Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [67]
“What Walter really needs is exposure,” Frank Bannister, Jr., a commentator for the Mutual Black Network and, at the time, the only black Heisman voter, told Jackson State’s student paper. “Not enough people have seen Walter, but we’re trying to work on that. If the committee is in a mood sympathetic to the small colleges and black colleges then Walter just might slip in. He has the records, the ability, the character, he’s worked with handicapped kids, he’s a good student, and he’s been a team leader. He should win it.”
In Sports Illustrated’s highly anticipated College Football Preview issue, Payton’s name appeared on page 82, a passing reference within a single essay devoted to the nation’s small colleges. Griffin’s visage, meanwhile, was plastered across the cover, a football tucked beneath his right elbow, running the ball toward presumptive glory. “I can’t say I knew a whole lot about Walter,” said Griffin. “I’d heard his name, but Jackson State wasn’t on TV, so I didn’t get a chance to see him. It’s a shame, because he obviously deserved the attention.”
Beginning with the Sports Illustrated slight, Payton became obsessed with Griffin. Ohio State’s star was five foot nine, 185 pounds—roughly the same height as Payton, but fifteen pounds lighter. He ran a 4.6 forty, a tenth of a second slower than Payton’s 4.5 time (Jefferson often cited Payton’s 4.4 speed—which was as legitimate as his supposed six-foot-one stature). Griffin seemed to have great vision and strong hands, but whenever Ohio State was on national television (a common occurrence), Payton watched, his veins bulging with each word of praise from an announcer. “Look at this garbage!” Payton would yell. “The holes they’re opening for him are enormous. I’d run circles around this guy.” 4
“It was a controlled rage,” said Rodney Phillips, Payton’s roommate and teammate. “Archie was getting all that publicity, and Walter couldn’t. But he knew he was the better football player. We all did.”
Payton’s goal was to show it to the world and have the finest season in college football history. Though the resentment certainly fueled him, it was naïve. In actuality, the so-called doubters didn’t exist, because few people who mattered took Walter Payton’s efforts seriously enough to even be termed doubters. (Noted Jefferson at the time: “Lots of newspapers around the nation don’t even print our scores, much less give details of the games.”) Payton was a true Heisman candidate, in the same way Lyndon LaRouche runs for president every four years. He could accumulate ten thousand yards and five hundred touchdowns in 1974, and the feats would still be largely dismissed as low level. To most Heisman voters, SWAC statistics were meaningless.
“Walter felt he needed to go above and beyond in order to get the due he was deserved,” Hill said. “He probably needed to be perfect. As did our team.”
The Tigers fielded a preposterously talented club in 1974, with thirty-eight returning lettermen and a fully intact offensive line. Rickey Young would emerge as an elite fullback, and quarterback Jimmy Lewis was often mentioned (incorrectly, it turned out) as a professional prospect. With Brazile and Tate at linebacker, the defense was fierce. Twelve members of the team eventually played in the NFL—more than both supposedly superior in-state schools, Mississippi State and Ole Miss.
The spotlight, however, was on Walter Payton. In practices, defensive players could unload on quarterbacks, on receivers, on linemen. “But if you touched Walter, Coach Hill would hit you with a wood board,” said Perry. Or worse. A Bishop wide receiver named Joe Pierce recalled