Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [197]
The Redskins, however, fought back, and held a 21–17 lead late in the fourth quarter. With 1:12 remaining in the game, the Bears received the football on their own thirty-four-yard line. Time was left for one last push. Yet after three plays netted a paltry two yards, Chicago faced a fourth-and-eight at the thirty-six. Forty-one seconds stood on the clock. McMahon dropped back, looked downfield. Willie Gault, the speedy receiver, was blanketed. So was Ron Morris, the rookie flanker from SMU. To his right, McMahon spotted a wide-open Payton. He caught the swing pass, turned up the field, and ran toward the right sideline. He saw the first-down marker, tantalizingly within reach, and aimed for it. As Barry Wilburn, a Redskins safety, approached, Payton reached out his left arm. Undeterred, Wilburn grabbed Payton by the back of his jersey while Brian Davis, a cornerback, closed in. Together, the two Redskins pushed Payton out of bounds . . .
One yard short.
He needed eight yards. He gained seven. The game was, for all intents, over. The two Redskins leapt in the air. Payton, for a moment, sat frozen. On the final play of his career, the running back who always popped up stayed down. The running back who never ran for the sideline found himself by the sideline. The running back who always seemed to gain the extra yard failed to gain the extra yard. It was as cruel a send-off as anyone could remember.
“All my life, I’ve wanted to be on the same field with Walter Payton, the legend,” Davis, a twenty-four-year-old rookie, said afterward. “Just to touch him used to be a dream of mine. But Barry and I had him. I hated for it to end like that for Walter, but I said, ‘We’ve got to go on.’ ”
Payton, who had run for eighty-five yards on eighteen carries, walked from one side of the field to the other, reached the bench, and plopped down. He sat there, motionless, while the Redskins ran out the clock. As players from both teams met for the customary postgame handshakes and hugs, Payton never moved. He remained on the bench, his face buried in his right palm, plumes of warm breath rising, chimneylike, from his face mask. “One more year, Walter!” a fan screamed. “You can do it!” A couple of minutes passed. A couple of more minutes. Factoring in the wind chill, the temperature was negative twenty-three degrees. His teammates were long gone. Payton sat. And sat. And sat. Tears streamed down his cheeks. His eyes were closed tight. “I was just recapping some of the great moments,” Payton said years later. “I didn’t want to rush through it. Because if you stay there long enough these things will be etched in your heart and your soul.” What went through his mind? “Disappointment,” he told ESPN’s Roy Firestone. “Joy. Anxiety. Relief.” The fans began to chant. “Wal-ter! Wal-ter! Wal-ter!” A handful of TV cameramen and newspaper reporters surrounded him, sapping the moment of its isolated beauty.
By the time Payton rose, nearly ten minutes had passed. He took a deep breath, gazed longingly into the stands, and walked off the field. Upon entering the locker room, Payton was met by stares and silence. A pack of reporters waited for Payton at his locker and Gary Haeger, the young equipment manager, parted them with his extended arms, clearing a path. Payton sat down, placed his right leg on an adjacent bench, and closed his eyes. He had yet to remove his helmet or the thermal gray gloves that covered his hands. Nary a question was asked.
Calvin Thomas, the reserve fullback, leaned in. “You all right?” he said.
“Just taking my time, taking it all off,” Payton replied. “Just enjoying it, I guess.”
“Hey Walter!” a photographer hollered.
“Thirteen years,” Payton said with a whisper. “Thirteen damn years here and I’m still Walter, not Mr. Payton.” He wore