Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [126]
As far as agents go, few were better than Holmes. He was loyal, available, attentive, demanding. This time, however, he went too far. Holmes assumed Chicago’s fans would side with Payton, but at a time when America’s economy was sagging and the national unemployment rate hovered at 7 percent, even the running back’s greatest admirers cringed as the agent uttered nonsense like, “Walter’s fans keep comparing him to O. J. They say, ‘You’re better than O. J. You broke O. J.’s record. Don’t accept less than O. J. makes.’ ”
On July 19, Finks offered Payton a three-year contract paying $375,000 annually. The deal would make him football’s second highest-paid player, far behind Simpson but ahead of such luminaries as quarterback Fran Tarkenton and running backs Riggins and Chuck Foreman.
Holmes said no.
Payton reported to Lake Forest for training camp, and while Armstrong was impressed with his work ethic, Payton’s mind wasn’t 100 percent on the game. On August 8 he told the assembled media that while he was no longer requesting Simpson money, he would play for no less than $513,000—70 percent of O. J.’s deal. He referred to Finks as a dictator, and questioned the team’s commitment. For Chicago’s largely blue-collar fan base, this sort of bluster was hard to take.
In the case of one legendary Bear, the words served as a final straw. While making an appearance at the Illinois State Fair, Gale Sayers, the Hall of Fame Bears running back who retired because of injury in 1971, was asked about the contract dispute. “There’s a lot of things involved in contract negotiations, but I really feel Walter is making a mistake because it can happen anytime—a knee can go, he might have a bad year,” Sayers said. “Anytime someone will give you $375,000 or $400,000 for being in the league three years, I think he’s very foolish for not taking it.”
In the way a young Mickey Mantle had once been shunned by a retired Joe DiMaggio, Sayers rarely had time—or kind words—for his heir apparent. “Walter and Gale had nothing in common,” said Fred Caito, the team’s trainer from 1972 to 1997. “They were opposite people and opposite running backs. I always said Gale Sayers could have played in a tuxedo, he was so smooth. Walter would have the tuxedo ripped and bloodied in two minutes.” When he first arrived in Chicago, Payton craved Sayers’ approval and guidance. Just as a groom longs for the blessing of his soon-to-be father-in-law, Payton wanted Sayers’ nod. Instead, he received brief greetings and awkward silences; sly jabs and off-the-record criticisms. (In 1997, years after both men had retired, Sayers went out of his way to call Eric Dickerson the best running back of all time—even though Payton held nearly every important record.) To say the slights irked Payton is to delve into great understatement. They stung.
“Gale was jealous, and he never gave Walter credit,” said Mike North, a longtime Chicago media personality who worked with both men. “It was a problem. As soon as Walter hit the scene, Gale became an afterthought. But if you ask Gale Sayers who was the greatest Bears running back of all time, alone, he’ll tell you, ‘Gale Sayers.’ He was jealous of Walter. And Walter would say, ‘I tried to befriend the guy. I don’t know if he’s bitter or what, but he had no interest in me.’ ”
Burdened by Sayers’ criticism, as well as that of offensive guard Noah Jackson (“Walter’s not running as well as he had,” he said during training camp. “I know how Walter Payton can run. It’s in his own mind.”), Payton was residing in a hell of his own making. A part of him wished he had accepted the initial offer—just grabbed the loot and moved on with life. Now, however, it was too late, and the negative reviews were pouring in. “Somewhere along the way he became convinced that he should be the