Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [246]
“But the first thing I’ll tell her about is Walter Payton.”
For Jarrett and Brittney, the event proved much more difficult—and, in the long run, enriching—than the funeral. Emotionally drained from the previous few weeks, Walter’s children stepped onto the field, saw the hundreds upon hundreds of No. 34 jerseys, heard the unyielding cheers—and felt whole. The funeral had been more of a show. This was gritty and heartfelt and real. “I just cried and cried,” said Brittney. “I couldn’t stop crying.”
Here, at Soldier Field, Walter Payton had been his absolute happiest. In his uniform, on the green turf, there were no business transactions or marital difficulties or out-of-wedlock children. Here, Peter Payton didn’t die in jail and Alyne Payton didn’t work three jobs. Here, Walter wasn’t ignored by colleges because of the blackness of his skin. There was no racism; no liver disease or bile duct cancer. He didn’t have to try and come off as someone he wasn’t. He could be himself. He could run free.
Ever since Payton’s death, people had been trying their best to define him in their terms. The religious leaders who had only recently met him. The wife who didn’t live with him. The reporters who were usually kept at bay. Within the confines of a crumbling stadium, however, the real Walter Payton could still be found. Even in his death, it took only a closed pair of eyes and the texture of a brisk Lake Michigan wind to visualize Sweetness rolling around tackle, spinning past the outside linebacker, and slamming his elbow into a defensive back’s chin.
The fans are standing, cheering, chanting “Walter! Walter! Walter!” He pops up off the ground and jogs back toward the huddle, a blinding smile peeking out from beneath his face mask.
Walter Payton is home.
CHAPTER 28
AFTERWORD
THROUGHOUT THE WORLD OF PROFESSIONAL SPORTS, LEGACY IS A TRICKY thing.
For most of the athletes who wear a uniform of some sort, legacy simply does not exist. You’re a rookie. Then you’re a veteran. Then you retire. Then you vanish. Poof! Gone, as if your career never really existed to begin with.
Of the hundreds upon hundreds of players Walter Payton called teammates over his thirteen NFL seasons, how many do we remember? How many would we recognize strolling through an airport or sitting at a table inside Burger King? Truth be told, how many would we recognize if they walked up to our front doors, knocked, and said, “Hello, I’m [FILL IN THE NAME]?”
Walter Payton was different.
Is different.
Twenty-four years after his final game and twelve years following his death at age forty-six, Payton has attained an iconic spot atop the sports pantheon. Whose image can be seen in the background whenever one tunes into the NFL Network’s studio show? Whose name is attached to the award for the NFL’s Man of the Year, as well as the most outstanding offensive player in the Division I Football Championship Subdivision? Who is the namesake behind one of Chicago’s top college preparatory high schools? Whose foundation continues to raise funds for abused, neglected, and underprivileged children in the state of Illinois? Whose nickname—Sweetness—is, within the context of sports, as identifiable as Toyota or IBM or KFC?
Walter Payton.
Truth be told, Payton probably isn’t the greatest pure running back in NFL history. Jim Brown was more skilled. Emmitt Smith gained more yards (he broke Payton’s record in 2002). Earl Campbell was stronger, Gale Sayers was faster, Barry Sanders was more elusive. Throughout his career, Payton was routinely overshadowed by his peers in the same position. He never matched the splendor of O.J. Simpson or the grace of Eric Dickerson. Marcus Allen boasted a regalness Payton lacked. Billy Sims entered the league with greater hype.
Payton, however, touched people. They identified with him, related