Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [167]
The Bears, however, deemed his presence a slap in the face.
“It was brutal,” said Jimbo Covert. “An ultimate sign of disrespect.” Making matters worse, as the two teams walked off the field, members of the 49ers taunted the Bears. “Next time,” one player said, “bring your offense.”
Afterward, Payton sat at his locker, a look of disbelief crossing his face. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He spoke haltingly, almost as if he were in a state of shock. “This is the worst ever,” he said. “When you wait ten years for the chance, and you get this close, and get turned back, it’s hard to deal with. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to deal with.”
He was told that Ditka suggested a Super Bowl was within the organization’s grasps for next year.
“Next year,” said Payton, “is not promised to anyone.”
On the morning of February 25, 1985, Walter Payton was scheduled to travel to New York to receive something called the Gordon Gin Black Athlete of the Year award. Once upon a time, such recognition (as well as the twenty-five thousand dollars in prize money and “hand-sculptured trophy by noted sculptor Ed Dwight!”) would have meant something to Payton. Awards; medals; plaques; keys to Urbana, Illinois, or Mahopac, New York, or Thomasville, Georgia—those types of things carried weight with the young, eager-toplease athlete.
At age thirty-one, however, with the end of his career coming into focus, Payton was starting to think differently. Though he had been engaging and accommodating toward fans, throughout much of his career indifference often cloaked his behavior. “He was enigmatic,” said Ron Atlas, his longtime friend. “He could be charming, but he wouldn’t really go out of his way to help individual people.” Because Bud Holmes, his agent, thought it important that every fan who took the time to write receive an autographed reply, a woman who could perfectly forge Payton’s signature was hired to do the tireless work the football player had little interest in. “Walter knew how to please,” Holmes said. “He brought flowers to secretaries, said nice things to people. But he could also be lazy and disinterested.” When, following the 1979 season, Payton was hired by a not-for-profit agency in Indiana to speak to a group of children, he jumped at the opportunity—then forgot to show up. It wasn’t a random oversight. “I sent the appearance fee money back to them and made Walter do it the next year for free,” Holmes said. “I tried like heck to always keep that image up.”
By the time his speed and elusiveness had begun to wane, Payton was keenly aware of the positive power of celebrity and the impact he had on people. Payton wasn’t merely one to ask, “How’s it going?”—he’d inquire about the family; the kids; the dogs; the farm. He wasn’t merely a handshaker—he was a hugger. Of all the Bears, Payton was the one who knew the names of every ball boy and intern. “If you were the kid doing laundry in the equipment room, Walter made sure to get to talk with you,” said Duke Tobin, who worked as a ball boy when his father, Bill, ran personnel. “Walter didn’t just know the ball boys. He knew what they liked, where they went to school, who their parents were. He had this game he liked to play, where he’d grab one side of a football and you’d grab the other, and it’d be