Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [141]
When Holmes told the Tribune Payton would demand one million dollars annually, George Halas, the team owner, laughed. “There’s no way we’re going to pay him that,” he said—and he was correct. The Bears held all the cards.
Having been brought up with little money, the young Payton was generally disinterested in his own finances. He made a few investments, only checked his books every so often, trusted Holmes enough to assume the agent would do him right. Now, however, with the birth of Jarrett, his bank account became an understandably greater priority.
That’s why, when the NFL’s owners colluded against him, Payton turned his attention north, where the Montreal Alouettes of the Canadian Football League were plotting an invasion. Under the new ownership of a forty-three-year-old real estate magnate named Nelson Skalbania, the Alouettes were in the midst of an NFL raid that left the American league shuddering. Within a week’s time, Skalbania had signed Vince Ferragamo, the star quarterback of the Los Angeles Rams, and James Scott, the moody-yet-skilled Bears receiver. Payton was the next—and biggest—target on his hit list. “I’ve offered Payton a contract,” Skalbania said. “I shouldn’t be saying this because, when you print it, the Chicago Bears are going to realize the situation and the price will go up. But I need a good running back.”
Though Payton didn’t want to leave the NFL, he couldn’t ignore Montreal’s offer, which was rumored to be around eight hundred thousand dollars annually. (“If Tokyo has a team,” Payton said, “even they’re a possibility.”) Nor, for that matter, could the Bears, a franchise with a single star and a bleak future without him.
Payton and Holmes spoke at length about Montreal. Canada was, they both knew, a last resort. The fans were less rabid, the quality of play was merely OK, the United States’ interest in the CFL was subzero. Eddie Payton, Walter’s brother, had spent a season with Ottawa, and although he was one of the league’s better players, in America it was as if he were invisible.
Most problematic was Skalbania—an unknown quantity with an iffy reputation. Holmes assumed he possessed the money, but he didn’t know for sure. “Walter wanted to be a Bear,” said Holmes. “And he wanted to stay a Bear.”
Finally, on July 25, Payton and Chicago agreed to three one-year contracts worth close to seven hundred thousand dollars annually, plus incentives. Normally, a professional athlete would be giddy over becoming his sport’s highest paid player. But not Payton. He signed because it was his only viable NFL option, and upon reporting to training camp refused to gush over the hiring of Ted Marchibroda as the new offensive coordinator or over Armstrong’s insistence that the passing game was about to bloom. By now the happy-happy blather only irritated Payton. All one had to do was look around the locker room. Same quarterbacks, same receivers (minus Scott), a couple of young, inexperienced offensive linemen, and an attitude conducive to failure.
“I learned to be disillusioned that season,” said Tim Clifford, a rookie quarterback who spent the year on injured reserve. “The intensity level in camp was incredible, and as soon as the season started half the players coasted. Those guys were on cruise control. It was embarrassing.”
“The chemistry on that team was horrible,” said one Bear, on the condition of anonymity. “We had some talented players like Walter and Doug Plank and Gary Fencik, but you knew very early on we were going to fail.” Specifically, the player points to a coach who regularly arrived at practices smelling of alcohol, and an incident from training camp, when