Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [114]
Seven days later, the Bears were scheduled to host the Minnesota Vikings at Soldier Field. Throughout the 1970s, the Vikings had dominated Chicago, beating them eight out of their last nine meetings while owning the rugged NFC Central. They were everything the Bears were not: balanced, well coached, disciplined, talented. Even without the services of Fran Tarkenton, their injured quarterback, the Minnesota offense was explosive, with the punishing running of halfback Chuck Foreman and a pair of dangerous receivers, Ahmad Rashad and Sammy White. Their defense, the famed Purple People Eaters, was stacked. “We weren’t in Minnesota’s class,” said receiver Brian Baschnagel. “But we wanted to be.”
The days following the Kansas City game had been rough on Payton. Still learning how to handle Chicago’s bitter winters, he came down with the flu, and was stuck in bed with a 104-degree temperature. Fed a steady diet of soup and tea by Connie, Walter made every effort to recover quickly. He tried practicing, but was largely useless. He tried attending practice as a spectator, but was even more useless. “We sent Walter home,” Pardee said on Thursday. “I still hope he’ll be ready to play on Sunday.”
In normal circumstances, the Bears might have deactivated Payton. They were 4-5 and, despite the thrilling victory over the Chiefs, apparently going nowhere fast once again. Yet Vikings-Bears was more than a game. Finks, the Bears GM, had held the same position for ten years in Minnesota, and if there were one matchup that mattered to him, this was it. Finks wanted to show that his success with the Vikings was no fluke. Do something once, you might have gotten lucky. Do something twice, you’re a proven commodity.
With a 6-3 record, the Vikings once again led the division. They were coached by Bud Grant, the icy legend Finks had hired in 1966. Five weeks earlier, the Vikings downed the Bears at home, 22–16. The game had gone into overtime, but that was considered to be a fluke. Asked now to assess the Bears, Grant had little positive to contribute publicly. “One more loss,” he said coldly, “and they’re out of the play-offs.”
A couple of days before the game, Bob Holloway, the Minnesota defensive coordinator, told Bobby Bryant, a starting cornerback who specialized in pass coverage, that most of the playing time would go to the younger, stronger Nate Allen. “They wanted the focus to be on bringing down Walter,” said Bryant. “We knew he was all they had.” Moments before his club took the field, Grant warned of an imminent tornado. Dressed in their road whites with purple trim, the players quietly sat at their stalls. “The Bears as a team are not very good,” he said. “You’re better. But I hope you guys are prepared for this, because you’re about to face one of the best football players I’ve ever seen play the game. He has raised the level and standard of play. And if you don’t come up and meet him at that level, he will destroy you.”
Even in the seconds leading up to his first carry, Payton felt queasy. He had prayed throughout the week for health, asking God and Jesus and anyone listening to bring power to his legs and speed to his feet. Instead, as he prepared for the noon kickoff, his body was besieged by hot and cold flashes. “When I left the dressing room,” he later said, “I didn’t think I could put on a Walter Payton performance.”
It was a typical November day in Chicago—cold, brisk, unpleasant. Save for his ubiquitous white elbow pads, Payton wore nothing but a jersey to protect his upper body from the elements. Having blocked out Gillman and his pass-pass-pass game plans, Pardee’s offensive strategy was simple: Payton.