Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [97]
“Walter was childish,” said Bob Avellini, a rookie backup quarterback. “A nice guy, without a doubt, but childish. We’d be working out in shorts and he’d pull your shorts down. Maybe it’s funny the first time. By the fifth time, it’s not.”
Equally agitating was Payton’s mounting whininess. Back in training camp, when his elbow was swollen and throbbing, Payton ached to get onto the field. Now, in the midst of nonstop losing, the drive lessened. “He had some frustrating times,” said Jim Osborne, the defensive lineman. “I understood. There were guys on the Bears who wouldn’t have made my college team at Southern. It was that bad.” Payton always seemed to have a complaint—his elbow was acting up, his hamstring was tight, his knee felt funny, he had a cold. He moped loudly, and with little restraint. “In that game against the Lions, he came out and we looked him over,” said Fred Caito, the team trainer. “When I told him I’d retape him and send him back out there, you could look at his face and sense his thinking—‘I’m hurt and we’re getting blown out. I don’t want back in.’
“At that point I had real questions about Walter. He was supposed to be a good player, but he didn’t have much of a desire to play. I even told him, ‘Walter, everybody is hurt, everybody has something.’ But he was a kid and he needed to grow up.”
During one memorable practice, Payton was participating in a noncontact drill when he approached Earl Douthitt, a rookie cornerback out of Iowa, lowered his forearm, and slammed it into Douthitt’s chin. Payton chuckled, but the defensive players stewed. On the next play, Payton again ran through the hole, where Douthitt was waiting. This time, he flattened Payton, sending him sprawling to the ground. “He gets up and he wants to fight me,” said Douthitt. “He could dish it, but he couldn’t take it. Typical whiner.”
Payton’s biggest gripe was with the play calling. Thanks to a lengthy history of preposterously terrible drafts, the Bears lacked anyone resembling a competent starting quarterback. Douglass had been mercifully released, Huff could not figure out NFL defenses (in six professional seasons, he would complete sixteen touchdown passes and fifty interceptions), and Avellini was raw and plodding (teammates nicknamed him “Slo-Mo Bob”). As a result, Chicago ran the ball with such regularity that defenses barely acknowledged the presence of wide receivers. Payton faced a never-ending string of eightman fronts, and he came to dread the inevitable poundings.
On the day following the Detroit setback, Payton called Bud Holmes, his agent. “The coaching here is a joke!” he screamed. “Everything is so predictable! Pardee doesn’t believe in throwing the ball! I can’t take it!”
Holmes waited until his client was done venting. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Hold on one second. I’ve got it right here.”
“What do you have?” Payton asked.
“Your contract,” Holmes replied. “Those sons of bitches! Those sons of bitches! I’m getting on the phone right now and I’m calling Jim Finks and we’re gonna have it out!”
“What are you going to say?” Payton asked.
“Boy, they ain’t paying you a damn to coach, and I’m sick of it,” Holmes said. “All this damn coaching you want to do, and those sons of bitches ain’t paying you a dime! Those sons of bitches are gonna pay you!”
“No,” said Payton, “don’t call.”
“I’m going to!” countered Holmes.
“Don’t,” begged Payton. “Please don’t.”
Holmes paused, embracing his client’s nervousness.
“Now listen here, you son of a bitch!” he said. “That coach wants to win more than you do because his job depends