Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [53]
As sophomores, however, the dynamic shifted. With Eddie’s departure, Walter was thrust into the role of football (and dance) superstar, fawned upon by fellow students, handed one Division II honor after another. The anonymity of his freshman year had vanished, and with his newfound celebrity, said Lorna, came a sizeable ego. “That first year I never had to worry about other girls,” said Lorna. “But sophomore year—he turned into a dog. A lot of girls were throwing themselves at Walter, wanting to get with a star, and he didn’t put up much of a fight.” On multiple occasions, Walter left Lorna waiting at her doorstep. The two would plan a study night—he never showed. They’d schedule an evening at the movies—no Walter. She heard the rumors of one girl this night, another girl that night. “We went from being exclusive and serious to having this kind of off-again, on-again thing where he would show up, not show up, be nice, be moody,” Lorna said. “I loved him, but I didn’t love how he always treated me.”
Unlike Walter’s freshman season, the Tigers entered 1972 with high expectations. When a team finishes 9-1-1, as Jackson State did, people crave more of the same. The Tigers were returning twenty-three lettermen, and in Payton and fullbacks Young and Phillips, Hill boasted three standout sophomore backs.
The Tigers opened at home against Prairie View on September 16, and the six thousand or so fans who braved a cold rain witnessed one of the uglier games in school history. Jackson State won 16–13 over a vastly inferior opponent, but there was nothing pretty in the performance. “I was trying to explain to Coach Hill during the game why we were struggling with their 4-3 defense,” said Charles Brady, a Tigers defensive tackle. “Coach punched me in the belly and told me to shut up.” With Hill rampaging up and down the sideline and Payton held to under fifty total yards, the afternoon felt like a disaster. When the game ended Hill entered the locker room, grabbed his clipboard, marched toward Payton and Young, and slammed both of them over the heads.
“Next week we have Lane!” he screamed. “You better play better! You better play fucking better!”
Odell Tate carried a gun.
If there’s one thing you need to know about Lane College’s dysfunctional football program in the fall of 1972, it’s that the man in charge packed heat. When Tate was hired by the tiny, historically black Jackson, Tennessee–based college prior to the season, it was with the idea that the longtime high school coach would instill a sense of pride and discipline.
To the members of Lane’s executive board, that meant teaching the virtues of hard work and commitment and punctuality and intensity.
To Tate, it apparently meant violent craziness.
“The gun was a .25 automatic,” recalled Cameron Franklin, a Lane offensive guard. “He would bring it to practice every day and keep it in his back pocket. One week we were practicing, and somebody had egged and toiletpapered his car. He thought the players did it, so he started waving the gun at us, screaming, ‘If I catch who did this to my car, I’ll pop ’em!’ ”
Combined with a coach’s madness, the team’s lack of overall talent (the Dragons played in the mediocre SIAC (Southern Intercollegiate Athletic Conference) spelled doom. Lane was playing at Jackson State for the second time in school history, a matchup that had nothing to do with gridiron glory and everything to do with finances. With an enrollment of merely thirteen hundred students and a budget that paled in comparison