| Walter Payton was the first sports idol I ever had. I first
become a serious sports fan at age 7, and that coincided with Walter’s greatest
individual season, 1977. For the next 10 years Walter was synonymous with pro football for
me. Every fall, every Sunday, every year, my dad and I would watch from our suburban
Chicago home as Walter played football unlike any other player for our beloved Bears. To
me, Walter represented dependability. You could count on him suiting up and giving every
ounce of effort in his 5-foot-10, 202-pound frame every single week. That in itself was an
amazing accomplishment. Just take a quick look at the NFL landscape this season. Terrell
Davis is out for the season with a knee injury. Jamal Anderson is out for the season with
a knee injury. Fred Taylor missed nearly half the season with foot and hamstring problems.
Yet there was Walter, the focal point of every defense he faced, missing one game in his
13-year career. That happened during his rookie season. He wouldn’t miss another
start.
When Walter’s death from bile-duct cancer was made public on Monday (Nov. 1), I
first thought of his final game, a playoff loss to the Redskins at Soldier Field on Jan.
10, 1988. His departure from the game and his departure from this earth brought out
similar feelings of disbelief and disorientation.
As Walter was knocked out of bounds a yard short of the first down needed to keep the
Bears’ hopes alive vs. the Redskins, it hit me: He wasn’t going to play anymore.
I couldn’t figure it out at the time, but I always remembered the image of Walter
sitting on the bench after that game. He sat with his head down, alone, the last player to
leave the field. When he died Monday, it finally occurred to me why he did that and why it
stuck with me: Walter never gave up on a play. He fought to the bitter end on every run,
and that’s what made him special.
The city of Chicago could not ask for a better representative. My hometown, the
so-called "City of Big Shoulders," prides itself on hard work, and Walter was
the ultimate blue-collar worker. He admitted he wasn’t the biggest, strongest or
swiftest player. But he was very smart and had a huge heart that was evident every time he
took on a bigger, stronger or swifter defenders.
I admit I’m biased about this, but I always have considered Walter the best
all-around football player I’ve ever seen. I once wrote in the pages of Pro
Football Weekly that Barry Sanders is the greatest running back of all time, and I
stand by that claim: Based on pure running skills, Barry is the best. But Walter
transcended his position. Not only was he a superb runner, blending moves, power and
balance, but he was an excellent receiver, blocker and passer for a halfback. I’m
convinced Walter could have been a great safety if he had chosen to play that position.
Can you imagine how scared wide receivers would have been to go over the middle with
Walter bearing down on them? Just ask anyone who ever tried to tackle him: As a running
back — an offensive skill-position player! — he delivered more punishment than
he received.
If Walter’s playing days represented consistency and dependability, his retirement
represented change. Sundays wouldn’t be the same anymore. Sports wouldn’t be as
innocent. Life wouldn’t be as simple. I grew up with Walter, and by the time he
retired, I was nearly grown up. About the time he left the game, I received my acceptance
letter to Northwestern University. Adulthood was around the corner.
Walter was always like a big kid. His voice was high-pitched, like a child’s. He
was constantly pulling pranks on teammates and reporters who covered the Bears. He played
the game for the reason kids play it: fun.
I didn’t know Walter personally, but I feel as though I have a pretty good grasp
on what kind of a guy he was from listening to and observing his son, Jarrett. Just six
years ago, Jarrett, his voice not yet changed and thus sweet and soft like his
father’s, introduced Walter on the day he was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of
Fame. On Monday, Jarrett, now a man, thanked everyone for their support during the Payton
family’s trying time. What a thoughtful, well-spoken, composed young man Jarrett
Payton is. Can you imagine keeping it together in the glare of the spotlight with one of
your parents gravely ill or just deceased? Walter Payton’s legacy lives on in his
son. He raised a good boy.
Another former Chicago sports figure, Leo Durocher, coined the famous phrase,
"Nice guys finish last." According to the NFL record book, Leo was wrong. Walter
Payton, a true nice guy, is first on the all-time rushing list. There was much fanfare
when he broke Jim Brown’s record. What I remember is Walter insisting that all of the
cameramen and photographers leave the field promptly so the game could resume. He was
always humble, always a true team player.
I always find it sad and unfortunate that Walter didn’t get his due for his
contributions to the Bears’ Super Bowl championship season of 1985. That team is best
known for its ferocious defense and its zany personalities. In Super Bowl XX, William
"the Refrigerator" Perry, the Bears’ ultimate freak-show attraction, scored
a touchdown and Walter didn’t. That always bothered me. Years later, Mike Ditka, the
Bears’ head coach at the time, conceded that not getting Walter a touchdown in that
game was a mistake. But as certain as I am that Walter’s feelings were hurt by the
snub, I am just as sure that he didn’t let it linger. In his own modest way, he was
above it all.
Those Bears team I grew up watching were rotten for the most part. Between 1977 and
’83, the prime of Walter’s career, they made the playoffs only twice and lost
both games. Walter said he tried to play even harder when his team was losing, just to let
the opposition know that yeah, they might win, but it wasn’t going to be easy.
Neither is letting him go.
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