Sweetness (55 page)

Furthermore, Gault always seemed to be bragging. He dropped names incessantly (his friendship with Louis Farrakhan, the controversial Nation of Islam leader, won him little favor with white teammates), craved to be seen at the hottest clubs and biggest openings; wanted to be a celebrity first, a football player second. Teammates nicknamed him “Hollywood Gault,” a sobriquet that was far from a compliment. When, three years later, he was dealt to the Raiders, teammates celebrated. “Willie Gault? When he was traded I knew we’d be a better team,” McMahon said. “He always wanted to go out to the West Coast and be an actor. Well, for five years he was an actor playing a football player.”

Payton tolerated Gault in the way one tolerates the annoying little brother who can’t help himself. But when the receiver checked to make sure Payton would still be partaking in the video shoot, he received a stern look and a sterner lecture. “Are you kidding me?” Payton said. “After we just got our asses kicked like that? No way.” McMahon also refused to attend, leaving a dumbfounded Meyer with two gaping holes. “We told them we weren’t coming,” McMahon said. “I guess they didn’t believe us until we didn’t show.”

The airplane landed in Chicago at three thirty A.M. Less than five hours later twenty-two Bears showed up for the taping. Grumpiness morphed into embarrassment when they were informed of Payton’s decision not to partake. If the greatest Bear thought it wrongheaded, what justification did the others have? “He was the guy we all looked up to,” said Gayle. “We respected his judgment more than our own.”

A couple of days later, when the sting of the Miami setback had lessened, Payton and McMahon filmed their scenes against a blue screen inside the racquetball court at Halas Hall and were spliced into the video. “It’s a terrible piece of work,” said Barbara Supeter, one of the video’s executive producers. “We finished editing and filming on December 18, and on December 22 it was in stores. We didn’t have any writers or choreographers to speak of. And yet, it became this phenomenon.”

On the day before its release, Greg Gershuny, the Bears’ director of information services, was sitting in his office when a member of the public relations staff came in with a tape of the “Shuffle.” The two men listened, and when the song ended they sat in stunned silence. “We weren’t sure whether to hide it or get it on the radio as soon as possible,” said Gershuny. “It was confusing.”

The “Shuffle” went on to become a smash hit—the single sold more than five hundred thousand copies, reached number forty-one on the Billboard charts and, against all logic, was nominated for a Grammy for best rhythmand-blues performance by a group. Years later, Bears players have mixed feelings about the song. Thomas Sanders, the young running back, said some of the participants were promised large payments, then moaned as they were handed checks for six thousand dollars. “We got a whole lot less than we were told,” he said. Many agreed to partake solely because of Gault’s assurances that the proceeds would go to charity, yet only 50 percent wound up being donated to the Chicago Community Trust. “Willie said it’d be just like ‘We Are the World,’ ” said Ted Plumb, Chicago’s receivers coach. “His line was, ‘If we’re gonna feed the world, why not start with Chicago?’ ” Much of the rest of the money went into the pocket of Meyer, whose company, Red Label Records, was on life support. “I don’t know what Dick promised anyone,” said Supeter, “but I know people were pretty angry afterward.”

When they learned that the charity was barely a charity, Chicago’s players banned Meyer from their locker room and, for the most part, their lives. “The guy had the balls to come back and ask us to do ‘The Super Bowl Shuffle II,’ ” said Gary Fencik, the veteran safety. “Singletary threw his gold record in the trash can. He threw it away and walked out.”

The loss to the Dolphins proved to be an aberration, and Chicago wrapped up a marvelous regular season by winning its final three games against the Colts, Jets, and Lions. With a 15-1 record, the Bears were the NFC’s topseeded team. That earned them a week off, followed by a meeting with the NFC East champion New York Giants at Soldier Field.

Eight years earlier, when Payton prepared for his play-off debut against the Dallas Cowboys, Chicago’s players were befuddled by their notoriously cheap organization’s refusal to transport the team to a warm climate to practice. The Bears spent most of the ensuing week standing around in the sleet and snow, then traveled to Texas for a 37–7 decimation at the hands of America’s Team.

Now, armed with genuine Super Bowl aspirations, on December 30, 1985, Chicago’s front office sent its coaches and players to Suwanee, Georgia, to hold practices at the Atlanta Falcons’ training complex. Along with moderate temperatures and agreeable conditions, Ditka liked the idea of keeping his team out of the spotlight. The music videos and magazine covers and endorsement deals were nice and dandy and swell, but the coach worried about his players losing their edge. In Chicago, no Bear—ranging from a superstar like Payton to a relative nobody like punter Maury Buford—could step from his house without being besieged. Women were everywhere. Meals were free. Drinks were plentiful. In Suwanee, home of the annual Old Town Holiday Festival and Caboose Lighting, the Bears were simply oversized goliaths preparing for a big game.

Though generally agreeable to allowing his men to be men (so to speak), Ditka preferred the players use the time in Suwanee to lay low and say little. On the day after his team’s arrival into town, however, Payton sat down with a large handful of reporters and held a miniature State of Walter press conference. The topic was supposed to be the Giants. It wasn’t.

“Dealing with the media has been a challenge for me,” he said, spurred on by nothing in particular. “At times, I haven’t been the best of people. I haven’t been in the best of moods. I want to thank you people for putting up with me.”

For a moment, a stunned silence overtook the setting. Through the eyes of Chicago’s press corps, Payton had been a dizzying riddle to cover. He came. He went. He talked. He didn’t talk. He made sense. He made no sense.

Payton wasn’t quite done.

“I still feel I’m overlooked,” Payton said. “Why? That’s the sixty-fourmillion-dollar question.”

With that, Payton rose and left, as the pack of journalists scratched their heads and wondered what had just happened. For Chicago newspaper veterans like the
Tribune
’s Don Pierson and Kevin Lamb of the
Sun-Times
, Payton’s rare dose of honesty was refreshing. Yes, he was insecure. Yes, he wanted big numbers. Yes, he pouted if he didn’t get enough carries. Yes, he resented the attention afforded others. Though Payton had rarely gone public with his feelings, none of this was a secret within the locker room. For the majority of Chicago’s players, 1985 had been the culmination of a lifetime of hard work and dreams. For Payton, it was a mixed bag—the splendor of on-field success and a galvanized city; the disappointment of becoming (in his opinion) invisible.

To those not in the know, the words made no sense. Payton was supposed to be the ultimate team player, one who went his entire career without a single ill feeling or gripe. He stood as the NFL’s Moses—a holy figure with nary a scar or wart. “Walter had a reputation,” said Lamb, “that didn’t quite meet the reality.”

Three days later, in another group interview, Payton looked out at an even larger number of scribes and—to the organization’s dismay—continued to plead his case. Payton desired more acclaim, “because inside this body beats a heart, and a brain functions. There are things that regardless of how strong or durable you are, you have to see or feel. Otherwise what you’re doing has no value.

“You feel self-esteem, but if the people outside don’t see it or don’t appreciate it, next time . . . you’re not going to be as motivated. It’s like getting a banana split and you don’t get the hot fudge sauce. There’s something missing. [If you keep getting it that way] pretty soon you go up and just ask for ice cream and a banana.”

Because Payton was a legend with an unblemished image, teammates always praised him to the press.
Walter is such a prankster. Walter is the leader. Walter is the pulse of our team.
In reality, most didn’t know or understand him. Even the running back’s closest confidants on the Bears—Suhey, Singletary, Gentry, and running backs Thomas Sanders and Calvin Thomas—could hardly be classified as extraordinarily close friends. They were comrades in battle; recipients of Payton’s kind words and funny barbs; occasional dinner companions. But friends have some understanding of what the other person is feeling and thinking. No one genuinely grasped Payton. Especially the depths of his angst.

“At his core, Walter was incredibly insecure,” said Holmes. “He would do things to draw attention, but only if it looked like he wasn’t trying to draw attention. He might go to a banquet and if they were bringing out steak he’d say, ‘I don’t eat red meat.’ And they’d ask what they could bring him and he’d ask for fish—then complain it wasn’t cooked right. An hour later, he’d be sneaking to McDonald’s for a Big Mac, begging me, ‘Don’t tell anybody! Don’t tell!’

“We would go to Chicago Bulls games and he’d know exactly where the cameras were. You’d see him go up to the kids in the wheelchairs, and he’d go up, shake their hands, knowing the camera was on. Does that mean he didn’t care? No. But he was aware of how it would be perceived, and that mattered immensely to him. On more than one occasion, Walter went to the airport without a ticket or reservation or nothing. He’d walk up to the American Airlines counter and say, ‘I need a ticket to Las Vegas.’ They’d be oversold, but they’d kick people off the plane and place him in first class. Walter loved that, even as he played humble.”

Hence, while Payton’s pouting about a lack of recognition puzzled teammates, it failed to entirely shock them. “Walter was Walter,” said Sanders. “He answered to no man.”

Heavily favored, the Bears dominated the Giants, 21–0, then prepared for a matchup with the Los Angeles Rams in the NFC Championship game. The team returned to Suwanee, and Payton again held court in front of the press. As opposed to the previous week, the running back found himself in a state of prolonged giddiness. He talked at length about the journey from Jackson State to the brink of a Super Bowl, and how the ritual beatings of years past brought immense appreciation. “For me, the Super Bowl would be the ultimate,” he said. “It’s all the work and effort and sacrifice to reach that plateau. It comes down to the desire to win the Super Bowl. It’s like a writer who wants to win the Pulitzer Prize. He wants to be the best. The Super Bowl is it for us.”

Now, at last, Payton was the story. If the Rams had any chance at winning (and, really, they didn’t), it came in the form of Eric Dickerson, their splendid third-year halfback out of Southern Methodist. As a result, the media predictably pushed the Dickerson vs. Payton narrative. One was the young upstart trying to break through. The other was the grizzled veteran desperate to reach the biggest stage. One, Dickerson, ran upright, with blistering speed. The other, Payton, looked for holes and relied on strength and savvy. One, Dickerson, was known for petulance and lengthy contract holdouts. The other, Payton, was God’s gift to football. Dave Anderson of
The New York Times
called the matchup a “throwback to the National Football League’s primeval era when championships depended on such dinosaurs as Jim Thorpe and Red Grange, Ernie Nevers and Bronko Nagurski.”

Just as Payton had once come along and supplanted O. J. Simpson as the league’s best back, Dickerson was now trying to do the same to Payton. One season earlier, as the Bears flew to Los Angeles to play the Rams, Payton slid into the seat next to Leslie Frazier, a defensive back. “Do you think Dickerson is better than I am?” he asked.

“I was thinking to myself, ‘Here’s Walter, the greatest running back of all time, asking me whether someone was better than him,’ ” said Frazier. “What more do you need to understand about his pride?”

Payton had gotten to know Dickerson at the 1983 Pro Bowl, and he genuinely liked the kid. Dickerson was deferential and respectful, and credited Payton as an influence. That said, he also knew Dickerson, owner of 1,234 rushing yards during the regular season, was dead meat. Chicago’s terrifying defense had spent the week thinking about bloodying the goggled running back—a California pretty boy if they’d ever seen one. They didn’t care about Dieter Brock, the subpar quarterback, or his fleet of subpar receivers. Ryan told his minions the running back would fumble three times—“more if you hit him enough.”

“Our entire goal was to shut Eric down,” said Cliff Thrift, a Bears linebacker. “Our defense didn’t just strive to control a player like Eric. We wanted to dominate him.”

As was tradition, the Bears spent the night before the game at the McCormick Inn, a hotel in downtown Chicago. At six thirty A.M., Suhey heard a loud banging on his door. It was Payton. “He burst into the room and started jumping on the bed, biting me,” Suhey said. “He was so hyper . . . he was even talking about going to the boat show. He was really wired. He was really anxious for this day to come.”