Walter & Me

by Eddie Payton

  “He needs some shoes, Coach Jordan,” Coach Collins said.

  “Well, I can run barefooted,” Walter/Robert offered. “It don’t matter none, I run barefooted back home all the time.”

  “Nah, we got shoes back there,” Coach Collins said. “We’ll get you some. What size you wear?”

  “Ten and a half.”

  This whole thing was unfolding beautifully. Walter figured he could give ’em at least a 4.45 with a good warm-up. Walter went inside the locker room to change into some shorts and lace up his shoes when a coach from Columbia strolled in to see Coach Collins. He spoke to Walter and Bud as he walked into the back where Coaches Collins and Jordan must’ve been developing a strategy for landing Mr. Robert Johnson. Coach Jordan already had his stopwatch around his neck and was ready to go when Coach Mason said, “What’s Walter Payton doing here?”

  And that’s when the whole thing came crashing down. “What? Walter Payton?” a very surprised and embarrassed Coach Jordan asked.

  Well, Walter and Bud didn’t know Mason had let the cat out of the bag, so they walked outside and were waiting to be timed. Then Coach Jordan walked out to the field by himself (I suppose Coach Collins figured he’d wasted enough time at that point), but he just kept walking right on past the two pranksters. Bud was surprised and hollered, “Hey, Coach Jordan, aren’t you going to come time Robert?”

  “You smart-ass son of a bitch!” Coach Jordan yelled back. “You go out there and time him your own damn self!”

  Walter and Bud looked at each other in stunned silence for a moment. Then smiles came to their faces right before they busted out laughing. Walter had no trouble at all pulling pranks like that on coaches. And he wouldn’t just do that stuff to coaches he didn’t play for. You already know he pulled some on Coach Hill, but even one of the most legendary coaches of all time wasn’t off Walter’s target list. Little did Mike Ditka know when he took the head coaching position for Chicago that he had moved into Walter Payton’s crosshairs.

  “Walter was the biggest practical joker on the team,” Ditka recalled. “He kept everybody loose in the locker room, and it was mostly all in good fun. Well, with the possible exception of when he called me at night and disguised his voice—sounded just like a woman.”

  Coach Ditka tells the story well. He started getting these very enticing calls from an unknown woman. The woman would say, “How ’bout meeting me tonight?” and Ditka would just let it go, brushing it off. Coach would get these calls a couple of times a week there for a while and just ignored them.

  “I was out on the practice field one day,” Ditka said, “just standing around, watching practice, and then I heard this voice behind me say, ‘Would you meet me at the hotel tonight?’ It was her! It was that woman who had been calling me. Only I turned around to find out that woman was Walter. I tell people all the time that I’m glad I never went.”

  I know exactly what Coach means, too. Walter was one ugly woman.

  My baby brother was constantly doing stuff like that. If he wasn’t setting off firecrackers in some guy’s locker, he was setting the clocks back in the locker room to try to make guys late for meetings. Or if he wasn’t leaving notes on teammates’ windshields from “crazy women,” he’d be busy tying shoelaces together. He just had that type of personality, and anyone was fair game for a Walter prank. Well, almost anyone.

  I suppose Walter wouldn’t have been so quick to pull a prank on a fan. One thing he took very seriously was his relationship with his fans. Walter and I often talked about the people who’d come to see him play. He was very humbled by the fact that some of the guys who’d come to see him play had to work an entire month to save enough money to take their wives and kids to the game, then had to sit in the nosebleed section and could hardly pay for parking, much less buy a drink and popcorn for the kids. Walter always wanted to give those guys what they came to see. He wanted those guys he’d never met to be able to say, “I was there that day when Walter Payton did this” or “I was there when Sweetness did that.” He wanted those guys and their families to leave and say, “I got to see Walter Payton play today.” While other guys like me in the league were trying to live the life other guys could only dream of, Walter was busy trying to give those guys something to dream about. Besides winning, that was his primary motivation. He played pranks on his friends, but he truly, truly respected his fans.

  Walter could even find joy when he was going to a hospital to see some kid who was sick and wanted to meet him. He loved meeting those kids and their families. Nothing made Walter feel better than when he could make those kids feel a little better, even for a moment. Bud helped Walter arrange those hospital visits, and he and Walter often talked about the effect it had on his life. “That’s what Walter really liked to talk about,” Bud explained. “His heart would just melt, and he’d say things like, ‘Aw, Bud, you should’ve seen the look on that child’s face. He was so glad to see me. That little fellow came up like he’d always known me and just talked and talked. I just sat there, and we talked, and I even got to pray with him.’” I’m sure those kids felt blessed to be spending some time with such a big star, but I can tell you, Walter was the one who felt blessed.

  Bud went on, “Walter believed if he was a celebrity, then by God he was going to use it to bring joy to somebody even if it was for only one minute in his life. I asked Walter once, ‘Walter, what’d make you happy?’ He said, ‘Just tell me about 10 kids who are sick and where they are so I can go cheer ’em up a little bit.’ That was from his heart. That was who he was. There was no limelight of publicity during most of those times, no photo op. It was just being there with that kid to make a positive difference. That’s what he really loved doing.”

  My brother even inspired me to extend a helping hand to our youth. Even today I try to speak to high school, junior high, and elementary students at least once a week. During Black History Month, I’ll usually do two or three per week. I talk to the kids about what I’ve accomplished, and they look at me and don’t see a big, huge athlete telling them these things. They see me, a little guy, not much bigger than them, actually, and they think, If he can do it, I can do it. I always tell them to seize the day, ’cause you won’t be young forever.

  By 1987, time had finally caught up with my little brother. Injuries, age, and the Bears front office took so much out of Walter that he announced his retirement at the end of that season. It became obvious to Walter and me (through our talks) that the Bears were trying to figure out a way to get him out of the game so they could go in a new direction. Seems to happen a lot in the NFL. In the 1986 draft, the bears picked Neal Anderson out of the University of Florida. They thought he was the next coming of Sweetness, and they were more interested at the time in having the next Sweetness than the real Sweetness. Anderson was even about the same size. A clone, maybe? The Bears management might have said “yes” at the time, but I say “no way.” And I mean that then, now, and forever. Walter was more than just an outstanding running back. It should be clear he was an outstanding person. There will never, ever be another Sweetness. Period.

  Still, management folks for NFL teams aren’t usually interested in hearing all of that. Walter had been there long enough to understand what was happening. The writing was on the wall. There were less carries for him and more attention was being given to Anderson in practice. Walter knew he’d lost a step, but he also knew what he had given to the city. And there were the Bears, trying to figure out how to get Walter to retire. As he did his whole life, my baby brother would call me and pour his heart out. In truth, he was a little bitter about all of that. He didn’t like the feeling of being pushed out, especially not after how hard he’d worked for the Bears and their fans. Walter realized he couldn’t play forever, of course, but he wanted to go out in a way befitting somebody who did what he’d done for the organization.

  Eventually, the organization realized t
hat right was right and made it happen. The way they sent him off, with all the accolades and celebration, made it easier on him. They had this big retirement celebration for him at the last regular season home game. But as usual, Bud Holmes made the real difference. Bud worked it out so that Walter (or his family in case of Walter’s death) would draw $240,000 a year for 44 years or for life, whichever was longer. Walter loved football, and he hated to leave. But at least he knew that he’d be able to continue providing for his family even if something should happen to him. Just like always, Walter was thinking of more than himself as he prepared to join me in life after football.

  12. Wreckin’ the Car

  Have you ever had one of those cars that you just love and never want to stop driving? I’m talking about the kind of car that looks great and just feels right and makes you think, Why would I ever want a new car? You drive it and drive it and drive it until the wheels are about to fall off. But no matter what you do, no matter how much you want it to keep going, the wheels eventually do fall off. Then you need a new car. Well, that’s how it was with the Bears and Walter there near the end of his football career. The Bears drove him into the ground and loved every minute of it, of course, and they wanted to keep running him. But they also knew he was wearing down, and they just couldn’t resist the shiny new things, like Neal Anderson, rolling up behind him. “The Bears office called me and said they didn’t want to cut Walter,” Bud said. “Instead, they wanted to just do the ‘move in another direction’ thing.” Bud knew it couldn’t last forever, so he met with Connie and Walter to discuss retirement, trying to sugarcoat it as best he could.

  “Well,” Bud started with Walter, “Alexander cried when there were no worlds left to conquer, but he still had to stop conquering.” Walter had done his thing on the field and had left his mark on the Bears and the NFL forever, so Bud was smartly appealing to that sentiment. Walter had broken this record and that record, and the road was coming to an end. I mean, he broke Jim Brown’s record for crying out loud. What more was he going to do? Bud knew the time had come and suggested that Walter get out of football and head into the business world. It’s just that Bud might have underestimated how important playing football was to keeping Walter balanced.

  Now, I made light of Walter’s ADHD earlier, but it really was a serious matter. Though he was never officially diagnosed (adults back in the day weren’t even tested), there’s no doubt in my mind that he was afflicted in a big way. You didn’t have to be a brain scientist to figure that out, and it started to affect his behavior again as he transitioned to life after football. Playing for the Bears and everything that came along with it had consumed Walter’s life for 13 years. He had a purpose out there on the field and always had something to do. There was always another game to win, and his life was extremely busy in preparation to win that next game. His ADHD was mostly held in check during that time. Life after football, though, was just so foreign to him. Walter was so good on the field for so long that when he wasn’t playing anymore, it sort of blindsided him. You know, the hardest day for a pro athlete like Walter is the day it all ends. When players at his level step out and go into another phase of life, they’ve got to fill the inevitable emptiness that comes with no longer being able to run out of that tunnel and do battle on Sunday. And the harder a guy plays, the harder it hits him when he no longer can.

  For average athletes like me, it’s a little easier. I didn’t really struggle with it like Walter did. I hung it up, and that was that. I was thankful for everything I got out of the game of football. I was just lucky to be out there playing for a living for a little while. But for somebody who was the all-time rushing leader, an MVP, a nine-time Pro Bowl selection, and placed on a pedestal by the entire football-loving nation, well, when that was gone, he basically had to try to find something to fill an unfillable void. Walter almost instantly started to feel worthless when he stepped away from the game. And instead of going to his family to find his worth, he tried to deal with it by spending an enormous amount of time away from them. He tried to fill his life with activity. It started with something good.

  As soon as Walter retired, the Bears appointed him to their board of directors, and then he had Bud set up a foundation for him with a guy named Mr. Halas. Halas took care of older NFL players from back in the ’30s and ’40s, guys who had no health insurance. The new union contract at the time only provided coverage for players back to like 1955 or so. All of the guys who played before that were stuck without coverage. Mr. Halas had been trying to take care of those guys, and Walter wanted to team up with him. It was the kind of thing he could really get into, because, as you know, he loved helping people. The foundation was going to be called the Halas-Payton Foundation. The money raised was simply going to help those older players get medical care. There was going to be a huge kickoff event at Soldier Field, and Hank Williams Jr. even looked set to come and put on a big concert and everything. Walter was excited and planned on staying there all night long, even until noon the next day if necessary, just as long as anybody wanted to come by and get an autograph and a picture with him.

  Bud loved the idea and wanted Walter to end his career by leaving that legacy of helping former players. It was just what Walter needed, and it was all in the works. But then, before it could fully come about, the NFL amended their policy to include all former players. Now, that obviously wasn’t a bad thing, and perhaps what Halas and Walter were planning on doing led to that positive change, but it made their foundation’s mission completely unnecessary. This thing Walter had been putting his energy into was no longer needed. And though the goal of covering those older players had been achieved, Walter couldn’t help but feel a little deflated about the whole thing. He really had been looking forward to helping those guys himself and sharing the foundation name with Mr. Halas. He had been excited about doing something worthwhile, and now the air had been squeezed out of the balloon. After that, the foundation shifted completely and was converted to a charity for inner city kids, renamed the Walter and Connie Payton Foundation. And though great things have been done through the foundation, of course, Walter had a hard time letting go of the original plan.

  The real problem, though, was that other business-minded people had an insatiable hunger for Walter’s time. All Walter really wanted to do was help people who needed his help, but he couldn’t get away from the guys who just wanted him to help them out with appearances, endorsements, and other business dealings. Walter felt like an item up on eBay that everyone wanted to buy. Just a few months into retirement, he had so many people pulling at him that the football field seemed like child’s play in comparison. All of these people were coming at him, telling him he needed to do this, asking him to do that. He didn’t know which way to turn or look. Bud saw firsthand the tug-of-war that went on between those who loved Walter and those who loved his fame. “I’ll say one thing,” Bud said. “Eddie and the people in Mississippi—I call it the Mississippi Payton side—they stayed 100 percent true to Walter. Down deep Walter was very much committed to them, too. But it created conflict with the business people in Chicago wanting Walter’s full-time presence.”

  I guess the business people in Chicago pulled harder than we did.

  Once the foundation was rolling, Walter’s time started to fill up quickly with business and even recreational opportunities. He went into race car driving for a bit to try to fill the football void and to get that same satisfaction he got from performing on the field. It just couldn’t compare, though. He loved race cars, of course, but no matter how much he wanted it to be something more, that was more of a hobby for him than a purpose. So then he just sort of started trying any and every kind of business he could, hoping something would stick and keep him occupied and satisfied. He threw his hat into food service, construction, and even bought into several Studebaker’s franchises. He set up an office for himself in an effort to make it feel good and real, but it just wasn’t the
same as being on the field. Then came along an idea with some serious promise. It was an idea that’d combine business with football.

  Bud had talked with Jim Finks, who everyone thought would take Pete Rozelle’s place when Rozelle stepped down as NFL commissioner, and the idea of getting Walter a franchise came up. “Why don’t we see about working on Walter becoming an owner?” Finks said. “You know, the first black owner, and he has such a great image. We need to make that happen.”

  Bud liked the idea right away and presented it to Walter. “Let’s go hard after a franchise,” Bud advised. “You can be the first black owner.” Desperately trying to find something that made sense in life after football, Walter was in full agreement, and the timing seemed to be perfect. Walter was available and willing, of course, and the professional sports world needed the kind of public relations boost that a guy like Walter could bring. You see, around that time, a firestorm of bad racial publicity had been created by a few high-profile sports personalities. In April of 1987, for example, Al Campanis, general manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers, was asked on live national TV why there weren’t more black managers in Major League Baseball. His answer: “I don’t believe it’s prejudice. I truly believe that they may not have some of the necessities to be, let’s say, a field manager, or perhaps a general manager.”

  “They” don’t have the “necessities?” Ouch.

  Then in January of 1988, Jimmy “The Greek” Snyder, a CBS football analyst, told a Washington, D.C., television reporter that “The black is a better athlete to begin with because he’s been bred that way. This goes all the way back to the Civil War…the slave owner would breed his big black to his big woman so that he would have a big black kid.”

  Okay, uh, yeah. Let’s just say the NFL was worried to death about its image, and for good reason. Enter Walter Payton to help bridge the racial divide, as he’d been doing his whole life. After several discussions between then-commissioner Pete Rozelle and Walter and Bud, Rozelle promised Walter an expansion franchise. They were told at the time that Oakland and Phoenix were possible spots. And location aside, Walter liked that a lot. He thought it was the challenge he’d been looking for, and he was up to it.