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or shine, Walter would wake up at eight to attend services at the nearby church. He liked how, before every game, he pulled aside all the other Tiger running backs and embraced them in tight hugs. Walter tried his first beer as a sophomore at a dorm party, drank the whole thing, and vomited profusely. “I’m never doing that again,” he told a defensive back named Curtis Jones. (Recalled Milton Webb, a middle linebacker: “When the season ended Walter would come down to the clubs with us. We’d all gather at the Tiger Lounge and drink beer. Walter would come, sit, engage for a few minutes—but never drink. Never.”)

Mainly, Hill liked how, suddenly, Jackson State was a hot ticket. A sellout crowd arrived at Memorial Stadium the following Saturday to watch the Tigers come back from a fourteen-point deficit to beat Kentucky State 28–14. Though far from one of Payton’s most memorable games, players remembered it for Hill’s halftime histrionics. The coach stormed into the locker room, screamed, “Where’s that black motherfucker?” spotted Payton and once again slammed him over the head with a clipboard. Then, for a reason nobody ever understood, Hill ordered all his players to shave. In a shocking moment of defiance, John Tate, a six-foot-two, 230-pound linebacker, refused. Hill grabbed him around the neck and ordered Willie Barnes, the trainer, to bring a razor. “Either you shave, motherfucker!” Hill said, “or I’ll do it for you!” Tate shaved, and Hill celebrated by kicking a wide receiver named Earnest Richardson in the testicles. “A couple of days later we decided we were going to boycott Coach,” said Charles Brady, a defensive tackle. “That shit lasted fifteen minutes. We knew we were too good to ruin a season.”

The Tigers improved to 4-0 with a 35–10 road dismantling of Bishop College, then beat Southern for a fifth-straight victory. Jackson State was now ranked fifth in the latest NCAA Division II poll—the highest spot for a SWAC school. Payton was the team’s brightest star. “Walter was like a Frank Sinatra,” said Roscoe Word, the Jackson State receiver. “God blessed him to sing, he blessed Walter to play football. His ability was a gift from God, but you couldn’t hurt him, he always gave one hundred percent and he was never an asshole. He didn’t ask for preferential treatment or act like a star. He ate in the dining room just like everybody else.”

Hill’s greatest fear—that the offense was becoming too reliant on one player—came to fruition midway through the Bishop game, when Payton absorbed a helmet to the left knee and hobbled off the field with a ligament strain. He would miss three ensuing contests—two of which, with Rickey Young doing most of the ball carrying, Jackson State lost. “We weren’t as good as I thought we’d be,” said Hill. “We lacked something, especially when Walter wasn’t in there. We just weren’t a complete team.”

Despite the shortcomings, the Tigers benefited from a down year for the SWAC. On November 23, they beat Alcorn State 28–14 to clinch a tie with Grambling for the conference championship. Because he was limited to eight games, Payton’s numbers seem merely good, not great—he ran for 781 yards and, with sixteen touchdowns and twenty-one extra points, led the SWAC in scoring. But thanks to the performance against Lane, plus the mounting buzz from scouts, the legend of Walter Payton was growing.

“Beginning that season,” said Hill, “when people talked Jackson State football, they talked about Walter. And when they talked about Walter, they talked about the next great superstar.”

CHAPTER 8

CONNIE

WALTER PAYTON HAD A LONG MEMORY.

If you did something wonderful for him, he rarely forgot. If you did something terrible to him, he rarely forgot, either. Like many athletes of his ilk, Payton used such mental dexterity to his advantage. When an opposing player took a cheap shot, Walter would store the image in his head. A month could pass, a year could pass, five years could pass. Inevitably, payback would come with a forearm to the chin or a stiff-arm to the sternum. Words rarely followed. Walter