by Eddie Payton
Remember how at Jackson State, Walter was in a funk from being rejected by that girl and her mother, and how he came out of that funk after meeting Connie? Well, the summer following his rookie season in the NFL, Connie (who was Walter’s fiancée at the time) left Jackson State and came to Chicago to be with him. They wed a few weeks later on July 7, 1976. That was a wonderful day for my little brother, and I must say, it really topped off his sweetness tank. He started to explode during his second year. That season Walter really stepped it up and basically became the Bears’ offense, carrying the ball 311 times, which was the most in the league. He led the league in kickoff returns as a rookie, like I said, and now here he was in his second year as a pro leading the league in rushing attempts. He gained 1,390 yards on the ground, which didn’t lead the league, but it sho’ nuff led the National Football Conference (NFC). The Bears finished the year 7–7, which was their best season in eight years. Maybe Walter should’ve married Connie sooner.
Whether Connie was the reason or not, Walter Payton was back in a big way. It was exciting for me to watch him doing what he was doing out there. He was in the best league in the world with the best players in the world, and he was playing like the best of the best. Doesn’t get much better than that. Well, except for being in the NFL with him. That would’ve been better for sure. I enjoyed watching Walter so much during that breakout second year that I started to think about our year together back at Jackson State. I was reliving all the fun we had together as Tigers, and I started to get the itch again. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I was enjoying my job as a high school football coach and teacher in Memphis. It’s just that watching Walter out there during his second season made me want to play again. And if I’m being perfectly honest, growing up I never dreamed that I’d have stopped playing and moved to coaching so soon. I was still a football player, really. It’s just that I wasn’t playing football. So, while I was coaching and teaching and watching Walter introduce himself to football fans everywhere, I just kept trying to stay in shape, wishing, hoping, and praying that somebody in the NFL would give me a shot. I thought maybe someone would remember the things I did in college or the type of athlete I was when I played. Eventually, I got a call that changed everything.
Al Tabor was the special teams coach with the Cleveland Browns during that time. When I was at Jackson State, Al was coaching at Southern University. I’d played against his team while a Tiger, so Al had firsthand knowledge of what I could do. He’d seen me run up and down the field in an up-close and personal kind of way. Well, he eventually left Southern University and became part of the Browns, and he remembered me from when he saw me play back in college. In the summer of 1977, he called me up and said the six most beautiful words I’ve ever heard anyone say to me. “You think you can still play?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Okay, you think you can return kicks?”
Now, again, returning kicks wasn’t something I’d done in college, and I never really saw myself as that kind of player. I always imagined I’d be a running back at the next level, carrying the ball, making guys miss, breaking ankles and records all at the same time. Then I remembered what my brother told me during his rookie year about why he was returning kicks, and I thought, Okay, now, swallow your pride and get paid. My response started out a little weak, perhaps, but I finished strong. “Well, I guess I…yep, I can. Sure can.”
Al was happy to hear it. “Well, we want to bring you in and give you a look,” he told me, “and then if everything works out, we’ll sign you.” I hung up the phone and un-hung up my cleats. I felt like a teenager again, just as thrilled as I could be and filled with the love I had for the game when I first started playing with the neighborhood kids. That call from Al was what I’d been waiting for, and I went out jogging right away to be sure I was in tip-top shape for the upcoming workout, thinking the whole time about all the kicks I was about to get a chance to return on the highest level in football. I was humbled and excited about the opportunity and couldn’t believe it was really happening.
Well, the rest of the Browns coaching staff saw what Al saw in me when I was at Jackson State. I made Cleveland’s team as a free agent, and I was finally in the NFL. I was getting my shot. The problem was, it wasn’t much different than the shot I got in the CFL. I was only with the Browns for two games, a victim of the numbers. You see, our All-Pro defensive tackle, Jerry Sherk, was injured at the time, so they were allowed to have another player on the roster while he recovered. I was that player. We were trying to play games with one less defensive lineman until Jerry got well or we put him on injured reserve. Well, we ended up putting him on injured reserve a little quicker than I thought we would, so he couldn’t play any more that year. They were just going to try to wait him out, so they signed me instead of another defensive lineman. But we just weren’t doing well on defense, and with Jerry on injured reserve, they had to bring in another defensive lineman to replace him. Room had to be made for the new defensive lineman, so I got cut. As they say, the good Lord giveth, and the good Lord taketh away. Fortunately for me, sometimes when the good Lord does that, he giveth again right away.
I’d done enough in those two games with Cleveland that the Detroit Lions took notice. They picked me up off waivers, and I finished the last eight games of the season with the Lions. So, between the Browns and the Lions, I got to play 10 games, and I just have to mention what happened on December 17, 1977. It’s my book, so you’re just going to have to deal with me braggin’ on myself a little here, okay? It was the last game of the year for the Lions, against the Minnesota Vikings. I was really feeling my oats that day and returned two kicks for touchdowns. I ran a kickoff back for a 98-yard score and returned a punt for an 87-yard touchdown. That’s 185 yards and 12 points on two plays. And you know, I actually could’ve had a better game on November 6, 1977, which was about the third week I was with the Lions. We were playing against San Diego at home, and I was ripping up and down the field all day. It was the best I’d ever feel in the NFL, but holding flags erased some good runs and a lot of yardage. Still, I was showing flash out there, and a lot of people saw it. It was a great time for me, and I think more than anything, I was feeling like me again. On the day I scored two touchdowns, I established in the eyes of many that I could play. Some people realized that I was Eddie Payton and not just Walter’s brother. Of course, it was inevitable that some would always compare me to him.
When I first got in the league, somebody said, “Man, you run just like Walter.” I always responded with a wisecrack by saying, “Nah, Walter runs just like me.” Still, some compared us, and I actually took that as a compliment. I even earned the nickname “Sweet P.” Not “Pea” like Sweet Pea from Popeye, but the letter P, for Payton. Walter was Sweetness, and I was Sweet P. I absolutely loved it. I mean, in the NFL, when you’re known by a nickname, that means you’ve arrived. People don’t really know what you’re about until they know you by your nickname. When other players in the NFL hang a moniker on you, that sets you apart from everybody else; it’s really something to wear with pride. Walter and I did just that as Sweetness and Sweet P out there on the fields of the NFL.
You know, when Cleveland first signed me and I made it into the league, people weren’t yet calling me Sweet P. I was just a rookie like all the other newcomers. It’s funny; I was older than Walter, but I was the rookie, and he was the third-year player. I was at a press conference for the Browns, and all us rookies had to step up to the podium and tell the media who we were. Of course, they all knew who I was already. And I don’t mean they knew I was Eddie Payton. No, I mean they knew me as Walter Payton’s brother. Well, I didn’t exactly see it that way, and I let one particular reporter know all about it. He asked, “Well, how does it feel to be the brother of a superstar?” I came right back at him almost without even thinking about it and said, “I don’t know. You’ll have to go to Chicago and ask him how it feels.” That line became my
crowning statement and has been talked about by many. I thought it was a pretty good line, but I know it’s been presented by some that I said it out of jealousy, resentment, or spite. Those folks need to get a sense of humor already. You know, if I couldn’t be a football player or a teacher or a coach, I might’ve tried stand-up comedy. I just love cracking jokes, and that’s exactly how my response to that reporter’s question was intended—as humor. Of course, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t also a dig at the smart-ass reporter who asked such a dumbass question. I mean, “How does it feel to be the brother of a superstar?” Maybe I should have just asked, “How does it feel to be a dumbass?”
Now, I do understand what was behind that question. My brother was becoming a big star in the NFL. While I was waiting to get my shot in the league, Walter was busy casting his shadow on me. I finally made it to the next level of play, only to be standing in the shadow of Sweetness. The worm had turned, as they say, and I was now trying to emerge from his shadow to prove who I was. And you know, that’s when I finally understood what it was like for Walter growing up as the little brother. That’s when I connected with him in a way I hadn’t before. I found myself reflecting on growing up with him, seeing things in a way I wish I could’ve seen them when we were kids. Everything we’d done growing up had a whole new meaning. Everything he’d talked about when he was a freshman at Jackson State, all his fears and what he wanted to do and what people expected from him…well, I don’t think I fully understood all of that until I experienced it myself. I had to make it into the NFL to really get it. I had to put on cleats as a pro before I could know what it was like to be in his shoes. And despite how some have spun my response to that reporter in Cleveland, I embraced being the brother of a superstar. Hell, I even took advantage of it.
When Walter came to Jackson State, he was the freshman and I was the established player telling him how things worked, how you just don’t mess with Coach Hill, what he needed to do in practice, and all of that stuff. I’d been there and done that, and I knew how it all worked. I was the big man on campus answering all the questions he had about why we were doing this or that, and what the coaches were looking for. Walter would come to me as a freshman in college and we’d sit up late at night just talking about things like how our other teammates were doing and how Walter could stand out from them. Well, when I came into the NFL, Walter was already there, and our roles had reversed. It was his turn to teach me what I needed to do as a rookie and how to make it in the league. I was now the one calling him up while I was at training camp, asking him what I should be looking for or doing to stand out from the crowd. The little brother was now teaching the big brother the tricks of the trade. And you know, I think the best advice he ever gave me was when he said, “The only thing you need to remember, Eddie, is that you are responsible for your job. It’s up to you to do it right, and you can’t get away with not doing it right. It’s all on film.”
He was the one on TV, but he was right that we were both on film. That’s how he saw it. I was an NFL player who needed his advice. Sometimes we’d be on the phone, and he’d take time to talk about the other guys who were there at camp with me. We’d talk about who was doing well at the beginning of camp and who wasn’t, and how I couldn’t be one of the latter. I’d tell him the details of what was going on with all of that and which guys were getting cut, and he’d tell me why they got cut and how I could avoid it. Walter would also point out that at Bears camp, some guys would bring attention to themselves by messin’ up, and they’d get released. He’d say you want to build yourself up in camp, start off doing well and each week just get better and better, because they’re looking for improvement. The key, he said, was to just keep making progress, no matter how hard you need to work to do that. Oh, and he also mentioned that if you get injured or nicked up, you need to learn how to treat yourself without alerting the training staff. He presented it as inside NFL knowledge, but I think he actually learned that one from Coach Hill and John Ely back at Jackson State. As it turned out, “Too hurt to practice, too hurt to play” applied in the NFL, too.
Some might think it would’ve been a hard thing for me to take when the roles reversed for Walter and me. But let me remind you that when I was teaching him growing up and on into college, those were just some of the best days of my life. And it’s not because he was under me or anything like that. It’s because we were bonding through it all. When the roles reversed in the NFL, we were bonding just the same. You see, it’s true that he was standing in my shadow growing up and heading into college, and yes, I was standing in his shadow in the NFL. What’s important, though, whether I was casting the shadow or Walter was, was that we were standing together. You can’t be in another man’s shadow without standing right next to him. When we were both in the NFL, the roles were reversed, but we just got closer and closer to each other through it all.
Bud Holmes, Walter’s longtime agent, knows more about it than anyone. He has said some very nice things about how I handled being the big brother of a superstar NFL player. He saw firsthand that it wasn’t long before my limelight moved toward my little brother. Bud said it was kind of like the new guy coming into town and taking your girlfriend away from you. Perhaps he was right, but he also pointed out that, instead of resenting Walter, all I did was brag and brag on him and promote my little brother, even after I made it to the league myself. Bud tells everybody, “Eddie’s attitude was, ‘You think I’m good, you ought to see my brother.’” And I don’t mind the things he had to say about how I carried the ball as a kick returner, either.
“Eddie Payton, pound for pound, was the better athlete,” Bud once said of my skills. “If you could put Walter’s frame on Eddie, add those extra pounds to him, he’d have been great, too. Eddie was quicker and faster. It’s just that Eddie happened to come along at a time when the rosters in the NFL were short. If teams would’ve carried the same numbers on the rosters back then as they’ve got right now, Eddie would’ve had an even longer career than Walter, because no one has ever been any better in the NFL in the return game.”
It’s nice to hear those things from a guy who really knows his stuff like Bud does, but it’s even nicer to know that Bud saw how Walter’s success didn’t get me down. In fact, instead of letting it get me down, I was always cheering on my brother. His doing good was like I was doing good, and vice versa. We were one and the same on the field back at Jackson State, but we were also that way generally in life. I loved him. I lauded him. I lifted him up. I wanted him to succeed, and I cheered him on when he did.
“Eddie never indicated to me one iota of resentment or jealously,” Bud went on to say. “I never detected it. It would’ve been so normal to have had it, too. I mean, the Bible is full of it. Cain and Abel, they got to whipping up on each other. But you didn’t have any of that with Walter and Eddie; they were always very, very supportive of each other.”
My brother was a superstar, yes, but he was so much more than that to me. The reporter in Cleveland asked how it felt to have a superstar as a brother, but he should’ve just asked, “How do you feel about your brother?” It would’ve been out of place, but that’s a question I would’ve gladly answered. I mean, Walter Payton was Sweetness to you, but he was my brother above all else to me. And I was his. We saw ourselves as the same, even if the sports reporters didn’t.
While we were in the NFL together, Walter and I’d talk every week about what happened during the games, what we could do better, what was going on behind the scenes, and yes, we’d also usually laugh about who did something stupid (and trust me, in the NFL, someone is always doing something stupid). We’d just talk about some of the things that pro football players talk about, and we’d talk about some of the things that pro football players do after a game. You know, what different people did to relax, and the kind of things they’d enjoy off the field. Good or bad. But you know, Walter was a bit of a workaholic and was just obsessed with football at the
time. He was different than a lot of other players in that way. He’d go lock himself up in a room after a game and watch other football games. Some other players, like yours truly, would be looking to enjoy what being a professional athlete can get you off the field. While Walter was locked up in that room with the TV, I (for example) would be looking to go lock myself up in a room with a woman…and try to get locked up with her, if you know what I mean. Walter wasn’t into all of that. He wasn’t a typical pro football player in that way. He was always doing something. He lived a hectic life, but he wasn’t into wild living, and he was a one-woman man. I mean, the guy had more temptation in a week than most men have to deal with their whole lives, but he was pretty damn monogamous through it all. No, we weren’t together every night (we were on two different football teams), so I can’t tell you I saw his every move. I can tell you that we talked all the time, and we knew each other like we were a set of twins. Trust me, he was the good twin.
