Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [174]
“We’re fourteen points down and Ditka sends in a pass play,” McMahon said. “I said, ‘Look, boys, we’re down fourteen points. We’re already in the play-offs. Let’s get this man the yards he deserves.’ Not one guy in the huddle had a problem with that. But Mike knew I didn’t call the play he [ordered], so he starts yelling and screaming. I give the ball to Walter. They were only rushing three at this point, and he busts up for good yardage.” With the veins on his neck bulging and his brown eyes about to explode from the sockets, Ditka called a time-out. When McMahon reached the sideline, the coach lit into him.
“Hey, Mike, you know they’re dropping eight,” McMahon replied. “Walter only needs about fifteen more yards for his record.”
Ditka calmed down. “What?” he said.
“The record,” McMahon replied. “His record.”
Ditka had known nothing of it. “Yeah,” he said, “we’ll get him his record. But first we’re going to do this play.”
McMahon nodded as Ditka called for a pass to Dennis McKinnon. When he returned to the huddle, McMahon flashed a wide smile. “Boys,” he said, “the shit is going to hit the fan, but we’re going to run the ball again.”
McMahon lined up behind center and looked toward Ditka, who knew he was being ignored. He threw his clipboard in the air and shrugged. Payton wound up with 121 yards on twenty-three carries, and while they were largely empty calories amassed at the end of a blowout, the running back was eternally grateful to his quarterback. From that moment on, McMahon could do no wrong.
Despite being annihilated before millions of spectators (the game was the most-viewed Monday Night Football telecast ever, with an astonishing 29.6 rating), most of the Bears remained undeterred. “Hey, we’re human,” Otis Wilson said afterward.
“This is not a catastrophe,” added Singletary.
“Nobody’s perfect,” Ditka said. “And we proved it.”
“A lot of guys were walking off of the field like, ‘Finally, the pressure is off of us,’ ” said Covert. “When we got beat by Miami—I didn’t want to lose, but it kind of lifted the pressure.”
Win or lose, on Tuesday morning at eight the players were expected to meet at Park West, a well-known nightclub on Chicago’s North Side, for the taping of “The Super Bowl Shuffle” video. Having assumed the Bears would demolish the Dolphins, Dick Meyer, the song’s producer, booked the date two weeks in advance. He spoke to Gault via phone immediately after the loss, and was assured the Bears would still be there.
“Willie asked me if I’d be in it as we were flying back from Miami,” said Hilgenberg. “I said, ‘Hey, Willie, we just got killed on national TV. You think I’m gonna help you sing a song about the Super Bowl? No thank you. I don’t want any part of that.’ ”
Though the Bears were a tight-knit group, there was something about Gault that rubbed many the wrong way. He was the prettiest guy on a rugged team; unwilling to throw a hard block or cross the middle of the field. “If I asked Willie to run an extra pattern it was as if I’d asked him to cut his nuts off,” said Bob Avellini, the former quarterback. “He didn’t want to play football. He wanted to make money.” Early in his career Gault told the Tribune that, with a little work, he could make Payton a faster, better player. (“I could have gotten him from a four-point-six to a four-point-four forty,” Gault said. “He had a hitch when he ran and wasted some motion.”) The suggestion did not go over well.
Furthermore, Gault always seemed to be bragging. He dropped names incessantly (his friendship with Louis Farrakhan, the controversial Nation of Islam leader, won him little favor with white teammates), craved to be seen at the hottest clubs and biggest openings; wanted to be a celebrity first, a football player second. Teammates nicknamed him “Hollywood Gault,” a sobriquet that was far from a compliment. When, three years later, he was dealt