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“I didn’t come to Chicago to back Walter up and learn from him, as some thought I should have. No, I came to Chicago to play. To play tailback. That was my attitude. I think other people were more willing to learn from him and eventually hope to take over. That wasn’t me.”

Now thirty-three years old, with 14,860 career rushing yards, the assumption around the league was that the Bears would lessen Payton’s load while gradually shifting the focus toward Anderson. Even Ditka, Payton’s biggest supporter, said he wanted to “not get him beat up” with excessive usage. “I’m going to put him into situations probably a little differently than a year ago when I would have used him as a lead blocker,” he said. “I don’t think that’s what I want him doing.” Payton bristled at the suggestion.

Unlike Anderson, whose absence was generally ignored by teammates, Payton reported to training camp in Platteville, Wisconsin, with a bang—landing alongside one of the practice fields in a helicopter piloted by Gordon Ward of Chicago’s Omni Flight. Payton paid eight hundred dollars for the one-hour, twenty-minute ride, and deemed the flight worth every cent. “Best entrance I’ve ever seen,” said Henry Jackson, a rookie free agent linebacker. “It declared his importance.” Payton further announced his presence (and status) by residing not in one of the drab dormitory rooms, but in the souped-up RV he parked adjacent to the facility. Equipped with a television, a kitchen, and all the frozen meat one could ever want, Payton’s living unit was a camp hotspot. Technically, it was only supposed to serve as a place for Payton to relax. Factually, he lived there, and a ball boy was assigned to wake him each morning. “It was just like the trailer Clark Griswold had in Vacation,” said Mike Tomczak, a backup quarterback. “Why sit in a dorm when you can bring five people into a mobile home and hang out and relax?”

If the 1985 season served as a confirmation of Payton’s stature, 1986 was a final reminder. The Bears were, once again, great, going 14-2 and winning a third straight division title. But just as the brilliance of a classic movie cannot be recaptured in a sequel, an all-time legendary football team rarely lasts beyond one season.

Taken in and of themselves, Payton’s numbers (1,333 rushing yards, eight touchdowns) alone told a dominant story, but the ’86 Bears were a faded copy of the ’85 edition. From the commercialism (McMahon plugged Taco Bell; Payton hawked Kentucky Fried Chicken; Gault endorsed his own clothing line; Perry promoted, well, everything) to the literary deals (Singletary, McMahon, and Ditka wrote books) to the increased club hopping and alcohol guzzling, Chicago lost its edge. The team was hungry, but not famished; angry, but not ferocious. Talk of a dynasty filled the newspapers and airwaves. Dynasties, though, start with a base level of unselfishness. “Everybody got greedy,” said Fred Caito, the veteran trainer. “The players, the coach—everybody. It was a snowball rolling down a very steep hill. The money, the fame, the egos. It ate our team alive.”

Buddy Ryan, the feisty defensive coordinator, departed to become head coach of the Philadelphia Eagles, and with him left the blood-thirst of the NFL’s most dangerous defense. His replacement, Vince Tobin, was—in a stark departure from the cantankerous Ryan—a warm man who had served capably as the defensive coordinator of the USFL’s Philadelphia/Baltimore Stars. With the Bears he immediately dismantled much of Ryan’s 46 Defense, implementing the 4-3 alignment he knew and loved. “I told the guys that it wasn’t me who took off, it was Buddy,” said Tobin. “They could either work with me or decide not to and pull the team apart.” Technically, Tobin succeeded—the ’86 Bears again ranked first in the NFL in total defense, and allowed fewer passing yards and fewer yards per carry while posting only two fewer sacks than a year earlier. The defense even set an NFL record for fewest points allowed. Yet statistics