Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [169]
“If you chart [the careers of other runners], you see peaks and valleys. Whereas my career, I like to think, has been like IBM or Xerox. I’ve been playing at the same level, and sometimes above, for at least nine years. I guess the people have come to expect that. Rain, sleet, snow, sprained ankle . . . or whatever, he’s going to be there. Sometimes people tend to—not knowingly—they sometimes take things for granted. I guess I’ve been the Rodney Dangerfield of running backs.
“But it doesn’t bother me. Rodney makes a lot of movies, drinks a lot of light beer.”
Only it did bother him. While his rant concerned, in a literal sense, the NFL’s other marquee running backs, the words had more to do with the Chicago Bears. Entering the 1985 season Payton was, for the first time, not the team’s sole focal point. There was McMahon, the hard-living, attentionseeking quarterback who talked smack and wore sunglasses indoors. There was Willie Gault, the speedy wide receiver who longed for a career in movies. There was Mike Singletary, the Butkus-esque middle linebacker, and his two high-flying cohorts, Wilber Marshall and Otis Wilson. And, of course, there was Ditka, the snarling head coach, and Buddy Ryan, the defensive coordinator who hated him. So loaded was the team that, shortly after reporting to training camp and soaking in all the talent, Butler called Cathy, his fiancée, and told her their wedding had to be moved from January 25, 1985—the day before the next Super Bowl. “We had so many weapons, and Walter wasn’t the center of it anymore, even though he was so valuable,” said Covert. “And while I’m sure he really enjoyed being part of all the winning, the other side of the coin was that it wasn’t all about him. I think that was sometimes a little bit difficult for him. The other personalities came into play, and it wasn’t that he was ever overshadowed, but he had competition.”
With the cutting of Thomas, only defensive lineman Mike Hartenstine, receiver Brian Baschnagel, and safety Gary Fencik remained from the dark ages. Few of the modern Bears understood what made Payton go—the intensity, the need to prove people wrong, the insecurity. He was confused by the public gloating of younger athletes and turned off by what he perceived to be the constant cries for attention. It was one thing for the NFL’s all-time rushing leader to crave the spotlight. It was another altogether for teammates who had accomplished precious little. “The challenges of being as recognized as he was and the face of sports for a city for many years would wear on anyone,” said Shaun Gayle, the defensive back. “I’m sure it weighed on Walter, too.”
What irked Payton most was the emergence of a rookie defensive lineman named William Perry. Drafted in the first round out of Clemson, “the Refrigerator” (as he was called) was immediately lambasted by Ryan, who labeled him too slow, too fat, too dumb to master Chicago’s complex 46 Defense. Yet in an era when players rarely exceeded 300 pounds, the Fridge stood out. Gap-toothed and wobbly, he tipped the scales at 325 pounds, making him one of the league’s largest players. He had a twenty-two-inch neck and a size fifty-eight coat. “I was born to be big,” he told Sports Illustrated , “and I ain’t disappointing nobody.”
Upon seeing his new teammate at training camp for the first time, defensive lineman Dan Hampton nicknamed Perry “Biscuit”—as in, he was one biscuit short of 350 pounds. When Perry removed his T-shirt in front of other players, revealing mounds of Shamu-esque blubber, the moniker de jour changed to “Mud Slide.”
“Funny thing is, Fridge was a great athlete,” said Andy Frederick, an offensive