Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [239]
When Payton was introduced by Paul Friedman, the Cubs’ public address announcer, he strode to the mound, removed his jacket to reveal the jersey, crossed himself, and spun his hat backward. The 39,092 fans at the sold-out stadium stood and cheered. The sun was bright, the temperature forty-nine degrees. A gentle breeze blew across the field. Sammy Sosa, the team’s star right fielder, crouched behind home plate, pounded his mitt, and waited for the pitch. With all the energy he could muster, Payton reached back and threw a looping strike. Sosa jogged to the mound, and the men embraced in a bear hug. “Walter Payton, we’re praying for him,” Mark Grace, the Cubs first baseman, said afterward. “I hope he treats this disease like an oncoming defensive back.”
Walter Payton wanted to believe. He was, at his core, a professional athlete, and professional athletes—as Grace’s words illustrated—are trained to uncover a way to overcome everything. It was Mike Ditka, the gritty coach, who initially greeted news of Payton’s illness by insisting his old halfback would “find a way to beat this”—as if this were an opposing linebacker moving in for the tackle.
The harsh truth, however, was now impossible to ignore. On the day after the first pitch, Payton had been scheduled to speak to the Machinery/ Materials Conference and Exposition at Chicago’s McCormick Place. That morning, he could barely lift himself out of bed. “He was too taxed to make the trip,” Quirk told the Tribune. “He had a very big day yesterday.”
For most Chicagoans, Walter Payton standing atop the Wrigley Field mound would be a final image of the iconic hero. The summer months were harsh ones for Payton. On May 10, when his CA 19-9 levels were frighteningly high, Mayo’s doctors performed exploratory surgery. The results were devastating. The cancer had spread to his lymph nodes. “The malignancy was very advanced,” Gores later explained, “and progressed very rapidly.” Should the chemotherapy and radiation treatments he was receiving at Mayo fail to work, Payton would be dead within a half-year’s time. This, there was no debating.
“The lowest moment came after that diagnosis,” said Quirk. “Dr. Gores told him there was a three-week protocol where he was supposed to be at Mayo Monday through Friday for different treatments. At the start of the third week Walter called and said, ‘Ginny, get me out of here. I’m coming home.’ He kind of threw in the towel. It was too much.
“When I spoke with Dr. Gores about Walter’s decision, he cried. I’ll never forget that.”
Payton’s final public appearance came on July 25, when he attended a ceremony at the Destiny Church in Hoffman Estates (Walter stayed for fifteen minutes, leaving when the pain became too great). He forced himself to eat, and when his appetite gave out he was fed intravenously. His weight dropped by the day, and his optimism crumbled with it. Payton became increasingly downcast and despondent, and a man known for his moodiness turned even moodier. Not that anyone could blame him. The trips to Mayo for chemotherapy and radiation were excruciating, and Suhey still cringes at the memory of Payton’s suffering. “For a guy who could take so much pain on the football field, this was a real test,” Suhey said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Just nightmarish.”
Payton reassured people that he was on the waiting list for a new liver, and he expected the pager to go off “any day now.” Truth be told, there was no pager. There never had been a pager. “He didn’t want us feeling sorry for him,” said Scott Ascher, his restaurant partner. “He wanted everyone to think he would be all right. It