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Payton liked to tell people he didn’t care what others thought, but the sentiment was false. Like most superstars, he longed to be admired and respected. Yet in the midst of a nightmare, admiration and respect were in limited supply. On his weekly radio show, Finks made a shocking decree. “Maybe Walter’s best years are behind him,” he said. “It would be foolish to think his best years are ahead of him. I don’t think we have to feature him as much.”

Payton was all alone. His line was terrible, his coach inept, his GM dismissive. Harper, his best friend, would start two games, the damage from three knee surgeries more pronounced than ever. Evans, the quarterback, threw the ball with J. R. Richard velocity and Steve Blass accuracy. “We had nothing—absolutely nothing,” said Al Harris, the defensive lineman. “But Walter was about pride, and if you said he couldn’t do it, he would find a way.”

During a practice in mid-November, Payton became livid when Hank Kuhlmann, the Bears’ gruff backfield coach, ripped him for a missed assignment, then told the halfback that he’d lost a step. Payton charged at the coach, throwing a wild punch that grazed his nose. Dumbfounded teammates separated the two. “Did we argue?” asks Kuhlmann. “Hell yeah, we argued. I was a taskmaster and he was a perfectionist. But I loved Walter.”

For Payton and the Bears, the year couldn’t end soon enough. They somehow beat Denver 35–24 in the season finale, then stripped off their uniforms as quickly as possible. “Before that game all of our cars were packed and ready to get out of town,” Cabral said. “The last thing we wanted to do was savor that horrible year.”

For the first time since his rookie year, Payton failed to make the Pro Bowl. His 1,222 rushing yards were the second lowest of his career. When asked, Hampton, the star defensive end, said he wouldn’t put a broom to the Bears’ offensive personnel—he’d break out a vacuum cleaner.

Before that could be done, however, an important decision needed to be made.

The Chicago Bears were about to be in the market for a new coach.

CHAPTER 17

A ROSE IN A DANDELION GARDEN

THE LETTER WAS COMPLETELY OUT OF LINE.

Mike Ditka has never admitted as much, but as one who lives according to a strict code of honor and righteousness, he almost certainly knows this to be true.

Midway through the 1981 season, when the Bears were once again embarrassing themselves, Ditka wrote to George Halas. At the time, the man known as “Iron Mike” was in his ninth year as an assistant with the Dallas Cowboys. Though he loved working for Coach Tom Landry and considered being a part of America’s Team an incredible honor, from afar Ditka followed Chicago football with maddening frustration. He couldn’t understand how one of the NFL’s great franchises—one that had won eight league championships—was now the butt of jokes.

From 1961 to 1966, Ditka starred as the Bears’ burly, rugged tight end, a hard-hat complement to the stylish Gale Sayers. He came to love the Windy City, from the brutal winters and unforgiving winds to the blue-collar fans braving negative-twenty-degree chills to catch a game. Hell, Ditka was Chicago.

So it was that one day, while sitting in his office at the Cowboys’ lavish Valley Ranch facility, Ditka grabbed a pen and a sheet of paper and jotted down a short note to Halas, asking to be considered for Chicago’s head coaching position should it become available.

If there is one ironclad rule that governs coaching searches in professional sports, it’s that you never undercut a peer while he’s holding a position. If you want to vie for a job, fine—just wait until it’s vacant.

For Ditka, however, the opportunity to coach the Chicago Bears transcended all decorum. Once asked by Sports Illustrated’s Curry Kirkpatrick to name the most cherished accomplishment of his two decades in organized football, Ditka did not evoke winning a Super Bowl as a player or as an assistant coach or lasting twelve years as a tight end or appearing in five Pro Bowls. “I am proudest,” Ditka said,