With McMahon out for a third straight game with an injured right shoulder, the start went to Fuller, who found himself confused by Miami’s defense and frustrated by his receivers’ slippery fingers. Most shocking was the sight of Ryan’s defense, thought to be impenetrable, being shredded by Marino, whose forty-eight touchdown passes one season earlier set an NFL record. Back at the University of Pittsburgh, Marino had roomed with Covert, the Bears’ offensive tackle. A couple of days before the Dolphins game, Ryan sauntered up to Covert and told him, “We’re going to blitz your asshole buddy this week and knock him on his ass.”
“If you do,” Covert replied, “he’ll kill you.”
Ryan ignored the warning. Marino, blessed with the league’s quickest release, killed him.
The Dolphins led 31–10 at halftime, and in the locker room Ditka and Ryan—enemies on the sunniest of days—exchanged a couple of wildly thrown punches before being separated. Ditka began screaming at Ryan early in the second quarter, wondering how much longer he was going to cover Nat Moore, Miami’s speedy wide receiver, with a linebacker. Ryan colorfully advised the head coach to back off. “Ditka was right,” said Dan Hampton. “He was basically saying, ‘Hey Buddy, quit being an asshole and put a nickel back in there on Nat Moore.’ ”
All the while, Payton sat by his locker, boiling. Even though Miami ranked last in the league against the run, and even though Payton had cleared a hundred yards in a league-record seven straight games, Ditka didn’t hand him the ball until late in the first quarter, with the Dolphins leading 10–7. For some reason, the Bears were leaning on Fuller, a castoff from Kansas City. “We have the number one running game in football, and Miami has the worst run defense,” said Hampton. “So what does genius Ditka do? We throw the ball.”
“I could have told you they would lose that game,” said Holmes, Payton’s agent. “Everyone on that team was all swelled up, cocky, and thinking they walked on water. Even with Walter, I could tell the fire wasn’t there. They all wanted the stardom the Fridge was getting, and there was a ton of jealousy. You can’t win with that hanging over a team.”
Early in the fourth quarter, with the score 38–24, Fuller sprained his ankle and McMahon—who had begged Ditka to start the game—was inserted. He marched Chicago down the field, but threw a costly interception with 6:12 remaining to seal the Bears’ fate. When Chicago regained possession, McMahon ignored the coaches and repeatedly handed the ball to Payton. Though it ranked about 12,471 on the night’s storyline list, Payton was trying to break the consecutive hundred-yard rushing games mark he shared with O.J. Simpson and Earl Campbell.
“We’re fourteen points down and Ditka sends in a pass play,” McMahon said. “I said, ‘Look, boys, we’re down fourteen points. We’re already in the play-offs. Let’s get this man the yards he deserves.’ Not one guy in the huddle had a problem with that. But Mike knew I didn’t call the play he [ordered], so he starts yelling and screaming. I give the ball to Walter. They were only rushing three at this point, and he busts up for good yardage.” With the veins on his neck bulging and his brown eyes about to explode from the sockets, Ditka called a time-out. When McMahon reached the sideline, the coach lit into him.
“Hey, Mike, you know they’re dropping eight,” McMahon replied. “Walter only needs about fifteen more yards for his record.”
Ditka calmed down. “What?” he said.
“The record,” McMahon replied. “His record.”
Ditka had known nothing of it. “Yeah,” he said, “we’ll get him his record. But first we’re going to do this play.”
McMahon nodded as Ditka called for a pass to Dennis McKinnon. When he returned to the huddle, McMahon flashed a wide smile. “Boys,” he said, “the shit is going to hit the fan, but we’re going to run the ball again.”
McMahon lined up behind center and looked toward Ditka, who knew he was being ignored. He threw his clipboard in the air and shrugged. Payton wound up with 121 yards on twenty-three carries, and while they were largely empty calories amassed at the end of a blowout, the running back was eternally grateful to his quarterback. From that moment on, McMahon could do no wrong.
Despite being annihilated before millions of spectators (the game was the most-viewed Monday Night Football telecast ever, with an astonishing 29.6 rating), most of the Bears remained undeterred. “Hey, we’re human,” Otis Wilson said afterward.
“This is not a catastrophe,” added Singletary.
“Nobody’s perfect,” Ditka said. “And we proved it.”
“A lot of guys were walking off of the field like, ‘Finally, the pressure is off of us,’ ” said Covert. “When we got beat by Miami—I didn’t want to lose, but it kind of lifted the pressure.”
Win or lose, on Tuesday morning at eight the players were expected to meet at Park West, a well-known nightclub on Chicago’s North Side, for the taping of “The Super Bowl Shuffle” video. Having assumed the Bears would demolish the Dolphins, Dick Meyer, the song’s producer, booked the date two weeks in advance. He spoke to Gault via phone immediately after the loss, and was assured the Bears would still be there.
“Willie asked me if I’d be in it as we were flying back from Miami,” said Hilgenberg. “I said, ‘Hey, Willie, we just got killed on national TV. You think I’m gonna help you sing a song about the Super Bowl? No thank you. I don’t want any part of that.’ ”
Though the Bears were a tight-knit group, there was something about Gault that rubbed many the wrong way. He was the prettiest guy on a rugged team; unwilling to throw a hard block or cross the middle of the field. “If I asked Willie to run an extra pattern it was as if I’d asked him to cut his nuts off,” said Bob Avellini, the former quarterback. “He didn’t want to play football. He wanted to make money.” Early in his career Gault told the Tribune that, with a little work, he could make Payton a faster, better player. (“I could have gotten him from a four-point-six to a four-point-four forty,” Gault said. “He had a hitch when he ran and wasted some motion.”) The suggestion did not go over well.
Furthermore, Gault always seemed to be bragging. He dropped names incessantly (his friendship with Louis Farrakhan, the controversial Nation of Islam leader, won him little favor with white teammates), craved to be seen at the hottest clubs and biggest openings; wanted to be a celebrity first, a football player second. Teammates nicknamed him “Hollywood Gault,” a sobriquet that was far from a compliment. When, three years later, he was dealt to the Raiders, teammates celebrated. “Willie Gault? When he was traded I knew we’d be a better team,” McMahon said. “He always wanted to go out to the West Coast and be an actor. Well, for five years he was an actor playing a football player.”
Payton tolerated Gault in the way one tolerates the annoying little brother who can’t help himself. But when the receiver checked to make sure Payton would still be partaking in the video shoot, he received a stern look and a sterner lecture. “Are you kidding me?” Payton said. “After we just got our asses kicked like that? No way.” McMahon also refused to attend, leaving a dumbfounded Meyer with two gaping holes. “We told them we weren’t coming,” McMahon said. “I guess they didn’t believe us until we didn’t show.”
The airplane landed in Chicago at three thirty A.M. Less than five hours later twenty-two Bears showed up for the taping. Grumpiness morphed into embarrassment when they were informed of Payton’s decision not to partake. If the greatest Bear thought it wrongheaded, what justification did the others have? “He was the guy we all looked up to,” said Gayle. “We respected his judgment more than our own.”
A couple of days later, when the sting of the Miami setback had lessened, Payton and McMahon filmed their scenes against a blue screen inside the racquetball court at Halas Hall and were spliced into the video. “It’s a terrible piece of work,” said Barbara Supeter, one of the video’s executive producers. “We finished editing and filming on December 18, and on December 22 it was in stores. We didn’t have any writers or choreographers to speak of. An
d yet, it became this phenomenon.”
On the day before its release, Greg Gershuny, the Bears’ director of information services, was sitting in his office when a member of the public relations staff came in with a tape of the “Shuffle.” The two men listened, and when the song ended they sat in stunned silence. “We weren’t sure whether to hide it or get it on the radio as soon as possible,” said Gershuny. “It was confusing.”
The “Shuffle” went on to become a smash hit—the single sold more than five hundred thousand copies, reached number forty-one on the Billboard charts and, against all logic, was nominated for a Grammy for best rhythmand-blues performance by a group. Years later, Bears players have mixed feelings about the song. Thomas Sanders, the young running back, said some of the participants were promised large payments, then moaned as they were handed checks for six thousand dollars. “We got a whole lot less than we were told,” he said. Many agreed to partake solely because of Gault’s assurances that the proceeds would go to charity, yet only 50 percent wound up being donated to the Chicago Community Trust. “Willie said it’d be just like ‘We Are the World,’ ” said Ted Plumb, Chicago’s receivers coach. “His line was, ‘If we’re gonna feed the world, why not start with Chicago?’ ” Much of the rest of the money went into the pocket of Meyer, whose company, Red Label Records, was on life support. “I don’t know what Dick promised anyone,” said Supeter, “but I know people were pretty angry afterward.”
When they learned that the charity was barely a charity, Chicago’s players banned Meyer from their locker room and, for the most part, their lives. “The guy had the balls to come back and ask us to do ‘The Super Bowl Shuffle II,’ ” said Gary Fencik, the veteran safety. “Singletary threw his gold record in the trash can. He threw it away and walked out.”
The loss to the Dolphins proved to be an aberration, and Chicago wrapped up a marvelous regular season by winning its final three games against the Colts, Jets, and Lions. With a 15-1 record, the Bears were the NFC’s topseeded team. That earned them a week off, followed by a meeting with the NFC East champion New York Giants at Soldier Field.
Eight years earlier, when Payton prepared for his play-off debut against the Dallas Cowboys, Chicago’s players were befuddled by their notoriously cheap organization’s refusal to transport the team to a warm climate to practice. The Bears spent most of the ensuing week standing around in the sleet and snow, then traveled to Texas for a 37–7 decimation at the hands of America’s Team.
Now, armed with genuine Super Bowl aspirations, on December 30, 1985, Chicago’s front office sent its coaches and players to Suwanee, Georgia, to hold practices at the Atlanta Falcons’ training complex. Along with moderate temperatures and agreeable conditions, Ditka liked the idea of keeping his team out of the spotlight. The music videos and magazine covers and endorsement deals were nice and dandy and swell, but the coach worried about his players losing their edge. In Chicago, no Bear—ranging from a superstar like Payton to a relative nobody like punter Maury Buford—could step from his house without being besieged. Women were everywhere. Meals were free. Drinks were plentiful. In Suwanee, home of the annual Old Town Holiday Festival and Caboose Lighting, the Bears were simply oversized goliaths preparing for a big game.
Though generally agreeable to allowing his men to be men (so to speak), Ditka preferred the players use the time in Suwanee to lay low and say little. On the day after his team’s arrival into town, however, Payton sat down with a large handful of reporters and held a miniature State of Walter press conference. The topic was supposed to be the Giants. It wasn’t.
“Dealing with the media has been a challenge for me,” he said, spurred on by nothing in particular. “At times, I haven’t been the best of people. I haven’t been in the best of moods. I want to thank you people for putting up with me.”
For a moment, a stunned silence overtook the setting. Through the eyes of Chicago’s press corps, Payton had been a dizzying riddle to cover. He came. He went. He talked. He didn’t talk. He made sense. He made no sense.
Payton wasn’t quite done.
“I still feel I’m overlooked,” Payton said. “Why? That’s the sixty-fourmillion-dollar question.”
With that, Payton rose and left, as the pack of journalists scratched their heads and wondered what had just happened. For Chicago newspaper veterans like the Tribune’s Don Pierson and Kevin Lamb of the Sun-Times, Payton’s rare dose of honesty was refreshing. Yes, he was insecure. Yes, he wanted big numbers. Yes, he pouted if he didn’t get enough carries. Yes, he resented the attention afforded others. Though Payton had rarely gone public with his feelings, none of this was a secret within the locker room. For the majority of Chicago’s players, 1985 had been the culmination of a lifetime of hard work and dreams. For Payton, it was a mixed bag—the splendor of on-field success and a galvanized city; the disappointment of becoming (in his opinion) invisible.
To those not in the know, the words made no sense. Payton was supposed to be the ultimate team player, one who went his entire career without a single ill feeling or gripe. He stood as the NFL’s Moses—a holy figure with nary a scar or wart. “Walter had a reputation,” said Lamb, “that didn’t quite meet the reality.”
Three days later, in another group interview, Payton looked out at an even larger number of scribes and—to the organization’s dismay—continued to plead his case. Payton desired more acclaim, “because inside this body beats a heart, and a brain functions. There are things that regardless of how strong or durable you are, you have to see or feel. Otherwise what you’re doing has no value.
“You feel self-esteem, but if the people outside don’t see it or don’t appreciate it, next time . . . you’re not going to be as motivated. It’s like getting a banana split and you don’t get the hot fudge sauce. There’s something missing. [If you keep getting it that way] pretty soon you go up and just ask for ice cream and a banana.”
Because Payton was a legend with an unblemished image, teammates always praised him to the press. Walter is such a prankster. Walter is the leader. Walter is the pulse of our team. In reality, most didn’t know or understand him. Even the running back’s closest confidants on the Bears—Suhey, Singletary, Gentry, and running backs Thomas Sanders and Calvin Thomas—could hardly be classified as extraordinarily close friends. They were comrades in battle; recipients of Payton’s kind words and funny barbs; occasional dinner companions. But friends have some understanding of what the other person is feeling and thinking. No one genuinely grasped Payton. Especially the depths of his angst.
“At his core, Walter was incredibly insecure,” said Holmes. “He would do things to draw attention, but only if it looked like he wasn’t trying to draw attention. He might go to a banquet and if they were bringing out steak he’d say, ‘I don’t eat red meat.’ And they’d ask what they could bring him and he’d ask for fish—then complain it wasn’t cooked right. An hour later, he’d be sneaking to McDonald’s for a Big Mac, begging me, ‘Don’t tell anybody! Don’t tell!’
“We would go to Chicago Bulls games and he’d know exactly where the cameras were. You’d see him go up to the kids in the wheelchairs, and he’d go up, shake their hands, knowing the camera was on. Does that mean he didn’t care? No. But he was aware of how it would be perceived, and that mattered immensely to him. On more than one occasion, Walter went to the airport without a ticket or reservation or nothing. He’d walk up to the American Airlines counter and say, ‘I need a ticket to Las Vegas.’ They’d be oversold, but they’d kick people off the plane and place him in first class. Walter loved that, even as he played humble.”
Hence, while Payton’s pouting about a lack of recognition puzzled teammates, it failed to entirely shock them. “Walter was Walter,” said Sanders. “He answered to no man.”
Heavily favored, the Bears dominated the Giants, 21–0, then prepared for a matchup with the Los Angeles Rams in the NFC Championship game. The team returned to Suwanee, and Payton again held court in front o
f the press. As opposed to the previous week, the running back found himself in a state of prolonged giddiness. He talked at length about the journey from Jackson State to the brink of a Super Bowl, and how the ritual beatings of years past brought immense appreciation. “For me, the Super Bowl would be the ultimate,” he said. “It’s all the work and effort and sacrifice to reach that plateau. It comes down to the desire to win the Super Bowl. It’s like a writer who wants to win the Pulitzer Prize. He wants to be the best. The Super Bowl is it for us.”
Now, at last, Payton was the story. If the Rams had any chance at winning (and, really, they didn’t), it came in the form of Eric Dickerson, their splendid third-year halfback out of Southern Methodist. As a result, the media predictably pushed the Dickerson vs. Payton narrative. One was the young upstart trying to break through. The other was the grizzled veteran desperate to reach the biggest stage. One, Dickerson, ran upright, with blistering speed. The other, Payton, looked for holes and relied on strength and savvy. One, Dickerson, was known for petulance and lengthy contract holdouts. The other, Payton, was God’s gift to football. Dave Anderson of The New York Times called the matchup a “throwback to the National Football League’s primeval era when championships depended on such dinosaurs as Jim Thorpe and Red Grange, Ernie Nevers and Bronko Nagurski.”
Just as Payton had once come along and supplanted O. J. Simpson as the league’s best back, Dickerson was now trying to do the same to Payton. One season earlier, as the Bears flew to Los Angeles to play the Rams, Payton slid into the seat next to Leslie Frazier, a defensive back. “Do you think Dickerson is better than I am?” he asked.
Sweetness Page 39
