Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [134]
When Mickey Malham, a seventeenth-round draft choice out of Arkansas State, broke his arm during the 1977 preseason, Payton was the one who regularly bent down to tie his shoelaces. After Tommy Reamon, a former star halfback in the World Football League, was cut by the Bears, Payton promised to speak at the Tommy Reamon Football Camp in Christchurch, Virginia. (Reamon: “He came that summer and gave the kids a magical memory.”) In 1982 Jim Schletzer was a free-agent punter out of Lee-McRae Junior College. This was his fifth training camp in five years, and he had never taken the field for live action. “I’m on the roster for a preseason Monday Night Football game against the Chargers at Jack Murphy Stadium in San Diego,” Schletzer said. “They brought along four other punters, and we were all supposed to rotate. Well, everyone else got in, and they passed over me. I’m standing on the sideline and Walter walks over and says, ‘Why are they skipping you?’ I shrugged—I didn’t know. From that point on, Walter was bugging the coaches to give me a shot, telling them I deserved a chance to be out there.
“Well, in the fourth quarter—thanks entirely to Walter—they put me in. I got in the huddle, walked back a few yards, stood to punt—and just before the snap Mike Ditka called a time-out. I never punted. But how can I ever forget Water’s level of compassion?”
Fans gravitated toward Payton, and he soaked in the affection. On road trips he would always find state police officers and trade Chicago Bears gear for one of their hats. Just for fun, he approached random people on the street, extended his hand and said, “Hi! I’m Walter—Walter Payton.” During training camps he handed out large quantities of wristbands and gloves. He rarely (if ever) turned down autograph requests, even when fans interrupted a meal or private conversation. “He understood his celebrity,” said Ron Atlas, his friend. “He got the responsibility that came along with it.”
Beginning in 1977, at the conclusion of every season Payton appeared on behalf of Buick at the Chicago Auto Show. Standing on a platform alongside a Regal or LeSabre, he would sign one autograph after another until his hand cramped. The payoff was excellent—Payton earned a couple of hundred dollars for four or five hours of work, plus the new Buick of his choice. But his attendance genuinely was not about the money. Here, greeting his fans in his adopted city, Payton was in his element. Besides a signature and a quick word, nobody wanted anything of him. There was no pressure. No expectations. No hangers-on. As myriad C-list celebrities robotically went through the motions—sign, next, sign, next—Payton charmed away. He kissed grandmothers on the cheeks and wrapped Bear diehards in massive hugs. He looked people in the eye and gave each question serious consideration. When he signed a photograph, his name was usually accompanied by a Bible verse.
Yet, as Holmes notes, “there was a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde to Walter.” Just in case flashy new automobiles weren’t enough of a draw, all of the participating car companies hired a bevy of attractive young models to stand alongside the product. With rare exceptions, the women fit a familiar mold—early twenties in age, white skin, blond hair, large busts, blinding smiles.
Like Payton, they worked for hours, waving, grinning, pointing toward a motor or steering wheel.
At age twenty-five at the beginning of 1979, Payton remained awkward and goofy around members of the opposite sex. Even with Connie, now his wife of three years, conversation was generally stilted, and only went so far. Throughout his boyhood Walter’s mother was responsible for cooking and cleaning and keeping things in order, and he expected Connie to fulfill