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admired, but one who never worked especially hard and who also lived off of image more than reality. McMahon’s initial reputation in Chicago—that of an unflappably cool cat—was born largely off of the mythology of sunglasses. Far from trying to make a fashion statement, though, McMahon wore shades at all times because, at age six, he accidentally speared his right eye with a fork, resulting in permanent ocular damage. Furthermore, McMahon’s Mohawk haircut—one being emulated by hundreds of Chicago schoolchildren—came into existence only when Willie Gault attempted to salvage a self-service trim the quarterback had botched.

Yet the details didn’t much matter for a public suddenly caught up in Chicago Bear fever. Well before Andre Agassi declared, “Image is everything” in his iconic Canon commercials, the Bears were bringing the slogan to life. Ten members of the team (including Ditka) had their own radio shows. Ditka was appearing in three television commercials, and the offensive linemen (offensive linemen!) were being featured in a Chevy advertising campaign. Perry and McMahon were both good, solid, above-average NFL players—who were suddenly anointed rock stars.

Payton, meanwhile, signed on to star in a spot for Diet Coke. One lousy spot. He did his best to adjust to his new place in the shadows. He kept his mouth shut, offered up boring canned quotes when asked and, on the field, peeled off an NFL record nine straight hundred-yard rushing games. Few people noticed.

Blessed with the NFL’s best offensive line, Payton no longer had to create his own holes and hope for random openings. He had evolved, in a way that other top running backs never could. To the day his career ended, Earl Campbell wanted to barrel over people. To the day his career ended, Terry Metcalf wanted to juke and shake. Neither lasted long. Age and fatigue are a football player’s two greatest opponents, and styles either change or die. Payton, a man always in touch with his body, realized quickness could not serve as a primary weapon. He finally had a top-flight school of blockers at his disposal, and he needed their help. “Later in his career Walter was the easiest running back in the world to block for,” said Jay Hilgenberg, the All-Pro center. “If we had the six or seven hole called, that’s where Walter was going to be, and he’d come with a lot of force.”

It was a strange time to be Walter Payton. His out-of-wedlock son, Nigel, and in-wedlock daughter, Brittney, were born months apart. His team was hot and his Q-rating on the wane. He was piling up Pro Bowl–worthy numbers (he finished the season with 1,551 yards, the fourth-highest total of his career), yet wasn’t the same back he once had been. He put on the happiest face possible, but came across to teammates as moodier and crankier than ever. “Walter was the personality of the team,” said Butler, the kicker. “If Walter was loud and rambunctious that day, the pace of practice took off. But if things weren’t going well, Walter would wear it on his forehead.”

When he was the only story in town, it was easy to say, “I don’t want the attention.”

Now that the attention didn’t exist, he wanted it.

The song was a bad idea.

Walter Payton knew it was a bad idea because this sort of thing never works out in the end. Why didn’t he talk trash? Because the minute you tell an opponent he stinks, he comes back and tackles you for a five-yard loss. Why didn’t he brag and boast after a hundred-and-fifty-yard game? Because a thirty-yard game is inevitably around the corner. Payton knew what he wanted his image to be (and what Holmes had insisted it should be)—family man, happy, accessible, agreeable, kid friendly—and loudmouth braggart wasn’t on the list.

That being said, really, what was he supposed to do on that mid-November day when Gault, the explosive wide receiver with stars in his eyes, told him that the rest of the high-profile Bears were planning on recording a rap song, and that proceeds would help feed the Chicago homeless? The title itself, “The Super Bowl Shuffle,” symbolized everything Payton