Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [168]
Part of the overt warmth can probably be chalked up to Holmes relentlessly pounding home the point—Folks want to be inspired. You inspire folks. Use that. Embrace that. Enjoy that. But there was also a genuinely compassionate soft spot inside Payton. He liked seeing smiles and making a difference; liked knowing someone’s day was completed by a few moments of shared space.
Payton politely called the Gordon Gin folks and told them he’d have to be late—“Something important has come up.” That something important was T. J. Baker, a seven-year-old boy from Davenport, Iowa, who was fighting a malignant brain tumor. Baker’s hero was Payton, and when the running back learned last minute that a fund-raiser was being held in Moline, Iowa (just over the Illinois state line), he committed to stopping by for a quick visit.
Payton stayed for four hours.
“We just chatted,” he said. “I’d rather not say about what. Just being there, showing concern, caring, means more than what you talk about. It stays with you. You don’t forget.”
Payton never uttered another word about Baker. He didn’t want to delve into details of his visit, because, frankly, it was nobody’s business. A young child was dying. Wasn’t that enough? “Walter could comfort people and love people and be there for people,” said Holmes. “He had moments of amazing warmth.”
Chicago’s defensive line coach, Dale Haupt, had a teenage daughter, Helen, who baked Payton chocolate chip cookies before every home game for a stretch of five years. When Payton’s son, Jarrett, was born, she made the baby a quilt—“ just so Walter knew we were happy for him.” Helen never expected anything in return. He was friendly and kind, and that was good enough. “So now I’m a freshman at Wake Forest and I’m home from school, and Walter calls,” she said. “He wanted to see if I was home because he had something to give me. He drives to our house, and he hands me a beautiful gold bracelet. He stayed and we talked for the longest time. I think he just wanted me to know he appreciated the kindness through the years. A lot of athletes never thought like that. He did.”
The Bears used their fourth-round pick in the 1985 NFL Draft to select Kevin Butler, a kicker from the University of Georgia. Bob Thomas, Payton’s fellow rookie in 1975, had held the job for the majority of the decade, and the transaction did not bode well for his future. Still, when the team finally cut him on September 2, Thomas was despondent. Not wanting to bump into any teammates, he waited until nine fifteen A.M., when meetings began, to clean out his locker. “I was thinking how festive and lively the locker room usually was, and now it was perfectly quiet,” said Thomas. “Well, I walk to my locker and Walter’s sitting there, waiting for me.” At Payton’s behest, the two longtime friends walked outside the equipment room and rested on some old railroad irons. “For twenty minutes, he told me—a broken-down kicker—what it meant to play with me for ten years,” Thomas said. “I was crying, and he buried my tears in his chest. I made some great kicks, I had some amazing memories, but that moment more than any other sticks out from my twelve-year career.”
And yet, Payton’s deep kindness was coupled with deep insecurity. Or, as Holmes said, “He could also be incredibly vapid and thin-skinned. It really depended on the day. Sometimes on the hour.”
Indeed, two months after granting Baker a wish come true, Payton was in Chicago, pouting. According to a report in the Tribune, McMahon, the savvy-yet-brittle quarterback with all of three NFL seasons under his belt, was now the Bears’ highest-paid player, earning $950,000 for the upcoming season. Payton, meanwhile, was a distant second at $685,000 (annuity not included).
The $265,000 contract disparity between McMahon and Payton made the running back’s blood boil. So, for that matter, did the mounting dismissiveness he perceived to be coming from the press,