Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [79]
“He was easy to find on film,” Tobin said. “The small-school question was ‘Could he handle the big lights?’ ”
Pardee remained unconvinced until he traveled to Mobile for the Senior Bowl. Sitting along the sidelines during practices, Pardee couldn’t believe what he was watching. The little back from Jackson State was slamming into bigger, stronger, more powerful defensive players from Division I schools and causing serious damage. “You didn’t have to be any type of high-powered sleuth to see that the kid had some talent,” said Pardee. “Talk about a thoroughbred. He had great body control, great eye-hand coordination, great ability to change direction. I was sold.”
Bud Holmes, however, wasn’t sold.
He wasn’t sold on Payton as a person, and he wasn’t sold on Payton as a client. Midway through the Clarion-Ledger story from the day of the draft, Payton was quoted as saying, “I still do not have an agent.” Holmes was taken aback. Hadn’t Payton said to him, “You’re my agent,” several days earlier? Hadn’t they shook hands?
Over the course of the next few days, Holmes never heard from Payton. Then, on a late Friday evening, the phone rang. It was Walter. “Bud, I’m confused,” he said in a panic. “I’m at the airport and I have to go up to Chicago for a press conference, and I don’t know what to do.”
Holmes was furious. “OK, Walter, do you have something to write with?” he said.
“Yeah,” Payton said. “I’ve got a pen.”
“Here’s what you do,” Holmes said. “You get on an airplane and you fly to Chicago. As soon as you get off the plane, go to a phone booth.”
“OK,” Payton said. “Got it.”
“Good,” Holmes said. “Now, in that phone booth they’ll have the newest Yellow Pages. Open the book and look under ‘Attorneys.’ It’s spelled A-T-T-O-R-N-E-Y-S. Got it?”
“Yeah,” said Payton. “I got it.”
“Great,” Holmes said. “Get yourself one, because you’re gonna need a crazy son of a bitch to represent you. I don’t fool with crazy bastards like you.”
Payton stuttered and stammered. Holmes didn’t. “I ain’t heard a word from you, and I do not beg,” he said. “To hell with your flight. If you’re not here in my office at ten o’clock tomorrow morning—and I don’t mean ten-ohone—you can get someone else to represent you. Because I’m not putting up with this bullshit.”
Never mind that the Bears had planned an entire trip in his honor—Payton left the airport in Jackson. “The team sent me to pick him up at the terminal in Chicago,” said Pat McCaskey, a public relations assistant with the team and the grandson of George Halas, the Bears’ owner. “I waited and waited at the gate. No Walter.” The following morning, Holmes arrived at his Hattiesburg-based office at seven o’clock, and found Payton standing by the entrance. Holmes brushed past him without saying a word. His secretary rang him moments later. “Walter Payton is here,” she said. “He said he has an appointment.”
“He does,” Holmes replied. “But it’s at ten. Tell him to come back then.”
When Payton returned, Holmes gave him one of the great tonguelashings of his young life. “Walter,” he said, “we can start over or we can just put