Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [82]
On June 3, 1975, four months after the draft, Payton and the Bears agreed on a three-year contract that paid $150,000 annually. Including a $126,000 signing bonus, it was the richest deal in franchise history. (Holmes wanted Payton to receive the highest signing bonus ever for a player from Mississippi. In 1971, the New Orleans Saints gave Ole Miss quarterback Archie Manning $125,000.) Payton wasted little time putting the money to good use, buying his dream car, a new gold Datsun 280ZX. Contacted by the Tribune’s Ed Stone, Holmes could barely contain his giddiness. “The major deciding factor was that it has been his life’s ambition to play in the NFL,” Holmes said. “Either offer would have made him financially secure, but one gave him the opportunity to play where he could break established records. He’s got a history of breaking records wherever he goes.”
At long last, Walter Payton was a Chicago Bear.
CHAPTER 11
BIRTH OF SWEETNESS
IN THE DAYS AND WEEKS AFTER THE DRAFT, WALTER PAYTON HAD TO SWALLOW hard, put on his happiest face, and answer question after question about his new team. He talked of how, as a boy, he worshiped at the altar of Gale Sayers, the magical Chicago Bears halfback who, between the years of 1965 and 1968, was arguably the best player in the National Football League. “Gale Sayers has been my idol,” he said. “I used to follow him, watch him when I could, and see what he did in the papers.”
Payton was exaggerating about his admiration for Sayers; for a kid growing up in Columbia, Mississippi, in the 1960s, the Chicago Bears were all but invisible. The television in the Payton household was rarely on, and even if it was, Walter had little-to-no interest in following professional sports. He was an outdoor kid, best suited to running along trails and throwing balls and jumping through sprinklers.
In fact, were Payton better schooled on the recent history of the organization, perhaps he would have thought again and opted for Canada. Or the World Football League. Or a career in special education. Or joining a dance troop in Guam. With a 4-10 record, the Bears had finished last in the NFC Central in 1974, their sixth-straight losing mark. The team’s offense ranked twenty-fifth in a twenty-six-team league, and an unforgivable seventeenth in defense (the franchise had built and protected its reputation on defensive dominance). With Sayers having retired in 1971 and Dick Butkus, the legendarily vicious linebacker, hanging up his uniform two seasons later, Chicago’s roster was a starless collection of has-beens and never-will-bes. Their most noteworthy player was quarterback Bobby Douglass, a fabulous athlete with a cannon for a throwing arm, a club fighter’s toughness, and no idea how to play the game. “We were as bad as football can get,” said Bo Rather, a Bears receiver from 1974 to 1978. “We had a terrible offense, a terrible defense, and no running game to speak of. There was very little ability, and even Vince Lombardi wouldn’t have made much of a difference.”
Throughout the early 1970s, players who came to the Bears directly from Division I colleges were flabbergasted by the shoddy conditions and subpar attitudes. “It was terrible,” said Wayne Wheeler, a wide receiver who had been drafted out of Alabama in the third round in 1974. “It was like going from college back to high school. I actually wrote [Alabama coach] Bear Bryant a letter asking for equipment, and he sent me brand-new gear because the stuff they gave us in Chicago was so poor. Not only was it used, it didn’t even fit.”
Since 1944, the Bears had based their training camp at St. Joseph’s College in Rensselaer, Indiana, a decaying, bug-infested hellhole that, defensive lineman Gary Hrivnak recalled, “made us feel like we were in the army. We didn’t have air-conditioned dorms or a weight