Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [177]
“At his core, Walter was incredibly insecure,” said Holmes. “He would do things to draw attention, but only if it looked like he wasn’t trying to draw attention. He might go to a banquet and if they were bringing out steak he’d say, ‘I don’t eat red meat.’ And they’d ask what they could bring him and he’d ask for fish—then complain it wasn’t cooked right. An hour later, he’d be sneaking to McDonald’s for a Big Mac, begging me, ‘Don’t tell anybody! Don’t tell!’
“We would go to Chicago Bulls games and he’d know exactly where the cameras were. You’d see him go up to the kids in the wheelchairs, and he’d go up, shake their hands, knowing the camera was on. Does that mean he didn’t care? No. But he was aware of how it would be perceived, and that mattered immensely to him. On more than one occasion, Walter went to the airport without a ticket or reservation or nothing. He’d walk up to the American Airlines counter and say, ‘I need a ticket to Las Vegas.’ They’d be oversold, but they’d kick people off the plane and place him in first class. Walter loved that, even as he played humble.”
Hence, while Payton’s pouting about a lack of recognition puzzled teammates, it failed to entirely shock them. “Walter was Walter,” said Sanders. “He answered to no man.”
Heavily favored, the Bears dominated the Giants, 21–0, then prepared for a matchup with the Los Angeles Rams in the NFC Championship game. The team returned to Suwanee, and Payton again held court in front of the press. As opposed to the previous week, the running back found himself in a state of prolonged giddiness. He talked at length about the journey from Jackson State to the brink of a Super Bowl, and how the ritual beatings of years past brought immense appreciation. “For me, the Super Bowl would be the ultimate,” he said. “It’s all the work and effort and sacrifice to reach that plateau. It comes down to the desire to win the Super Bowl. It’s like a writer who wants to win the Pulitzer Prize. He wants to be the best. The Super Bowl is it for us.”
Now, at last, Payton was the story. If the Rams had any chance at winning (and, really, they didn’t), it came in the form of Eric Dickerson, their splendid third-year halfback out of Southern Methodist. As a result, the media predictably pushed the Dickerson vs. Payton narrative. One was the young upstart trying to break through. The other was the grizzled veteran desperate to reach the biggest stage. One, Dickerson, ran upright, with blistering speed. The other, Payton, looked for holes and relied on strength and savvy. One, Dickerson, was known for petulance and lengthy contract holdouts. The other, Payton, was God’s gift to football. Dave Anderson of The New York Times called the matchup a “throwback to the National Football League’s primeval era when championships depended on such dinosaurs as Jim Thorpe and Red Grange, Ernie Nevers and Bronko Nagurski.”
Just as Payton had once come along and supplanted O. J. Simpson as the league’s best back, Dickerson was now trying to do the same to Payton. One season earlier, as the Bears flew to Los Angeles to play the Rams, Payton slid into the seat next to Leslie Frazier, a defensive back. “Do you think Dickerson is better than I am?” he asked.
“I was thinking to myself, ‘Here’s Walter, the greatest running back of all time, asking me whether someone was better than him,’ ” said Frazier. “What more do you need to understand about his pride?”
Payton had gotten to know Dickerson at the 1983 Pro Bowl, and he genuinely liked the kid. Dickerson was deferential and respectful, and credited Payton as an influence. That said, he also knew Dickerson, owner of 1,234 rushing yards during the regular season, was dead meat. Chicago’s terrifying defense had spent