Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [181]
One person who didn’t was Singletary, the Bears’ All-Pro middle linebacker. Devoutly Christian and unafraid to show it, Singletary watched with great disappointment as Payton regularly cheated on his wife. He obviously knew athletes did such things, but expected more from someone of Payton’s character and esteem. “Mike finds out that despite Walter’s stellar career and reputation, he’s catting around on the road,” said a friend of Payton. “He had a devoted wife, precious children, and yet he’s being unfaithful.” One afternoon during the 1985 season, while taking a team bus to the airport, Singletary slid into the vacant seat alongside Payton. “Man, you’ve got to clean up your act,” he said. “You’ve got a beautiful family and you claim to be a Christian. You know better.”
This was the first time someone had confronted him on his womanizing, and Payton was shocked. He turned toward the window, away from Singletary, and pretended not to listen. In the reflection, Singletary saw tears streaming down Payton’s face.
Singletary had no idea what his friend was thinking. Through the end of Payton’s career, the two never spoke again.
As a boy growing up in Corpus Christi, Texas, Raymond Berry learned the sport of football at the knee of his father. A high school coach for thirty-five years, Raymond, Sr. preached that, with the right mindset and preparation, a poor team could beat a great one on any given day. “I listened to everything he said, and I absorbed that message,” said Berry. “No matter the odds, there was always a way to accomplish your goals.”
Berry’s playing career personified this ethos. Though never especially fast, he lasted thirteen years as a wide receiver with the Baltimore Colts, teaming with Johnny Unitas to win two NFL titles, play in six Pro Bowls and, in 1973, be inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame.
Now, at age fifty-two and in his first full year as New England’s head coach, Berry thought back to his father’s wisdom. “I knew the Chicago Bears were an incredible team,” he said. “But I honestly felt we’d win the game. We just had to make sure we did several things right.”
The game plan was relatively simple. On offense, the Patriots couldn’t turn over the ball, and quarterback Tony Eason had to get his passes off within three seconds of receiving the snap. “We had a new offensive scheme that year, so we didn’t do anything complex,” said Berry. “Simplicity got us to the Super Bowl. Do the basic things well.”
Berry handed all responsibilities for the other side of the ball to Rod Rust, the defensive coordinator. Fifty-seven years old and a well-regarded strategist, Rust was the anti–Buddy Ryan. He rarely bragged or boasted and never looked to undermine his head coach. “Buddy was too much of a selfpromoter to me,” said Rust. “Great at his job, but very cocky.”
Like Berry, Rust watched tapes of the Bears and considered them beatable. If Chicago’s defense was ferocious, its passing attack—ranked twentieth overall in the league—was merely average. McMahon was brittle; Willie Gault and Dennis McKinnon were OK receivers; and the tight end, Emery Moorehead, was a journeyman. “It was all about stopping the run,” said Rust. “Payton was the first guy we wanted to defend. He was the linchpin to their offense. You stopped him, you stopped the Chicago Bears from scoring.” New England’s veterans took strange comfort in Chicago’s cockiness. To them, the machismo reeked of insecurity—a nervousness over falling flat on the nation’s biggest stage. The more the Bear players flapped their lips, the more the Patriots believed they were destined for an upset of Namath-ian proportions. “We had no doubt about winning,” said Don Blackmon, a New England linebacker. “None.”18
Payton had