Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [199]
Even in the off-season Payton’s life was laid out for him. The family employed a live-in nanny, Luna Picart, a heavily accented Jamaican émigré who did 90 percent of the cooking, cleaning, and child rearing. Payton had an executive assistant, Ginny Quirk, who answered all his calls, filed all his papers, scheduled all his appointments. Bud Holmes pushed his client toward eventual ownership of an NFL team, handling most of the necessary filings and contacts. His accountant, Jerry Richman, made it so Payton rarely had to think about numbers. There has always been much talk of Payton’s hands-on involvement in his charity, the Walter Payton Foundation. But, truth be told, Quirk and, later, Kimm Tucker, managed all of the day-to-day issues. Payton showed up when told, smiled when told, spoke on behalf of kiddies when told. He believed in the cause (helping care for low-income children), but rarely took the lead.
Now, because of the pampering, as an ex-football player Payton found himself burdened by a realization that had crippled thousands of ex-athletes before him: I am bored out of my mind.
“I had no idea how to fill my days,” Payton said. “Prior to that, everything in my life was very regimental. Everything was, ‘Walter, do this, Walter, do that.’ There was not much in the way of me thinking. I was very much a creature of habit. I was the first to practice, I was the last to leave. I kind of thrived in an environment where I knew what was expected of me. Suddenly, I didn’t know what to do . . . people have no idea what an adjustment that is.”
Payton understood what it meant to be a celebrity, so he continued to play the role. In public, he laughed and smiled and waved and signed autographs. When strangers asked, he talked about how thrilled he was to be free of the burdens. “I’m not going to miss the pounding,” he told ABC’s Peter Jennings. “And the getting up at six and working out until dusk.” The words were pure fantasy. He would miss it desperately. In a world occupied by mechanics and plumbers and flight attendants and lawyers, nobody wanted to hear a wealthy ex-football player whine about the sudden lack of purpose to his life. But that’s what Payton was experiencing—a sudden lack of purpose. “He went from an abnormal existence as an athlete to a normal one,” said Brittney Payton, his daughter. “How does anyone do that?”
In early February of 1988 Payton flew to Hawaii to preside over the opening coin toss at the Pro Bowl (he found his first taste as a has-been to be depressing, and didn’t stay for the game), with a brief stop in San Diego to meet with Pete Rozelle, the NFL commissioner, about the possibility of one day owning an expansion franchise. He accepted a (largely nominal) position on the Bears’ board of directors, was named winner of the World Book James Arneberg Award for outstanding service and was honored by Columbia High School with the retiring of his uniform number (still bitter over his father’s death, he refused to attend the ceremony). It was all nice and dandy, but mind-numbingly dull. Once you’ve played in nine Pro Bowls, where’s the thrill in being an attendee? Once you’re honored 8,000 times, what’s 8,001? Once you’ve had fifty thousand fans chanting your name . . . well, how does a person move beyond such a thing?
When, four years earlier, Walter and Connie built their dream home on five and a half acres in South Barrington, the idea was that it would serve as an oasis from the real world; that the shooting range in the basement and home theatre system and pool tables and lounge chairs and fishing pond would make 34 Mudhank