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“So much for the great Walter Payton,” Ehrmann said. “That kid will never make it.”

Stuck in a foreign city, plagued by a certain brand of Southern shyness, bewildered by the plummeting temperature, the twenty-two-year-old Payton had few people to turn to. Unlike the majority of his fellow rookies, who basked in their newfound independence, Payton hungered for structure and familiarity. He lived with his mother Alyne in a small one-bedroom apartment in Arlington Heights, a Chicago suburb. She cooked all of her son’s favorites (in particular, biscuits and gravy), folded his laundry, and took his messages, but wasn’t especially useful when it came to relieving him of his football-related anxieties. Eddie, his older brother, was off teaching high school P.E. in Memphis. They spoke via phone, but infrequently. Rickey Young, Payton’s blocking back at Jackson State, was a rookie with the San Diego Chargers, busy trying to navigate his own way through the league. “There were many two A.M. phone calls,” said Holmes. “Walter just needing to talk.” Connie Norwood, Walter’s girlfriend, was back at Jackson State, beginning her sophomore year. Her photograph sat atop his dresser, with each glance his mood growing increasingly forlorn. The two talked regularly (Payton only called from the Bears’ headquarters, where players could use the phone free of charge), and Connie would come to Chicago for occasional visits. Marriage seemed to him like a wise idea. “You can move here to the city,” he pleaded. “You’ll love it.” Connie knew better. She could wait.

Sometimes Payton would take his 280ZX and tear through the back roads, zipping past traffic lights and stop signs as the speedometer read 80 . . . 90 . . . 100 . . . 110. Other times he would lose himself in television—Starsky & Hutch, Kojak, Happy Days. Not one for the books, Payton’s reading would come either via the Chicago Tribune or the Bible, which he opened each morning before driving off for practice or games.

Beginning with the preseason, many of Chicago’s players met for beers and burgers every Monday night. Payton occasionally stopped in, but quietly, and only for ten to fifteen minutes. Never did anyone see alcohol touch his lips. When the regular season began, members of the Bears would congregate in Soldier Field’s belowground parking lot after home games, then head out to the local bars and clubs. Payton almost never attended. “He didn’t know what to expect, so he was kind of standoffish,” said Bo Rather, a wide receiver. “Walter didn’t speak to many people. He was extraordinarily uncomfortable.”

The headaches first arrived during the exhibition season, then refused to leave. The pain was akin to a drill digging into his temples. Payton had never suffered from pressure-related anxiety while at Jackson State, probably because there wasn’t much pressure. The Tigers were good, Payton was great, and winning came easily. Now the burden was overwhelming. “The headaches got really bad, to the point that he was missing practices,” said Steve Schubert, a Bears wide receiver. “The skill he had was unbelievable, but that first year was a real struggle.”

“Walter was very sensitive, and he put a lot of pressure on himself,” said Peiffer. “Us not being a very good line surely exacerbated that.”

Temporary relief came in the second week, when Chicago hosted the Philadelphia Eagles and, against a more-talented team, pulled out a 15–13 victory on a Bob Thomas field goal with eight seconds remaining. Payton, in the words of the Tribune’s Pierson, “[Shedded] his goat horns with uncanny brilliance,” rushing for ninety-five yards and making several key catches from quarterback Gary Huff after Douglass was benched. “I recall that game very well,” said John Bunting, an Eagles linebacker, “because afterward I remember thinking, ‘I need to get out of this league, because some rookie just made a fool out of me.’ Walter was young and raw, but he had a different speed, a different twitch, a different quick.”

The victory, however fulfilling, proved