Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [18]
“No,” Woodson replied. “Not yet.”
“Well go out there and line up at quarterback and call a sneak,” Boston said. “Get that seventy! Get it!”
Woodson jogged to the huddle and ordered Johnson to shift to receiver. He took the snap, cut left, and followed a guard. When he was but two yards from scoring, Woodson found himself bottled up. His legs were wrapped, and in front of him was a mass of prone bodies. “I had nowhere to go,” he said. “But then I felt this push—this incredibly strong push.” Woodson turned his head and saw Payton slamming into his back. “All thanks to Walter, I went over the pile and scored the seventieth point,” Woodson said. “And the ribs were great.”
With his mounting success and a bevy of hundred-yard games, Payton began to evolve from shy and soft-spoken to gregarious and engaging. He had always possessed a mischievous streak; always enjoyed yanking down someone’s pants or prank calling a neighbor. Yet, outside of his tight comfort zone, Payton had been reluctant to show his inner child. Now, for the first time, that was changing. The bus trips were often long and miserable, but they provided Payton with a chance to play. He would sneak up behind Johnson and flick his ears. He would grab Woodson by the nose and yank his head. Most memorably, he would make music. With his helmet wedged between two legs, Payton whipped out his drumsticks and banged out one song after another. Teammates clapped and sang along, and Boston—a man raised with the idea that the two hours before a game was a sacred time meant for prayer and introspection—had no choice but to go along for the ride. If his superstar wanted to bang his helmet, who was the coach to say no?
The week after scoring seventy against Marion County, Jefferson traveled to nearby Hattiesburg to take on Travillion High. By this point, word had leaked out that the Green Wave was awfully good, and that Payton was even better. As their bus pulled up to the field, Jefferson’s players and coaches found themselves surrounded by what looked to be the entire Travillion student body. The scowling faces and clenched fists were a classic attempt at pregame intimidation, at the time a regular part of the black high school football experience in Mississippi. If your team wasn’t threatened with death, it meant your team wasn’t especially good. “Came with the territory,” said Woodson. “Nothing noteworthy about it.” Led by Payton, the Green Wave filed off the bus. If Payton was even mildly scared by the surroundings, he wasn’t letting on. He walked with his chest puffed out, guiding his teammates through the mob without saying a word. Behind another three Payton scores, Jefferson took a 35–0 halftime lead, and won 46–0. In the closing minutes, as the heat rose and the tempers flared, a mob of fans made threatening gestures toward Jefferson’s sideline. “When the game is over,” Boston told the players, “we’re going to quickly walk to the bus as one group. Everyone stick together.”
Jefferson escaped, and did so the following week, too, when a Bassfield High loyalist tossed a brick through the rear window of the Green Wave bus after another big win.
For Payton, nothing could ruin what he would long consider to be one of the most joyful stretches of his life. He had developed as an athlete, and also as a person. Everyone at Jefferson High knew that the strapping kid from Hendricks Street was the real deal. That, if football offered bright futures to those who played it well, he was destined for greatness.
And just then, when life was as smooth as could be, the steadfast town of Columbia, Mississippi, did the unthinkable.
It progressed.
CHAPTER 3