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By Root 1417 0

Allen Richardson for a forty-one-yard touchdown strike. Payton ran in the extra point, then reached the end zone again moments later on an eight-yard scamper that included no fewer than three forearms smashing into the heads of would-be tacklers. As the teams jogged into their respective locker rooms for the halftime break, the scoreboard reading 35–0, Jackson State’s players barked wildly at the Dragons. “They should have stopped the game,” said Harris. “Every time I looked up I saw number thirty-four running toward me. He was a beast. You could not arm tackle him. It was impossible.”

For Lane, the second half was even worse. Tate stubbornly refused to switch from a 4-3 defense to a six-man defensive line, so Hill continued to run the ball. Payton scored four more times, including a weaving twenty-seven yarder late in the fourth quarter to cap the 72–0 romp. Lane’s defenders were so physically decimated by Payton’s stiff-arms and elbow blasts that, in the final minutes, Tate replaced them with offensive players. “I touched Walter one time all game,” said Raybon, “and it was when he was in the end zone. We were disgraced.”

Payton’s totals for the day proved the best in Jackson State history: 279 yards rushing, a SWAC-record seven touchdowns. “To tell you the truth, I blew that one,” said Hill. “I had once scored seven touchdowns when I played at Jackson State, and I never wanted anyone to touch that record. So I don’t know what I was thinking.”

As Payton walked off the field after the final gun, Lane’s players approached him one by one, hands extended, pride battered. Though they had received a hellacious beating, most knew they had witnessed something special.

“I didn’t leave the field until they cut off the scoreboard,” said Bobby McKiver, a Lane linebacker. “I just sat there, shocked that we let one man kill us like that. Finally, our team doctor came out to get me. He said, ‘Bobby, the sun will rise again.’ ”

“Doc,” McKiver replied, “it seems pretty damn dark to me.”

As word of Walter’s accomplishment spread slowly across the country, the general reaction was ho-hum. Wasn’t there always some Division II halfback or Division III quarterback putting up astronomical numbers against a high school–caliber defense nobody had ever heard of?

Within a week, however, more than ten NFL scouts arrived on the Jackson State campus to attend Tigers practices. Hill held some vague form of the same conversation on multiple occasions:

Scout: So is this Payton kid for real?

Hill: He’s the best pure runner I’ve ever seen.

Scout: What’s he like off the field?

Hill: He’s quiet and polite and never causes any trouble. Before practices he gathers all the other running backs and leads them in prayer. That’s Walter.

Scout: Do you think he’ll do well in the pros?

Hill: One day, he’ll own the pros.

The Hill-Payton relationship was a quirky one. With on-field excellence, the player felt increasingly comfortable messing with the coach. Mimicking him behind his back. Mimicking him to his face. Jokingly telling teammates to ignore the old man. Even taking his car when the keys were left dangling from the ignition. Hill was superstitious, and Walter delighted in finding stray black cats and placing them in his office. (In one bizarre moment, a Jackson State player tied a noose around a black cat’s neck and hung it from the rearview mirror of Hill’s car. Hill never drove the vehicle again.)

In case anyone thought Hill might have mellowed after his first season, they were quickly reminded otherwise. When a center named Willis Sweeney botched a snap during special teams drills, Hill stopped practice. “Take your shit off right now!” he screamed. Sweeney paused. His coach wasn’t serious . . . was he? “Take your shit off now! I’m not fucking around!” Surrounded by teammates, Sweeney removed his helmet, his jersey, his shoulder pads, and his shoes. “Now be the fuck out of the dorm by tomorrow! You’ll never play for this team again!”

With Payton, however, Hill was different. He liked how on Sunday mornings, come rain