Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [244]
“Guys, I’ll help you with everything, but I’ll go to war on this,” Quirk said. “He’s going to be cremated. He wished it. He wrote it. The least we can do is honor that request.”
The family begrudgingly acquiesced, and the funeral parlor agreed to perform the cremation. When it came to the memorial service, however, Connie had her own ideas. Although Payton spent many of his final days staring up from his bed at a vulture-like gaggle of preachers and reverends, he was hardly a man of deep faith. Did he believe in God? Yes. Did he believe that Jesus was Lord? Perhaps. Had he lived what any rational human being would describe as a wholesome, Christ-like existence? Not in years. The young Walter Payton who attended team Bible studies and spoke glowingly of God’s magical ways had existed a long time ago. On his deathbed, a medicated Payton listened as Keith Russell Lee, pastor of the Destiny Church and Walter’s self-described “spiritual coach,” utter the words “Jesus” and “heaven.”
Does that make a man a believer? Apparently so.
The funeral was to be held on Friday, November 5, at Connie’s place of worship, the Life Changers International Church in Barrington Hills. Because of Payton’s celebrity status, it would be an invitation-only affair. Quirk consulted with Kimm Tucker and Ken Valdiserri, the Bears vice president of marketing and broadcasting, and the three compiled the guest list. Even though Payton disdained politics and barely knew the men, Governor George Ryan and Chicago mayor Richard M. Daley were must-haves. So, Quirk initially thought, was O. J. Simpson, Payton’s gridiron rival who, in the years since his retirement, had gone on to fame as an actor, football commentator, and alleged murderer. When Marcus Allen, the legendary Raiders and Chiefs halfback, said he wouldn’t attend if Simpson were present, the Juice was left off the list. The most complicated issue had to do with Lita Gonzalez, the girlfriend of nearly eleven years. On the day after Payton’s death, Gonzalez called Kimm Tucker to find out when she should fly in for the funeral. Tucker nearly dropped the phone. “Lita, I don’t care what relationship you had with Walter,” she said. “If you come the world will look at you as the mistress. I don’t care that he didn’t live with Connie. When the rubber hits the road she’ll be the widow and you’ll be the mistress, and people despise the mistress.”
Translation: You’re not invited.
The funeral began at ten A.M., and had Walter Payton been alive he surely would have cringed. The presiding clergyman was Gregory Dickow, the church’s thirty-five-year-old founder. Decked out in a snazzy black suit, his dark hair slicked back like a used-car salesman, Dickow paced back and forth, Bible in hand, and spoke loudly and knowingly of a man he hardly knew. “Five years after retiring from the NFL, Walter Payton was voted unanimously into the Hall of Fame,” Dickow said, placing emphasis on end of his words. “Six years after that Walter Payton was voted unanimously into the hall of faith. But the hall of faith he was voted into was not based on your vote, not based on my vote, not based on anybody’s vote except three people—the father, the son, and the holy spirit. They voted him in because he had accepted Jesus Christ into his life as his lord and savior.”
“It was embarrassing,” said Quirk. “Just embarrassing.”
The service picked up when Dickow sat down. Quirk had asked Jarrett Payton, Eddie Payton, John Madden, Mike Singletary, and Mike Ditka—men who actually knew and cherished Walter—to speak on his behalf, and they were all spectacular. Jarrett recalled a loving father. Madden and Ditka recalled a warrior-like football player. Singletary recalled a gentle man with a golden heart.
The most memorable words were uttered by Eddie, Walter’s older brother, occasional hunting partner, and lifelong rival. Depending on the source, Walter and Eddie were either somewhat close or not close at all. They were, however, brothers