Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [103]
Like many athletes at his skill level, Payton’s primary motivator wasn’t anger or love or a fiery speech from a coach. It was the insecurity that often accompanies greatness. Payton didn’t mind missing a game or sitting out a practice. But the moment Pardee suggested someone might do it better, the running back perked up and stood at attention. When Mike Adamle ran through the Pittsburgh defense, Payton fumed. When Musso was named a potential starter, Payton bristled. “There was one game that we were leading big in the fourth quarter, so Walter was on the sideline,” said Avellini, the quarterback. “His backup took off for some forty-yard gain, and everyone was clapping. But Walter was pissed. He turned to me and said, ‘Those are my yards.’ ”
For the second straight year, the Bears entered the regular season hopeful. Avellini was a vast improvement at quarterback over the horrid Bobby Douglass and Gary Huff. The team used its first-round pick on an offensive tackle, all-American Dennis Lick of Wisconsin. Though there were no Dick Butkus types on defense, Wally Chambers was an All-Pro pass rusher, and linebacker Waymond Bryant was a splendid athlete. “We had sound talent,” said Brian Baschnagel, a rookie receiver from Ohio State. “We weren’t going to win the Super Bowl, but we weren’t the worst team in the league, either.
“What it all came down to,” said Baschnagel, “was Walter.”
Conservative in every sense of the word, Pardee was of the mind that defenses won football games and offenses rested the defense. Nearly a decade before he became a proponent of the high-flying run ’n’ shoot passing attack with the Houston Gamblers of the United States Football League, Pardee’s ideal run-throw ratio was roughly 4:1. “The truth is, the running game was all we had,” said Pardee. “If we were going to have any chance to win, it would be by protecting the ball, playing great defense, getting excellent field position, and controlling the clock. My goal as a coach was to find a way to win, and our best chance to win was to run.”
The Bears opened the 1976 season against Detroit at Soldier Field. A year earlier, Payton debuted with one of the great thuds in team history, rushing for zero yards vs. Baltimore. Payton never let go of the humiliation from that afternoon—fans booing, Colt players taunting, coaches looking away in disgust.
Much like the Colts of ’75, Detroit’s roster was a mediocre collection of players coming off of a .500 season. Nevada oddsmakers listed the game as a toss-up, and they were right. The Lions were terrible. The Bears were terrible. The game was terrible. With the 54,125 spectators inside Soldier Field alternating boos with yawns, Chicago won 10–3.
Although Detroit stuffed the line on almost every down, Fred O’Connor, the team’s backfield coach who called plays from the press box, refused to throw. He had Payton run twenty-five times, down after down after down. The scene was redundant: Avellini takes the snap. Avellini turns and hands to Payton. Payton slams into the defensive line after gaining little ground. With the exception of a fifty-eight-yard pass from Avellini to Greg Latta, the offense was a bore. Payton, who gained seventy yards, loved running the football, but he also loved an exciting, diverse, wide-open, play-to-win game plan.
Afterward, the embarrassed running back stormed off without speaking to the media.
He was as frustrated as ever.
Back in the mid-1970s, the NFL was a wasteland of chemical addictions. A large number of players smoked cigarettes and drank to excess. On the Bears, the drugs of choice were marijuana and cocaine.
“There was one offensive player in particular who had a serious coke problem,” said one Bear. “Every night I would stand there and watch him blow his nose,