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Fisher’s feet chronically hurt.

One day, early in the ’84 season, Fisher approached Ray Earley, the team’s cantankerous equipment manager, and requested new insoles.

Instead of merely forking over the goods, Earley called Fisher a “damn pussy” and demanded he follow him to Payton’s locker. Earley pulled out Walter’s shoes. They were a battered pair of KangaROOS, with metal-tipped inch-long cleats.

“Stick your hand in!” Earley barked.

“What?” said Fisher.

“Stick your hand in! Stick the fucking thing in!”

Fisher did as he was told. “I actually scratched up my fingers, because Walter pulled the factory insole out of the shoe. He’d put one of those white thin baseball sanitary socks on, then put his foot in the shoe, so he could feel all seven cleats on the ground against his sole. In other words, when you put your hand in that shoe, you were feeling the nails from the screw beds normally covered by the insoles. He wanted to feel every nail.

“That,” said Fisher, “was Walter.”

Not only were Payton’s feet rubbing up against metal, but his thigh pads—thin, ratty, smelly—were the same ones he first received as a sophomore at Jefferson High School. Payton liked the lightness. The flexibility. The fact that they felt like feathers atop his body. His game pants, meanwhile, were nothing but patches and frayed threading. He only gave them up after a tackler ripped out the seat. The antiquated equipment told a story that went beyond mere nostalgia. Walter Payton would do anything—absolutely anything—to gain an edge.

“That’s why he became the all-time rushing king,” said Fisher. “Maybe there were more talented players, and certainly there were bigger players. But Walter wanted it so badly. You could see it every practice, every game. His desire to succeed was unmatched.”

Against the Cowboys, Payton had a large handful of family members and friends in attendance, just in case he broke the mark. Though falling short of 221 rushing yards can hardly be deemed an embarrassment, afterward Payton felt as if he’d let people down. Fans wanted the record. Teammates wanted the record. Coaches wanted the record. The pressure was immense.

“This is my week,” he told friends in the days leading up to the Saints. “I have to get this over with.”

In his typical hard-to-read ways, Payton longed for the attention, yet shunned the attention. He turned down very few interview requests in the lead-up to New Orleans, yet adamantly rejected the Bears’ plans for a threeminute on-field ceremony that would include Connie, Jarrett, and his mother, Alyne. “Once it’s over,” he said, “ just acknowledge it to the crowd and get on with the game. That’s the key thing.”

Of all the teams Payton could have faced with a record in the balance, the Saints were an ideal one. Though New Orleans boasted a 3-2 record and a fantastic young linebacker named Rickey Jackson, their defense was putrid against the run, allowing opposing offenses 149 rushing yards per game. Even better, the Saints players admired Payton. One of the team’s consultants was Bob Hill, the former head coach at Jackson State (“I told the guys Walter stories all the time,” Hill said), and the Saints and Bears held annual training camp scrimmages. “We formed a little bit of a bond from that,” said Frank Wattelet, a New Orleans defensive back. “We all knew and loved Walter. He was a wonderful man.” In other words, when the twelve o’clock game began, Payton wasn’t staring down Green Bay or Minnesota. Saints players certainly didn’t want Payton running all over them, but they weren’t averse to being a part of football history.

Payton slept only a handful of minutes the night before, tossing and turning at the thought of not gaining the needed yardage. He knew he would inevitably set the record, but didn’t want to do so with a meek tiptoe. “Walter ran with so much pride,” said Suhey. “He never sought out the easy way.”

With the Cubs scheduled to play San Diego in the nationally televised fifth game of the National League Championship