Sweetness (76 page)

Translation: You’re not invited.

The funeral began at ten A.M., and had Walter Payton been alive he surely would have cringed. The presiding clergyman was Gregory Dickow, the church’s thirty-five-year-old founder. Decked out in a snazzy black suit, his dark hair slicked back like a used-car salesman, Dickow paced back and forth, Bible in hand, and spoke loudly and knowingly of a man he hardly knew. “Five years after retiring from the NFL, Walter Payton was voted unanimously into the Hall of
Fame
,” Dickow said, placing emphasis on end of his words. “Six years after that Walter Payton was voted unanimously into the hall of
faith
. But the hall of faith he was voted into was not based on your vote, not based on my vote, not based on anybody’s vote except three people—the father, the son, and the holy spirit. They voted him in because he had accepted Jesus Christ into his life as his lord and savior.”

“It was embarrassing,” said Quirk. “Just embarrassing.”

The service picked up when Dickow sat down. Quirk had asked Jarrett Payton, Eddie Payton, John Madden, Mike Singletary, and Mike Ditka—men who actually knew and cherished Walter—to speak on his behalf, and they were all spectacular. Jarrett recalled a loving father. Madden and Ditka recalled a warrior-like football player. Singletary recalled a gentle man with a golden heart.

The most memorable words were uttered by Eddie, Walter’s older brother, occasional hunting partner, and lifelong rival. Depending on the source, Walter and Eddie were either somewhat close or not close at all. They were, however, brothers who grew up sharing a bedroom; who both knew what it was to be young and black in Columbia, Mississippi, in the 1960s; who both excelled in football at Jackson State and in the NFL. A love existed, and Eddie, now the golf coach at Jackson State, was filled with despair as he stepped to the podium. “A great man once said it’s not a celebration unless you have a group of friends,” he said. “This truly is a celebration because all of Walter’s friends are here. As late as last night I wondered, one, if I’d be able to do this, and two, how long I’d be able to do it before breaking up. I asked Connie, ‘What do you think Walter would want me to say?’ She said, ‘Just wing it.’ And five minutes later she came back and said, ‘Look, let me explain what ‘Just wing it’ means. Keep it clean and keep it short.’ So I’ll try that.”

Eddie thanked Walter’s family members and friends, spoke passionately about how much Chicago meant to his brother, then offered up a story that, years later, the day’s attendees still retell:

[Walter would] probably look at me and say, “Slick, tell me one to make me feel good.” And I am probably a jokester, not a prankster. So the one I like best, and I didn’t know which it would be until everybody that passed by [today] kept saying, “Man, I looked at you and you looked just like Walter.” Or said, “Man, I thought you were Walter. Y’all are the spitting image.” Obviously those are people who couldn’t tell true beauty when they were looking at it. But that’s always had its advantages and disadvantages.

I was driving to south Mississippi, to the rural community to speak at an athletic banquet, and I stopped to get some gas in my car and the attendant came out. As he was pumping gas he was kind of staring at me. I kind of looked at him and smiled. He says, “You’re that Payton boy, ain’t you?” I said, “Yes, sir, I am.” He said—rural Mississippi, now . . . “I followed your career for a long time. I watched you when you ran up and down the field at Columbia, Mississippi, and I was a big fan.” I said, “I appreciate that.” He said, “You don’t understand.” He says, “I watched you at Jackson State College and I thought you were the best.” I said, “I appreciate it.”

And he was about to finish and fill up, and I started walking to him. He said, “You don’t understand. I watched you play in that professional league and you was about the best I’ve ever seen.” I said, “Thank you, I appreciate it.” He says, “No, you really don’t understand, I am your biggest fan.” He says, “To show you what a big fan of yours I am, Walter, I’m gonna give you this tank of gas for free.” So I did the only thing I could do. As I got in my car, I looked him straight in the eye, and I thanked him, and I told him if he was ever in Chicago, look me up and I’ll get him two tickets.

One day after the funeral, the Chicago Bears hosted a public memorial service at Soldier Field. Between fifteen thousand and twenty thousand spectators showed up, many with signs offering sentiments like THANKS, PAYTON, FOR THE SWEET MEMORIES and YOU’VE TOUCHED SO MANY. The Sweet Holy Spirit Choir sang joyfully, and the thirty-yard line on each side of the stadium was repainted into a 34 in the team colors of orange, blue, and white. The play clock was frozen at Payton’s number. “In some respects,” wrote J. A. Adande of the
Los Angeles Times
, “this was just like so many other days, when the only reason to go to Soldier Field was Walter Payton.”

Family members, former teammates, and the entire 1999 Bears roster entered Soldier Field with roses in hand. “In this stadium where he glowed, we wanted an encore,” said Jesse Jackson, who maintained a friendship with Payton. “Walter flew like an eagle, he flew high. We have lost Sweetness, but there is a lot of ‘Sweetness’ left. The light did not go out. This light called ‘Sweetness’ belongs to the heavens, belongs to the ages.”

“I remember this guy playing on this field and leaving it on this field time after time,” added Dan Hampton, the legendary defensive lineman whose voice quivered as he spoke. “I have a little girl (who’s) four years old. Ten years from now, when she asks me about the Chicago Bears, I’ll tell her about a championship and I’ll tell her about great teams, great teammates, and great coaches, and how great it was to be a part of it.

“But the first thing I’ll tell her about is Walter Payton.”

For Jarrett and Brittney, the event proved much more difficult—and, in the long run, enriching—than the funeral. Emotionally drained from the previous few weeks, Walter’s children stepped onto the field, saw the hundreds upon hundreds of No. 34 jerseys, heard the unyielding cheers—and felt whole. The funeral had been more of a show. This was gritty and heartfelt and real. “I just cried and cried,” said Brittney. “I couldn’t stop crying.”

Here, at Soldier Field, Walter Payton had been his absolute happiest. In his uniform, on the green turf, there were no business transactions or marital difficulties or out-of-wedlock children. Here, Peter Payton didn’t die in jail and Alyne Payton didn’t work three jobs. Here, Walter wasn’t ignored by colleges because of the blackness of his skin. There was no racism; no liver disease or bile duct cancer. He didn’t have to try and come off as someone he wasn’t. He could be himself. He could run free.

Ever since Payton’s death, people had been trying their best to define him in
their
terms. The religious leaders who had only recently met him. The wife who didn’t live with him. The reporters who were usually kept at bay. Within the confines of a crumbling stadium, however, the real Walter Payton could still be found. Even in his death, it took only a closed pair of eyes and the texture of a brisk Lake Michigan wind to visualize Sweetness rolling around tackle, spinning past the outside linebacker, and slamming his elbow into a defensive back’s chin.

The fans are standing, cheering, chanting “Walter! Walter! Walter!” He pops up off the ground and jogs back toward the huddle, a blinding smile peeking out from beneath his face mask.

Walter Payton is home.

CHAPTER 28

AFTERWORD

THROUGHOUT THE WORLD OF PROFESSIONAL SPORTS, LEGACY IS A TRICKY thing.

For most of the athletes who wear a uniform of some sort, legacy simply does not exist. You’re a rookie. Then you’re a veteran. Then you retire. Then you vanish.
Poof!
Gone, as if your career never really existed to begin with.

Of the hundreds upon hundreds of players Walter Payton called teammates over his thirteen NFL seasons, how many do we remember? How many would we recognize strolling through an airport or sitting at a table inside Burger King? Truth be told, how many would we recognize if they walked up to our front doors, knocked, and said, “Hello, I’m [FILL IN THE NAME]?”

Walter Payton was different.

Is
different.

Twenty-four years after his final game and twelve years following his death at age forty-six, Payton has attained an iconic spot atop the sports pantheon. Whose image can be seen in the background whenever one tunes into the NFL Network’s studio show? Whose name is attached to the award for the NFL’s Man of the Year, as well as the most outstanding offensive player in the Division I Football Championship Subdivision? Who is the namesake behind one of Chicago’s top college preparatory high schools? Whose foundation continues to raise funds for abused, neglected, and underprivileged children in the state of Illinois? Whose nickname—
Sweetness
—is, within the context of sports, as identifiable as Toyota or IBM or KFC?

Walter Payton.

Truth be told, Payton probably isn’t the greatest pure running back in NFL history. Jim Brown was more skilled. Emmitt Smith gained more yards (he broke Payton’s record in 2002). Earl Campbell was stronger, Gale Sayers was faster, Barry Sanders was more elusive. Throughout his career, Payton was routinely overshadowed by his peers in the same position. He never matched the splendor of O.J. Simpson or the grace of Eric Dickerson. Marcus Allen boasted a regalness Payton lacked. Billy Sims entered the league with greater hype.

Payton, however, touched people. They identified with him, related to him, understood him. Coming out of tiny Jackson State, Payton was far from the collegiate golden child, running before seventy thousand fans and national television audiences. Playing for the oft-miserable Bears, he took brutal shots, but refused to stay down for long. He was a workman, lacking only a hard hat and lunch pail. He was never overwhelmingly fast or especially big, but he fought for everything he gained. He was a trooper. A survivor. A dogged workhorse. You loved Walter Payton because you appreciated Walter Payton. Unlike Dickerson, he rarely whined. Unlike Simpson, he never preened. “Do you think they still wear Jim Brown jerseys in Cleveland?” said Mike Ditka. “No. Do they still wear Paul Hornung jerseys in Green Bay? No. Johnny Unitas jerseys in Baltimore? No. You know why, at Bears games, you’ll see hundreds of Walter Payton jerseys? Because people know what he was all about. They know that when Walter put on his uniform and the game started, he was going to give everything he had, no matter what. That’s awfully powerful.”

In the modern history of sports, Payton’s smile is rivaled only by the one flashed by Magic Johnson. It seemed to emit its own energy, and the radiance only intensified as children approached for an autograph or a high-five.

Was Walter Payton perfect? Far from it. He was flawed, as all of us are. He was prone to terrible lapses in judgment and often treated women as objects, not people. He ignored his out-of-wedlock son, blew much of his money, struggled with a form of depression that led to suicidal thoughts and threats. The confident swagger with which he walked often served as a front for deep-seated insecurities and a man crying out for help.

In other words, he was human.

As I wrap up work on this book, that’s what I love most about Payton. Yes, he was a superstar. And yes, his death—as was the case with celebrities ranging from James Dean and Marilyn Monroe to Jimi Hendricks and Shannon Hoon—served to freeze him in time, forever a Chicago Bear, forever young and strong and vibrant.

What makes a person truly unique, however, is his shortcomings, and how he chooses to deal with them. Through all his highs and all his lows, Walter Payton continued to possess a rare sense of humanity. Having now covered sports for sixteen years, I’ve seen an endless stream of athletes treat their fans as eczema-like irritations. They walk through the world as if encased in a Plexiglas bubble, immune to the fact that a minute’s worth of attention will often never be forgotten.

Until the day he died, Payton refused to lose sight of this.

Had I so desired, I could have written a seven-hundred-page book consisting solely of
You’re-not-gonna-believe-this
stories of Payton’s goodness. The time he met a University of Central Florida defensive back named Todd Burks on an airplane and hooked him up with a tryout with the Bears. The time he pulled aside a Jackson State running back named William Arnold and offered the pep talk of a lifetime. The times he gave away autographed helmets, autographed footballs, autographed pictures to one charity or another.

Here at the end, however, I want to conclude with my personal favorite.

In 1984, Brandon Peacy was a twelve-year-old student at Jack Benny Middle School in Waukegan, Illinois. One day his father, Bill, surprised him by saying, “Grab some football cards, we’re going on a trip.” Forty-five minutes later Brandon found himself at the Chicago Bears’ training facility in Lake Forest. “My dad knew someone who worked for the Bears,” Peacy said. “We were given a tour of the facility—the locker room, the weight room. I was blown away.”