Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [140]
Payton’s 1,460 yards led the NFC.
Although 1980 had been a dispiriting year for Payton, it ended well. On December 26, Connie gave birth to the couple’s first child, a boy named Jarrett Walter (he was named after a character from the television program, The Big Valley). “My son brought me tremendous joy and inspiration,” Payton said. “I looked at him like he was going to be my hero someday.”
When it came to nurturing and coddling a baby, Walter—like most male professional athletes of the era—knew little. Diaper changing was something a wife or nanny did. So was feeding. And pushing the stroller. And waking up in the middle of the night for a soothing moment in the rocking chair. Payton was elated to have a son, and when asked, he offered up all the right quotes. (“I want to give my child all the love I can.”) But he wasn’t a hands-on, heavily involved dad in the beginning.
One thing Payton felt compelled to do, though, was make certain Jarrett had a proper baptism. Which meant he first had to have a proper godfather.
Shortly after Jarrett’s birth, Payton called Ron Atlas, his friend who owned the swimming pool store, and told him he was coming over for a visit. “Ron,” Payton said, “I want you to be Jarrett’s godfather. Are you up for that?”
“I’m honored,” Atlas replied. “But you know I’m Jewish, right?”
“I don’t care,” Payton replied. “But just so you know, you have some real responsibilities.”
“Like what?” Atlas asked.
“Like getting him baptized,” Payton replied.
“Baptized,” Atlas said. “I’m a Jew. What the hell am I gonna do about that?”
Payton shrugged. “Not my problem,” he said. “Yours.”
The next day, Atlas telephoned the offices of Rainbow PUSH, Jesse Jackson’s religious and social development organization. He asked for the minister, and was shocked when he picked up the phone. “Reverend Jackson,” Atlas said, “you don’t know me and I don’t know you, but I’m friends with Walter Payton and I have to get his son baptized. I’m Jewish, and I have no idea what I’m—”
Jackson interrupted. “Mr. Atlas,” he said, “leave it all to me.”
Two weeks later, Jarrett Payton was baptized by Jesse Jackson inside a ballroom at the Hilton in Arlington Heights. More than two hundred people attended the ceremony, and even Walter had to admit his friend did a heck of a job. “I was feeling great, because I’d pulled it off,” Atlas said. “At the end of the night a stranger came up to me and said, ‘Do you have the envelope for Reverend Jackson?’ ”
“What envelope?” Atlas asked.
“The one,” he said, “with the money in it?”
“I gave five hundred dollars,” said Atlas. “Well worth the price of admission.”
Entering 1980, Payton genuinely believed the Bears had a chance of contending for the NFC title. Entering 1981, Payton knew the reality at hand: His team was horrible.
Worst of all, there was no escape. With the expiration of the third of the three one-year contracts he had signed in 1978, the NFL’s top running back was, technically, a free agent, available for all twenty-eight teams to bid on. Yet free agency in the National Football League was merely a mirage. Not only did a player’s last team have the right to match any offer, but widespread