Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [87]
“That was the last time this game took place, and there’s no way we’re doing things that way again,” McKay said. A hushed silence blanketed the room. The coach smiled—“That’s because this year we’ll make sure to get you guys a real volleyball!” The players burst into laughter.
The initial practice was held on a Friday afternoon at Northwestern’s Dyche Stadium. Bartkowski was one of the first to arrive, and he took the field early to warm up with Pat McInally, the wide receiver/punter from Harvard. While leisurely tossing the ball, Bartkowski spotted something that stopped his arm, midmotion. It was Walter Payton—and he was walking on his hands. “But not just a few feet,” Bartkowski said. “Walter exited a field house on his hands, walked a hundred yards to the field on his hands, walked all the way around me to the far goalpost on his hands, and walked back on his hands. I’m talking about three hundred yards, easy.”
Brazile and Tate had four years of freaky Payton athleticism under their belts. The other All-Stars did not. Payton leapfrogged coaches and dunked basketballs and tossed eighty-yard spirals. He stuck out his tongue and, somehow, turned it 180-degrees upside down. “He was a gymnast,” said Louis Carter, a running back from Maryland. “He would bounce around, fall down, bounce right back up.” Said Larry Burton, a Purdue wide receiver: “Walter was pulling out these handstands and backflips, and we were all like, ‘What planet does this guy call home?’ ”
In an effort to impress his more famous teammates, Payton spent the first week of practices pulling out all the stops. He threw his forearm shiver at White and Wasick and every other defender naïve enough to step in his way. His stiff-arm froze defensive backs like Colzie and Texas A&M’s Tim Gray. He held kicking contests with McInally, who went on to a Pro Bowl punting career with the Cincinnati Bengals, and launched bombs alongside Bartkowski and Haden. “Walter was always the last guy to leave practice,” said McInally. “He would hang around and shag our kicks, and he’d run them all back forty yards at full speed.”
“We couldn’t wait to hit the bars and drink,” said Jim Obradovich, USC’s tight end. “Meanwhile, Walter would be working his ass off.”
Midway through his three weeks at Evanston, a seemingly irrelevant life-altering moment took place. Known as “L’il Monk” at Jackson State, with the All-Stars Payton was referred to as either “Walter” or “Walt.” One day, during an otherwise unremarkable practice, Payton was carrying the ball when he approached Colzie, the hard-hitting defensive back. Smiling ear to ear, Payton yelled, “Your sweetness is your weakness!” then stutterstepped, lifted one leg high into the air, and burst down the field.
“What did Walter say to you?” Colzie was asked by teammates.
“Some nonsense,” he replied, “about my sweetness being my weakness.”
A nickname was born. From that point on, Payton was “Sweetness.” After a lifetime of imperfect monikers that never quite worked, here was one that fit perfectly. The smiley, goofy, soft-spoken Payton was a sweet person. The cutting, dashing, swiveling Payton was a sweet runner. “We had a big blackboard in the middle of our locker room,” said Ralph Ortega, a linebacker from the University of Florida. “Every single morning Walter would walk in and write SWEETNESS EQUALS WALTER PAYTON across the board. I thought, ‘Who is this clown?’ ”
Two weeks into workouts, Payton was having the time of his life. McKay was the anti–Bob Hill, limiting practices to an hour and a half (and usually watching from the stands, a cigar wedged between his lips), refusing to enforce a curfew, and often returning