Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [176]
Now, armed with genuine Super Bowl aspirations, on December 30, 1985, Chicago’s front office sent its coaches and players to Suwanee, Georgia, to hold practices at the Atlanta Falcons’ training complex. Along with moderate temperatures and agreeable conditions, Ditka liked the idea of keeping his team out of the spotlight. The music videos and magazine covers and endorsement deals were nice and dandy and swell, but the coach worried about his players losing their edge. In Chicago, no Bear—ranging from a superstar like Payton to a relative nobody like punter Maury Buford—could step from his house without being besieged. Women were everywhere. Meals were free. Drinks were plentiful. In Suwanee, home of the annual Old Town Holiday Festival and Caboose Lighting, the Bears were simply oversized goliaths preparing for a big game.
Though generally agreeable to allowing his men to be men (so to speak), Ditka preferred the players use the time in Suwanee to lay low and say little. On the day after his team’s arrival into town, however, Payton sat down with a large handful of reporters and held a miniature State of Walter press conference. The topic was supposed to be the Giants. It wasn’t.
“Dealing with the media has been a challenge for me,” he said, spurred on by nothing in particular. “At times, I haven’t been the best of people. I haven’t been in the best of moods. I want to thank you people for putting up with me.”
For a moment, a stunned silence overtook the setting. Through the eyes of Chicago’s press corps, Payton had been a dizzying riddle to cover. He came. He went. He talked. He didn’t talk. He made sense. He made no sense.
Payton wasn’t quite done.
“I still feel I’m overlooked,” Payton said. “Why? That’s the sixty-fourmillion-dollar question.”
With that, Payton rose and left, as the pack of journalists scratched their heads and wondered what had just happened. For Chicago newspaper veterans like the Tribune’s Don Pierson and Kevin Lamb of the Sun-Times, Payton’s rare dose of honesty was refreshing. Yes, he was insecure. Yes, he wanted big numbers. Yes, he pouted if he didn’t get enough carries. Yes, he resented the attention afforded others. Though Payton had rarely gone public with his feelings, none of this was a secret within the locker room. For the majority of Chicago’s players, 1985 had been the culmination of a lifetime of hard work and dreams. For Payton, it was a mixed bag—the splendor of on-field success and a galvanized city; the disappointment of becoming (in his opinion) invisible.
To those not in the know, the words made no sense. Payton was supposed to be the ultimate team player, one who went his entire career without a single ill feeling or gripe. He stood as the NFL’s Moses—a holy figure with nary a scar or wart. “Walter had a reputation,” said Lamb, “that didn’t quite meet the reality.”
Three days later, in another group interview, Payton looked out at an even larger number of scribes and—to the organization’s dismay—continued to plead his case. Payton desired more acclaim, “because inside this body beats a heart, and a brain functions. There are things that regardless of how strong or durable you are, you have to see or feel. Otherwise what you’re doing has no value.
“You feel self-esteem, but if the people outside don’t see it or don’t appreciate it, next time . . . you’re not going to be as motivated. It’s like getting a banana split and you don’t get the hot fudge sauce. There’s something missing. [If you keep getting it that way] pretty soon you go up and just ask for ice cream and a banana.”
Because Payton was a legend with an unblemished image, teammates always praised him to the press. Walter is such a prankster. Walter is the leader. Walter is the pulse of our team. In reality, most didn’t know or understand him. Even the running back’s closest confidants on the Bears—Suhey, Singletary, Gentry, and running backs Thomas Sanders and Calvin