Sweetness (61 page)

Athletes past their prime often tarnish their image by getting one extra campaign out of a body that should have called it quits earlier.

Willie Mays with the New York Mets, Bob Cousy with the Cincinnati Royals, and Franco Harris with the Seattle Seahawks come to mind as of late.

It’s premature to put Walter Payton in that category—yet. But Payton, in his thirteenth and what he insists is his final NFL season, isn’t going out the way many people would have liked.

The whole year was a disaster. The Bears were scheduled to play at San Francisco on a
Monday Night Football
game on December 14. During practice that Friday, a handful of offensive players decided to exact revenge on Payton for the countless pranks he had pulled. Gentry, in particular, was itching for payback. A couple of years earlier, Payton had called his home on Thanksgiving, his voice disguised as a woman’s. When Gentry’s fiancée, Jaye, answered, Payton explained how his name was Gina, and he needed to speak with Dennis about “our baby.”

“She was fixing dinner, basting the turkey, the stuffing, and the yams,” Gentry said. “When I got home later in the day nothing was cooked. Nothing. I said, ‘What the hell is going on?’ She said, ‘Who is this bitch so-and-so?’ I said, ‘What?’ She said, ‘Some woman called and said you’re invited over to her house.’ I was so furious at Walter. I couldn’t wait to get him.”

Now, with a gaggle of reporters watching, Sanders, Gentry, and a couple of others grabbed Payton from behind, pulled down his pants, and dragged him through the Lake Forest snow. What was supposed to be humorous turned strikingly sad—an aged star helplessly screaming and flailing away, his pants wrapped around his ankles, as onlookers cackled. A humiliated Payton stormed off without speaking. Said Sanders: “Let’s just say it didn’t go over well.”

The ultimate embarrassment came three days later at Candlestick Park. Both teams boasted league-best 10-2 records, and both teams entered the clash talking lots of trash. With Anderson nursing a bruised shoulder, the focus of the offense was once again Payton, who started alongside Suhey, his old chum. Yet much like Muhammad Ali dying his hair and sucking in his gut, then being annihilated by Larry Holmes in 1980, Payton fooled no one. He lost a key fumble, rushed for only eighteen yards, and suffered a concussion after being nailed by defensive lineman Michael Carter. Chicago lost, 41–0.

“Walter took a step back from the other players on the team that year,” said Sanders. “He was dealing with his football mortality, and it troubled him. One day he told me we needed to talk. I said, ‘What is it?’ Walter said, ‘I just need to talk to someone.’ He was struggling with the idea of separating from the game and being without the guys. It had been his life for thirteen years. He was feeling lost.”

Six days after the 49ers contest, the Bears celebrated Walter Payton Day at Soldier Field. The NFL’s all-time leading rusher used the occasion for his finest moment of the season.

Although the Bears would go on to lose to Seattle, 34–21, the fifteen minutes preceding kickoff were devoted to a glowing Payton. Mayor Eugene Sawyer presented him with the Chicago Medal of Merit; Virginia McCaskey, George Halas’ daughter, handed Payton an oil portrait of himself; and McCaskey begrudgingly announced No. 34 would be retired. Throughout the season, various teams had bestowed retirement gifts upon Payton—the Buccaneers gave him a plaque, the Packers a framed commemorative photograph, the Raiders a picture of George Blanda and a stereo. “I don’t think he wanted that attention,” said Bryan Wagner, the team’s punter. “It embarrassed Walter.” This, however, was a moment Payton cherished. “I never thought it would end this way,” Payton told the crowd as he stood before a microphone near midfield, a cold wind appropriately blowing through the stadium. “I did it because it was fun. That’s why I’m playing today. The toughest thing is to say good-bye to the ones you love”—he pointed toward the end zone, where his teammates were standing—“all those guys down there.”

Payton went on to rush for seventy-nine yards. The day was his, and on the west side of Soldier Field two fans held a placard that read: SANTA: PLEASE SEND MORE WALTER PAYTONS. FIRST ONE WAS PERFECT. Afterward, Payton was asked by the
Tribune
’s Bob Verdi why he threw two footballs into the stands.

“That was just my way,” he replied. “My way of saying thanks.”

Wrote Verdi: “No, Walter. Thank you.”

After enduring thirteen long, grueling NFL seasons, Payton deserved to have Hollywood’s best writer come up with a proper ending. He deserved one last taste of glory. He deserved honor and pride. He deserved to run for two hundred yards in Super Bowl XXII, with the night capped by Payton leaping into the end zone for the winning score.

When asked for his ideal exit, Payton actually painted a similar scenario. “Three seconds left,” he said. “We’re on the twenty-yard line. We’re down by a touchdown. I run the ball in for a touchdown. We end up winning the game and when I run into the end zone and throw the ball down, I just fly off.”

If only.

On the morning of the biggest game of his life, Tommy Barnhardt woke up at the Conrad Hilton, took the elevator to the lobby, and joined his teammates for breakfast. In a couple of hours Chicago would host the Washington Redskins in a divisional play-off game at Soldier Field. Barnhardt, a rookie punter from the gumball-sized town of Salisbury, North Carolina, was terrified. “I glanced out the window and it was like thirty-five degrees below zero,” he said. “I’d never punted in cold like that. I didn’t know how.” Brarnhardt loaded his plate with eggs and found a spot at a table occupied by Wagner, who was injured, and Payton. “So I go to get some ketchup, and when I come back to sprinkle salt on my eggs, the top of the salt container falls off and my eggs are covered with salt. I grabbed some pepper, and the same thing happens—pours everywhere. Walter starts cracking up, because he did it. Here’s this huge game, and someone’s fucking with me. I was annoyed, but it was Walter Payton. What could I say?”

Moments later, Payton joined Barnhardt in the elevator. The kid wore his stress like a suntan. “Look,” Payton said, “I know you’re nervous, but it’s just wind. Kick it high and hard, and the wind will take it a mile. We have good enough people here to pick up the slack.”

Barnhardt nodded appreciatively. “Walter really loosened me up,” he said. “He saw how scared I was, and he wanted to help. It was genuinely decent of him.”

Though the Bears had finished 11-4, Washington was the thinking man’s pick to pull off the win. Chicago spent the week leading up to the game practicing on the campus of the University of Notre Dame. It was a huge mistake. In South Bend, Indiana, the bars are plentiful. The beer taps flow like Iguazu Falls. “We were in a college town and we partied hard the entire time,” said Hilgenberg. “By the time Sunday came we were exhausted.”

Though Chicago’s defense ranked fourth overall in the league, it scared no one. “We haven’t played [the 46 Defense] since the second game of the season,” said Marshall, the veteran linebacker. “We have a new coaching staff. The attitude here was, ‘Hey, we can trash that forty-six. We can win without that.’ ” Nobody feared coming to Chicago, or worried about Payton—expected to be the primary ball carrier with Anderson out with a knee injury—slicing up their linebackers. When, on his weekly radio show, Ditka predicted his team would reach the Super Bowl (“I think we’ll win it all,” he said. “Because we expect to win. We don’t expect to lose to anybody.”), the words were met with a collective yawn.

Payton prepared for the game by dodging most interview requests, knowing too well the first question would concern either his career-low 533 rushing yards or his fumble against Washington in the previous year’s play-off loss. When he did talk, it was softly, with a jarring level of defeatism. “Sometimes I feel I’m the problem here,” he said. “A lot of times, I don’t even feel I belong here. These are feelings I never felt before. It’s hard. A lot of times, I feel Matt [Suhey], Thomas [Sanders], and Calvin [Thomas] want to play more, and if I wasn’t here, it seems everybody’s wish would be granted. Sometimes I wish this year would hurry up and end, so these guys would get what they wanted.”

Payton started the game alongside Suhey, with McMahon back at quarterback. All seemed right in the world, especially when Chicago jumped out to a 14–0 lead. Energized by a capacity crowd of 58,153, Payton, age thirty-four, looked like Payton, age twenty-four. He ran for seventy-four first-half yards—fifteen on his first carry, seven on the next play to set up the Bears’ first touchdown. On the second scoring drive, he burst up the middle for fifteen yards on a third-and-ten draw, and gained seven on another draw. There was an inspired vigor to his step. The great Walter Payton had perhaps returned for one last play-off roll.

The Redskins, however, fought back, and held a 21–17 lead late in the fourth quarter. With 1:12 remaining in the game, the Bears received the football on their own thirty-four-yard line. Time was left for one last push. Yet after three plays netted a paltry two yards, Chicago faced a fourth-and-eight at the thirty-six. Forty-one seconds stood on the clock. McMahon dropped back, looked downfield. Willie Gault, the speedy receiver, was blanketed. So was Ron Morris, the rookie flanker from SMU. To his right, McMahon spotted a wide-open Payton. He caught the swing pass, turned up the field, and ran toward the right sideline. He saw the first-down marker, tantalizingly within reach, and aimed for it. As Barry Wilburn, a Redskins safety, approached, Payton reached out his left arm. Undeterred, Wilburn grabbed Payton by the back of his jersey while Brian Davis, a cornerback, closed in. Together, the two Redskins pushed Payton out of bounds . . .

One yard short.

He needed eight yards. He gained seven. The game was, for all intents, over. The two Redskins leapt in the air. Payton, for a moment, sat frozen. On the final play of his career, the running back who always popped up stayed down. The running back who never ran for the sideline found himself by the sideline. The running back who always seemed to gain the extra yard failed to gain the extra yard. It was as cruel a send-off as anyone could remember.

“All my life, I’ve wanted to be on the same field with Walter Payton, the legend,” Davis, a twenty-four-year-old rookie, said afterward. “Just to touch him used to be a dream of mine. But Barry and I had him. I hated for it to end like that for Walter, but I said, ‘We’ve got to go on.’ ”

Payton, who had run for eighty-five yards on eighteen carries, walked from one side of the field to the other, reached the bench, and plopped down. He sat there, motionless, while the Redskins ran out the clock. As players from both teams met for the customary postgame handshakes and hugs, Payton never moved. He remained on the bench, his face buried in his right palm, plumes of warm breath rising, chimneylike, from his face mask. “One more year, Walter!” a fan screamed. “You can do it!” A couple of minutes passed. A couple of more minutes. Factoring in the wind chill, the temperature was negative twenty-three degrees. His teammates were long gone. Payton sat. And sat. And sat. Tears streamed down his cheeks. His eyes were closed tight. “I was just recapping some of the great moments,” Payton said years later. “I didn’t want to rush through it. Because if you stay there long enough these things will be etched in your heart and your soul.” What went through his mind? “Disappointment,” he told ESPN’s Roy Firestone. “Joy. Anxiety. Relief.” The fans began to chant. “Wal-ter! Wal-ter! Wal-ter!” A handful of TV cameramen and newspaper reporters surrounded him, sapping the moment of its isolated beauty.

By the time Payton rose, nearly ten minutes had passed. He took a deep breath, gazed longingly into the stands, and walked off the field. Upon entering the locker room, Payton was met by stares and silence. A pack of reporters waited for Payton at his locker and Gary Haeger, the young equipment manager, parted them with his extended arms, clearing a path. Payton sat down, placed his right leg on an adjacent bench, and closed his eyes. He had yet to remove his helmet or the thermal gray gloves that covered his hands. Nary a question was asked.

Calvin Thomas, the reserve fullback, leaned in. “You all right?” he said.

“Just taking my time, taking it all off,” Payton replied. “Just enjoying it, I guess.”

“Hey Walter!” a photographer hollered.

“Thirteen years,” Payton said with a whisper. “Thirteen damn years here and I’m still Walter, not Mr. Payton.” He wore a blank expression. Was Payton kidding? Was he serious? Nobody seemed to know.

Dave Anderson, a
New York Times
columnist, described the scene that unfolded:

One by one, he tugged at the fingers of the gray thermal gloves and tossed them to [Haeger]. He lifted off his turf-scraped helmet, but left on a navy blue wool hood. He unbuckled his shoulder pads and pulled them over his black, curly hair. He sat down and tore the white tape off his shoes. He took off his knee pads and his striped uniform stockings, then he cut the tape off his right ankle and his left ankle. Now he reached inside his white uniform pants, yanked the thigh pads out and handed them to the equipment manager.