Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [250]
Wary of the attention that could come should people learn of her son’s heritage, Angelina and her husband raised Nigel cautiously. He was homeschooled for much of his youth, then attended a high school for the intellectually gifted. Now twenty-six and living in Illinois, Nigel is completing his college education. He tells precious few people of his lineage and chose not to speak for this book. “He’s an incredible person,” said Angelina. “Despite it all, he’s a man I’m very, very proud of. It wasn’t always easy, but it’s worked out well.”
Though the Mississippi branch of the Payton family has come to embrace Nigel, the same cannot be said for the Illinois faction. Connie has never mentioned his existence in public. When Jarrett and Brittney are asked about their family, they never broach the subject of their half-brother. They know he resides nearby, yet seem to treat him as they would a cardboard cutout—present, but mostly ignored. Perhaps they have good reason; perhaps the embarrassment that would accompany the revelation of a philandering father outweighs the potential positives.
Whatever the case, it is heartbreaking.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I AM WRITING THESE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS FROM THE BOYHOOD BEDROOM OF Elliot Lieberman, my wife’s twenty-eight-year-old cousin and a kid who, judging by the CD rack situated alongside my laptop, once had an inexplicable thing for the pop band B*Witched.
Elliot’s room is an ode to the eternalness of youth. There are Little League trophies and academic plaques, a poster of the 1994–95 Luveabulls, a small wooden bat, baseball cards, a pair of weathered KangaROOS sneakers. Over the course of the past two and a half years, I have spent a great amount of time here. Thanks to Elliot’s wonderful mother, Cathy Lieberman, I come and go as I please, often flying into Chicago on a second’s notice and taking up residence—rent, meals, towels, Internet, Molly the dog, and engrossing conversation included free of charge. As a result, I know the intricacies of this room by heart. The large green pillow at the foot of the bed. The photo montage of various family vacations. The dusty books lining the shelves.
Of the myriad objects, my favorite is a simple one. In the corner of the room, at the base of a hat rack, sits what appears to be a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap. It is red and a bit bulky, and on the back the words CHAMPION COACH MARK are stitched in white capital letters.
Whenever I enter Elliot’s room, I inevitably pick up the hat and smooth over the embroidery with my fingers. I think about Mark raising two wonderful kids, Elliot and his sister, Lisa, and how proud he’d be today had he not passed seven years ago. Mark was a passionate Chicago sports fan, and as I lie in bed at night I often imagine him sitting on the edge of the mattress, asking aloud whether I’ve yet spoken to Mike Ditka; if Jimmy Mac has returned my phone calls; if I’m happy with how things are going thus far.
Like Walter Payton, Mark Lieberman passed from cancer. And while his death was a tragedy the family will never fully recover from, it has allowed me to personalize parental loss; to understand the harrowing void that comes with no longer having a father to turn to. The pain can never be fully healed. The reminders of a lost hero serve to both soothe and bruise the psyche. One wants to move on. One can never fully move on.
I cannot overstate my appreciation and gratitude toward the Lieberman clan. At the start of this project, they were my wife’s family. Now I feel as if they are mine, too. So, to Cathy, Lisa, Aaron, Julia, Elliot, Emily, and Bart—huge thanks. This project does not exist without your assistance and compassion.
Writing a book is a nightmare.
Those exact words appeared seven years ago in the acknowledgments of my first release, and while I try and wear a happy-happy-joy-joy face whenever possible, the sentiment remains undeniably true. I am, on the one hand, blessed to be able to do what