Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [211]
Which is where Jerry Clinton came in.
Raised in a housing project on the south side of St. Louis, Clinton was a former Golden Gloves boxer who, against all odds, worked his way up from lugging cases of beer to, in 1977, becoming the president of Grey Eagle Distributors, the Anheuser-Busch beer distributorship in St. Louis County. Clinton had initially purchased 5 percent equity in the company, then turned that into 50 percent and, eventually, 100 percent. Under his watch, Grey Eagle’s market share went from 30 percent to 70 percent, and throughout St. Louis he became known as something of a financial Houdini. “Jerry was an incredibly successful businessman who came to represent our city in a lot of ways,” said Walter Metcalfe, an attorney who represented Clinton and Grey Eagle for more than twenty years. “He had been very generous with local charities, and people loved him for that.”
Unlike Bidwill, Clinton was civic-minded, and when he first caught wind that the NFL was looking to return to his city, he wanted in. “Jerry was a huge football fan,” said Jim Otis, a friend and former Cardinals running back. “When he used to have the distributorship he’d come out to our practices and give all the players beers to crack open. I think he liked being around the game.”
In the late 1980s, the main financial player in the expansion effort was Francis W. Murray, a Philadelphia-based entrepreneur who at one point had owned a minority share of the New England Patriots. Murray was the sort of man who people wanted to believe in, because the words that oozed from his mouth were usually appealing and complimentary. He made enticing promises, offered heaps of praise, spewed visions of grandeur that were ultimately more fantasy than reality. Growing up in Philly, he sold sodas and hot dogs at neighborhood bingo games to make money, and the stories he told about those days were uproarious and uplifting. When Fran Murray talked, people listened. “It was hard not to like Fran,” said Clinton. “He was engaging.” Rozelle approved of Murray’s involvement, especially after his option to buy a controlling share of the Patriots from Billy Sullivan had failed to pan out.
Clinton was first introduced to Murray in 1987, and he was not impressed. They met in an office in Maryland Heights, Missouri, and Clinton was taken aback not by Murray’s awkward mannerisms or braggart ways—but by his shoes. “He had on a blue pinstripe suit and brown shoes,” Clinton recalled. “I thought that was very unusual. He was an excellent talker, an excellent motivator. I jokingly used to refer to him as Harold Hill, the Music Man.”
For Clinton, an initial warning sign came when Murray—supposedly a multimillionaire—asked him for a three-million-dollar loan. Had he done some investigating, Clinton would have found that Murray had been successfully sued some twenty-two times for nonpayment of debts, stemming from, according to a St. Louis Post-Dispatch report, “the collapse of fast-food restaurants he owned in the 1970s.” Furthermore, Murray had been sued eleven times by various local, state, and federal government branches on tax-related charges. His lone source of credibility with the NFL was his interest in the Patriots. The league had never properly delved into his credentials. Nor had Clinton. “I figured if my attorney brought Fran into my office,” he said, “he’d been checked.” On February 27, 1989, the two men announced the formation of the St. Louis NFL partnership. Murray owned 51 percent, Clinton 49 percent. “We’re not asking anyone for anything,” Murray said at the time—an odd declaration, considering he had just borrowed three million dollars.
This is what Walter Payton walked