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Unlike his father, Jarrett wasn’t an otherworldly athlete, destined for unquestionable superstardom. He refused to play football until his junior year at St. Viator High School in Arlington Heights, choosing to make a name for himself as an all-state soccer player (he spent several years as a member of the Chicago Pegasus Soccer Club, one of the top amateur clubs in the country). Though he had little interest in or knowledge of the intricacies of the sport, Walter attended most of Jarrett’s soccer games, cheering from the sidelines alongside all the other parents. When, as a junior, Jarrett decided to give football a shot, Walter’s emotions were mixed. On the one hand, he could now offer his son valuable advice. On the other, Jarrett Payton would inevitably be compared with Walter Payton—and that wasn’t fair. “I call it the gift and the curse,” said Jarrett. “It’s great having a name, but it can hold you back, too.”

Brittney felt no such pressures. As a student at Station Middle School in Barrington, she participated in track and field, standing out as a sprinter and long jumper. Walter made as many of her meets as possible, and quietly applauded when she did well. As demanding as he could be with his son, he was equally docile with his daughter. Payton loved having a girl, but was perplexed by the dresses and flowers and tea-party birthday celebrations. (“I was probably seven or eight for that one,” Brittney recalled. “We had someone come in and bring funny hats and boas for everyone to wear, and my mom put out real china. My dad was around, but he wasn’t going to sit there with a bunch of little girls drinking tea.”) He could wrestle with his son, throw balls with his son, trade barbs with his son. “With me, he did a lot of tickling,” Brittney said. “He and my brother would pin me down and tickle me to death. I hated that.”

Every so often, Walter would present Connie with an idea for the children. His best one involved money. When Jarrett was fourteen and Brittney ten, he took the kids to the bank and had them open their own checking accounts. The goal was to teach the value of currency—know how much you’re spending and grasp the power of the dollar. “It was very wise,” Brittney said. “I remember taking home economics in high school, and when it came to money I was way ahead. I learned at a young age to know how much I had in my account at all times.

“Because if you’re not careful, it’s all gone.”

PART FIVE

FINAL

Jarrett Payton, Walter Payton’s son

Dad had a sweet tooth for Laffy Taffys. The banana ones. My mom used to go to Sam’s Club and buy the big buckets.

About two years after my father died, we moved out of our house. We were packing up everything, and one of the things we had was this big vase by the glass in the atrium that had been there for years. It was sitting on top of something, so you never got to see in it because it was high up. When we were moving we picked up this big vase, and it almost tipped over. It made a rustling noise, and I was like, “What’s in here?” Well, I dumped it out and hundreds upon hundreds of Laffy Taffy wrappers came pouring out.

It was the most beautiful thing in the world.

CHAPTER 25

SICK

WHEN HE DECIDED TO RACE IN THE TRANS-AM SERIES IN 1990, WALTER Payton was required to undergo a physical as extensive as any he had ever endured as a member of the Chicago Bears.

Weight and height were measured. Blood was taken. He urinated into a small cup, sprinted for forty-five seconds on a treadmill, and jumped straight into the air. When the results were returned Payton was told—as he had always been told before—that he was in good health.

With one seemingly miniscule blip.

According to the exam, Payton appeared to have elevated liver enzymes. He underwent further testing with Jay Munsell, a former team physician with the Bears, who confirmed the findings. “But nobody paid it much mind,” said Kimm Tucker, the executive director of Payton’s charitable foundation. “Walter