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By Root 1512 0

fans laughed. Even Baltimore took pity. Midway through the third quarter, Chicago defensive back Ted Vactor tore a calf muscle and could barely move. The only other available player, Nemiah Wilson, had already suffered an injury, so Vactor had to remain on the field. “I was lined up against [Colts receiver] Roger Carr,” said Vactor. “And he refused to run past me. He could have scored every time had he wanted to. But we were already dead and buried.” The day’s lone standing ovation was bestowed upon Abe Gibron, the fired head coach who watched from the stands. Wrote the Tribune’s Don Pierson, in a game recap that read like Roger Ebert’s Ishtar review: “The Bears offered no offense, no defense, and no expectations except the sewage. Pardee said he ‘hasn’t given up,’ which is comforting since it was their first game.... The Bears look as remodeled as their Soldier Field home—new paint and new names on the outside, same old problems on the inside. No one knew why the sewers apparently backed up in the Bears’ dressing room, any more than the Bears knew why the Colts, who really aren’t that good, beat the hell out of them.”

Payton’s first carry of the day netted zero yards. His second carry of the day netted zero yards. His third carry went for three yards, but he lost ground on his next two attempts. Overall, Douglass handed Payton the football eight times, and he wound up with no yardage. When he exited the Bears’ locker room, tearstains could be spotted on both of his cheeks.

“Zero yards for the number one pick?” he would later say. “I was so embarrassed. Like any rookie, I wanted to get to Chicago and prove I could play.”

Truth is, Payton could play. His offensive line, however, was a mess. The six men blocking for him were an ode to NFL mediocrity. Center Dan Peiffer was the St. Louis Cardinals’ fourteenth-round pick in 1973, and right tackle Jeff Sevy was a Bears’ twelfth-round selection in ’74. Left guard Noah Jackson had recently been signed from the Canadian league, and right guards Bob Newton and Mark Nordquist—who, oddly, alternated downs while running in plays from the sideline—were marginal veterans. The most starcrossed of the bunch was Lionel Antoine, the third overall pick in the 1972 Draft (one spot ahead of Ahmad Rashad, ten ahead of Franco Harris). Coming out of Southern Illinois, George Halas had likened Antoine to the great left tackles in NFL history. He was big (six foot six), he was strong, and he smoked a pack of cigarettes during most halftimes. A serious knee injury in 1972 downgraded him from line anchor to mediocrity, and he never came close to realizing his potential. “Lionel was a fairly OK player,” said Ray Callahan, the team’s offensive line coach. “Not much more.”

Against the Colts, Payton would take a handoff, move half a step, then—nothing. The lanes were clogged. “They kept trying to run sweeps and we kept tackling him for a loss,” said MacLeod. “He didn’t have a chance. He could never get started.”

Throughout the game, Payton jogged to the sidelines and caught an earful from O’Connor, his position coach. The fans, too, reigned boos upon him, the likes of which he had never before heard. Only afterward, when coaches and teammates studied film from the debacle, did they notice something startling: Payton had pieced together the most breathtakingly inept game anyone had ever witnessed.

“He ran for zero yards, but it was like I’d just watched someone gain a hundred and fifty,” said Mike Adamle, Payton’s backup. “He made a couple of moves in the backfield after he was trapped for losses just to get back to the line of scrimmage and I said, ‘This guy’s great.’ ”

“When the coaches said we were going to run a sweep right or left, Walter had to make every inch by himself,” said Virg Carter, a backup quarterback. “Some of his runs to gain ten yards, he had to take on four or five guys on his own.”

Many remained skeptical. After the final seconds had ticked off the clock and players from the two teams exchanged pleasantries, Ehrmann found himself jogging to the locker room alongside Stan White,