Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [195]
“She was fixing dinner, basting the turkey, the stuffing, and the yams,” Gentry said. “When I got home later in the day nothing was cooked. Nothing. I said, ‘What the hell is going on?’ She said, ‘Who is this bitch so-and-so?’ I said, ‘What?’ She said, ‘Some woman called and said you’re invited over to her house.’ I was so furious at Walter. I couldn’t wait to get him.”
Now, with a gaggle of reporters watching, Sanders, Gentry, and a couple of others grabbed Payton from behind, pulled down his pants, and dragged him through the Lake Forest snow. What was supposed to be humorous turned strikingly sad—an aged star helplessly screaming and flailing away, his pants wrapped around his ankles, as onlookers cackled. A humiliated Payton stormed off without speaking. Said Sanders: “Let’s just say it didn’t go over well.”
The ultimate embarrassment came three days later at Candlestick Park. Both teams boasted league-best 10-2 records, and both teams entered the clash talking lots of trash. With Anderson nursing a bruised shoulder, the focus of the offense was once again Payton, who started alongside Suhey, his old chum. Yet much like Muhammad Ali dying his hair and sucking in his gut, then being annihilated by Larry Holmes in 1980, Payton fooled no one. He lost a key fumble, rushed for only eighteen yards, and suffered a concussion after being nailed by defensive lineman Michael Carter. Chicago lost, 41–0.
“Walter took a step back from the other players on the team that year,” said Sanders. “He was dealing with his football mortality, and it troubled him. One day he told me we needed to talk. I said, ‘What is it?’ Walter said, ‘I just need to talk to someone.’ He was struggling with the idea of separating from the game and being without the guys. It had been his life for thirteen years. He was feeling lost.”
Six days after the 49ers contest, the Bears celebrated Walter Payton Day at Soldier Field. The NFL’s all-time leading rusher used the occasion for his finest moment of the season.
Although the Bears would go on to lose to Seattle, 34–21, the fifteen minutes preceding kickoff were devoted to a glowing Payton. Mayor Eugene Sawyer presented him with the Chicago Medal of Merit; Virginia McCaskey, George Halas’ daughter, handed Payton an oil portrait of himself; and McCaskey begrudgingly announced No. 34 would be retired. Throughout the season, various teams had bestowed retirement gifts upon Payton—the Buccaneers gave him a plaque, the Packers a framed commemorative photograph, the Raiders a picture of George Blanda and a stereo. “I don’t think he wanted that attention,” said Bryan Wagner, the team’s punter. “It embarrassed Walter.” This, however, was a moment Payton cherished. “I never thought it would end this way,” Payton told the crowd as he stood before a microphone near midfield, a cold wind appropriately blowing through the stadium. “I did it because it was fun. That’s why I’m playing today. The toughest thing is to say good-bye to the ones you love”—he pointed toward the end zone, where his teammates were standing—“all those guys down there.”
Payton went on to rush for seventy-nine yards. The day was his, and on the west side of Soldier Field two fans held a placard that read: SANTA: PLEASE SEND MORE WALTER PAYTONS. FIRST ONE WAS PERFECT. Afterward, Payton was asked by the Tribune’s Bob Verdi why he threw two footballs into the stands.
“That was just my way,” he replied. “My way of saying thanks.”
Wrote Verdi: “No, Walter. Thank you.”
After enduring thirteen long, grueling NFL seasons, Payton deserved to have Hollywood’s best writer come up with a proper ending. He deserved one last taste of glory. He deserved honor