Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [191]
Payton lived for football. For the locker room camaraderie. For the thrill of a long run down the sideline, of a crushing block, of a diving catch. Though he had always wanted to be thought of as more than merely a jock, he was—at heart—a jock. Football was his life.
“OK,” he told Holmes. “One more season.”
With that, Holmes telephoned McCaskey with a proposal. Walter desired a one-year, one-million-dollar deal (with an option for a second season, just in case Payton shocked the masses with a fifteen-hundred-yard output), along with a (seemingly temporary) position in Chicago’s front office and a commitment from the team to immediately retire his No. 34 jersey.
“I’m sorry,” said McCaskey. “We don’t retire jerseys.”
“Well, that’s a deal breaker,” said Holmes. “You’ll have to cut Walter Payton.”
Few negotiators could bluff like Holmes, whose Southern charm and perceived dopiness made for a lethal combination. Was he the model representative for a man trying to purchase his own franchise? Not particularly. Holmes had recently been disbarred by the Mississippi Bar Association after pleading guilty to misconduct before a federal grand jury. But Payton was justifiably loyal, and Holmes took pride in being the small-town Mississippi bumpkin who outwitted the big guns.
“We don’t want to do that,” McCaskey said.
“I know,” said Holmes. “I want him to be able to say he quit to become an NFL owner. It’s good for Walter, it’s good for the Bears.”
On July 28, 1987, at the Bears’ Lake Forest facility, Payton announced that he would play one more season, then retire. “Nothing is final,” he said. “But at this point that’s what my thinking is. Unless something happens and Mr. McCaskey comes to me and says, ‘Come back next year,’ it looks like this will be the last one.
“Walter Payton never quits,” he said. “I would say, ‘Walter Payton has started in [a new] direction.’ I feel I could play another three years and be productive. But the hardest thing for me to do is say, ‘I know I can play; I want to play, but I’m going to stop.’ It’s something I feel I have to do.”
Payton, surrounded by reporters, forced a smile.
He was miserable.
Monday and Tuesday were off days—“Recovery time,” said Fred Caito.
Wednesday was a light day—“Walter would walk, loosen up, watch, go home,” said Caito.
Thursday was a semi-busy day—“Walter would run ten plays or so,” said Caito.
Friday and Saturday were more off days—“To get ready,” said Caito.
Sunday was game day.
This is what many of the Bears recall of Walter Payton’s final NFL training camp and season. As the other athletes were asked to sweat and grind and suffer through oft-brutal, oft-mind-numbing rituals, Payton was usually nowhere to be found. “Which was, of course, OK with everyone,” said Frank Harris, a rookie free agent halfback out of North Carolina State. “He was Walter Payton. He had the right to do whatever he wanted.” Throughout the bulk of his career, the Bears had tried to protect their star, limiting reps, resting him often, keeping hits to a minimum. In his heyday, Payton fought the approach. “During nine-on-seven inside drills he’d run every play,” said Sanders. “If there were twenty drills to run, he’d want to do them all, because he sought perfection. He’d jump in, jump in, jump in, and the other backs would have to watch.” Now, nearing the end, Payton was handled as a porcelain doll. If defensive players craved violence, they were welcome to tee off on Anderson or Sanders or any of the other runners. “I remember one offensive scheme, Walter came at me and I dropped my shoulder and turned to hit him,” said Egypt Allen, a rookie defensive back. “Mike Ditka blows the whistle, yells at me, and says, ‘Don’t you ever hit him again!’ Walter started laughing. He still ran hard and he still looked for the collision. The team was worried about him, but he wasn’t