weeks, then you return to the darkness.”

In other words, I am a caveman. But, luckily, I keep great company.

I am continually blessed to work with the A-Team of literary support groups. Casey Angle, my researcher, is the Hannibal Smith of misplaced statistics, and Michael J. Lewis, Queens College’s finest, reads through material in the same manner with which B. A. Baracus mourns for fools. My spiritual guru/tax attorney, Stanley Herz, knows absolutely nothing about sports, but his keen eye and instinctive sense of timing remain invaluable. I cannot say enough amazing things about Don Pierson, the former Bears beat writer for the
Chicago Tribune
, who took my calls and e-mails without once cursing me out. If I gained nothing else from this book, combing through years of Don’s clips introduced me to one of the true masters of the trade.

David Black, my Brooklyn-based agent, is the king of righteous representation, and David Larabell and Allison Hemphill are dukes of decency. Paul Duer, thirty-feet-from-the-hoop huckster, and Gary Miller of the Raleigh Canine Book Club & Donut Shop, continue to offer sage advice. This was my first book for Gotham, and I’d like to thank the whole crew for a fabulous experience. Patrick Mulligan, the quiet editor who was initially described to me as a “mystery man,” was nothing of the sort. His deft touch will forever be appreciated. Equal gratefulness goes to Travers “I’m the Man!” Johnson and Gary Mailman.

From Columbia to Jackson to Chicago and all points in between, I interviewed 678 people for this book. Some were thrilled to talk. Others,
ahem
, not so much. But I am forever indebted to anyone who helped me complete this journey. Early on I was fortunate to have audiences with Charles Boston, Bud Holmes, and Bob Hill, three quirky/unique/bighearted men who I am better for knowing.

I encountered three cornerstones in Ginny Quirk-Alberts, Kimm Tucker, and Linda Conley—the women who knew and loved Walter most. Ginny and Kimm could, in all seriousness, double as Walter Payton encyclopedias. Linda, meanwhile, is working on her own Sweetness memoir, but was kind enough to step away from her notes and speak freely. I am grateful beyond words to all three.

Forrest Dantin, Walter’s former high school teammate, was a marvelous source, and my belated condolences extend to his family for his passing. Vernon Perry and Robert Brazile surrendered precise details on the Jackson State years, and Jack Pardee, Neill Armstrong, Mike Ditka, Bob Thomas, Bob Avellini, Roland Harper, Johnny Roland, Jay Hilgenberg, Jim Covert, Willie Gault, Thomas Sanders, Calvin Thomas, Steve Fuller, and so many others followed suit when it came to the Bears. Matt Suhey, Walter’s blocking back and, later, the executor of his estate, walked cautiously throughout, but with genuinely righteous intentions. I had the pleasure of lunching with two of Walter’s children, Jarrett and Brittney, as well as with Eddie Payton, his brother. All three should be very proud of the man they represent.

I spent the majority of my time working on
Sweetness
in a cornucopia of Westchester, New York, eateries and coffee shops. The employees became my coworkers, and I theirs. To Cosi’s Anthony Bocchino; Donna Massaro of Mahopac’s amazing Freight House Cafe; Starbucks’ Yvonne Parks, Laurie Belfiore, and Sara La Marca; Panera’s Anthony Gibbs, Cynthia Reeves, and George Kutty; Michelle Thompson of the Mirage Diner (A note to all the drunk Iona students: Tip more than $1. Really.)—huge thanks for the banter and kindness. Oh, and big ups to Mandy, the tattooed, late-night waitress at Howley’s in West Palm Beach. Those twenty-three coffee refills kept me sharp.

As a New Yorker, I grew up with a certain perception of Mississippi—and it was not an especially good one. Researching this book, however, introduced me to a state rich with flavor, passion, and, quite often, overflowing goodness. Richard Howarth of Square Books in Oxford (seriously, America’s best book shop) was invaluable in pointing me in the right direction. Jesse Bass of the University of Southern Mississippi busted his rear combing through the city of Columbia’s vast archives. Laura Love, a senior library assistant at Ole Miss, delivered me from microfilm hell, as did Dorothy Yancy, Lerekka Gorham, and Belva Cauthen at the Eudora Welty Library in Jackson and Kendra Smith at the Columbia-Marion County Public Library. Roy L. Washington and Mildred Matthews were as helpful as could be at the Jackson State University Library. Without Tabatha Allen, Columbia’s upbeat city clerk, I’m lost.

In no particular order, I’d also like to cite the contributions of Meghan Scott, my dazzling Web designer; Jerry B. Jenkins, author of another
Sweetness
; Chuck Hathcock of the
Grenada Star
; Joy Birdsong, Susan Szeliga, and Natasha Simon of the
Sports Illustrated
library; Don Yaeger, author of
Never Die Easy
; Aaron (DJ White Owl) Handelman; Brian Allee Walsh; Craig Harvey of the L.A. County Coroner’s Office; Ciaran Boyle; Jill Cohen, Debra Mayblum, and Diana Waxler, my chief medical consultants; Caroline Goldmacher Kern; David Pearlman; Jessica Guggenheimer; Norma Shapiro; Leah Guggenheimer; Jordan and Isaiah Williams; Richard Guggenheimer; Laura and Rodney Cole; Dr. Jorge Ortiz of the Albert Einstein Medical Center; Saman Salih; Bianca Webster; Frank Zaccheo; Russ Bengtson; Greg Kuppinger; Jill Murray; Joseph (Cat) Kuppinger; L. Jon Wertheim; B. J. Schecter; Bev Oden; Steve Cannella; Ryan Gavin (the pride of Kansas State); Rob Massimi (Mayor of Starbucks); Judy Wertheim (great pad!); Jonathan Eig; Pat Brown of
The Magee Courier
; David Epstein of
Sports Illustrated
;
ESPN
’s Rob Tobias; Bob Doyle; Ann Goldstein; Abe Pearlman; and Mahopac’s own Victoria Rose Omboni—distributor of Quan to the world.

When I was losing my mind one particularly awful night, Peter Richmond, my fellow crazed author, IMed me the following: “Step back. Breathe. Have a glass of wine. Tell yourself that NO ONE could tell this story except you. And, more importantly: that you want to tell this story, even if, at this point, you’d rather not. Just . . . write what you know. You are, at this point, in possession of a PhD in Walter Payton—a degree which no one else possesses. You have surrounded the story. You are the expert. Tell it. Don’t worry about profundity, or brilliance of prose, or all the other trappings of this silly business. Just tell the tale. People will read.”

Man, did I ever need that.

My folks, Joan and Stan Pearlman, have been my biggest supporters ever since I started forcing them to listen as I read my
Chieftain
articles aloud on their bed. Against all logic, they continue to listen to my blatherings.

This is my fifth book, and never have I devoted more time, energy, and anguish to a project. For every minute I spent thinking about Walter Payton, there was a minute I was either emotionally and/or physically absent from my family. I would like to apologize to my beautiful children, Casey Marta and Emmett Leo, for any of the missed moments that we’ll never have back. I love you both more than I’ve loved anything. Even Hall and Oates.

My wife,
Dr.
Catherine Pearlman, is the gem of my life. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be married to someone who utters “Walter Payton” every fourth sentence, but you continue to stroll the sandy beaches of Blanes by my side (
mmm—Shrek pops
). To quote someone named G. Moore: “Other men said they have seen angels. But I have seen thee. And thou art enough.”