Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [37]
The two teammates begrudgingly headed back to Jackson for the remainder of the summer, and on one of the final days Hill agreed to chauffeur Payton home to Columbia. He was still hoping Walter would become a Tiger. “Walter wanted to drive my car, so I let him,” Hill recalled of his brand new red-and-white Cadillac. “Man, if I hadn’t been recruiting him . . . I mean, he was just a crazy driver. Speeding like an insane person. But I didn’t say anything, I just found myself praying all the way that he didn’t hit a tree or a car or some person crossing the street.
“When we finally got there his mom fixed dinner for us. He wanted to go around and see some girl. So, fine, he left, and he stayed out a long time. And I was just content because his mom had cooked these peas, and oh, man, I loved peas. And chocolate cake. And oh, man, her biscuits. So I’m content—I ain’t worried about what time he’d get back. But his father was upset—how can he keep this man’s car like that? He was mad. It was rude, but he could have kept the car. Anyway, I wasn’t worried about it. I’m saying to myself, ‘I know I’ve got him, because his old man isn’t gonna stand for no mess.’ Even though Kansas State was still trying to get him. So when he got back, Walter said, ‘Coach Hill, you go on back to Jackson, and I promise you I’ll be there in the morning.’ I’m all smiling. I’ve got me a piece of cake, I’ve got myself a running back. Because I didn’t have to worry no more about Kansas State or anyone else.”
But Payton had signed his letter of intent with the Wildcats which, from Gibson’s perspective, was written in blood. The university sent Payton his one-way plane ticket to the Midwest. He was scheduled to leave on a Tuesday afternoon from, of all places, Jackson, and would arrive that evening in Manhattan. His dorm room was ready. His purple-and-white practice jersey hung from a locker. His name and number—PAYTON 22—was printed in black marker atop white athletic tape. No matter what Eddie Payton or Bob Hill were saying, Walter steeled himself to fly off to Kansas. He packed his bags, cleaned out his childhood bedroom, hugged his mother and sister, shook his father’s hand, and departed Columbia for the Jackson Airport.
With one itsy bitsy stop.
Because he arrived in Jackson more than five hours before his flight was scheduled to depart, Payton paid a final visit to his brother. He showed up just in time for the start of one of the Tigers’ practices. “The campus was as beautiful as I remembered it,” Payton wrote in his autobiography. “When Coach Hill saw me, he called me over to talk.”
The two sat down and watched the players run through their drills.
“Have you decided where you’re going?” Hill—ever persistent—asked.
“I think so,” Payton replied.
“Well,” said Hill, “I just hope it’s a place that puts as much emphasis on education as it does football, like we do here. You know, Jackson State has a lot to offer, and I’m talking about a lot more than football. You have to get your education, because nobody plays football all his life.”
Hill paused before continuing. “I can show you on paper,” he said, “that ninety-eight percent of the guys that play football here get their college degrees.”
Payton was no dummy. He knew Hill was pulling out all the stops. After a summer in Jackson, Payton was close with many of the Tiger players. He knew his way around the campus, felt comfortable in the environs, had his brother to lean on.
Though Hill’s speech hadn’t fully swayed him, it did cause Payton to skip his flight to Manhattan. The Kansas State coaches had arranged for Walter to take a bus from Manhattan Regional Airport to campus. They waited for two hours—no word. “I finally called someone from Mississippi to ask where Walter was,” said Gibson. “They told me he was going to Jackson State. I said, ‘Jackson State? He signed with us.’ ”
Payton had yet to actually make the