This story, by Paul Attner, first appeared in the Nov. 15, 1999, issue of The Sporting News, under the headline “Lessons in Greatness”, the week after Chicago icon and Pro Football Hall of Famer Walter Payton, 45, died of bile duct cancer, a side effect of a rare liver disease. Because he had the cancer, he wasn’t eligible for a liver transplant that at the time saved 75 percent of those with his form of liver disease. After his diagnosis and up until his death, Payton was a vocal advocate for organ transplants, a legacy beyond his phenomenal Bears career.
Douglas is 12. He wants to play football. He has dreams of being an NFL star, just like most kids his age. Before he starts, I plan on talking to him. We will discuss the potential for injury, the demands of the game, maybe even the reality of his dreams. And we will talk about Walter Payton.
He has heard of Payton because he likes football history. But he never saw Payton play, never has considered him a hero, not when he can root for Jerry Rice and Steve Young and Doug Flutie. But Payton's death last week brought back memories of a man who should serve as an example for all young players who have big dreams. They may not become another Payton, or even become a star on any level. But they certainly can learn from how he played the sport he loved so dearly.
I interviewed Payton a number of times while he was a Bears player, even though getting him to sit down for a lengthy discussion was almost as difficult as tackling him 1-on-1. We last spoke in 1993, on the eve of his induction into the Pro Football Hall of Fame. He was a tough subject — elusive, questioning, not given to long thoughts or much personal revelation. You could learn far more about the man by watching him perform and understanding how he prepared himself to be a star. This is the Payton I want to explain to Douglas.
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Payton was not the greatest running back in history, but he was close. Between the lines, Jim Brown and O.J. Simpson were better, but no one player in NFL history at any position has forced more from his body and has driven himself as relentlessly as Payton. This is Payton's first lesson: Never settle for less than you can possibly be.
Long before Rice gained notoriety with his offseason workouts, Payton set the standard for cruel and inhuman exercise punishment. He made famous a hill near his Chicago home, a hill with a grade steep enough to make legs cry out, “no mas,” a plea Payton routinely ignored. Teammate Matt Suhey once decided to work out with his friend on that hill. It started to rain. They had to stop, and Payton was angry. Suhey had to hide his delight; he was sure he couldn’t have run another step.
“I’m always fearful I’m not in the best shape I can be,” Payton once told me. “My goal is to be able to play all 60 minutes of every game. Since you might have the ball only 30 minutes, I figure I’ve got enough left to go all out every play.
At 5-10, 202 pounds, Payton knew he was smaller than running backs should be. He knew he lacked the proper college pedigree, coming from small-school Jackson State. He knew, at least in his own mind, that no matter how much he achieved, other, more flashy backs received greater publicity and wider fame. So yesterday's workout was never good enough; today's had to be harsher, longer. That's why he could never sit still for long; he was an Energizer bunny, constantly in motion, even refusing to rest during the doldrums of practice. If he stopped, even briefly, it was a sign of weakness. And to him that was a huge sin.
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In his mind, if he hadn't stayed in such superb shape — and if he ever had rid himself of his inferiority complex — he would not have retired as the league's all-time rusher. It was this obsession of his to squeeze every ounce possible from his body that separated him from so many other elite players.
He was something else, too. Tough. I'm not usually impressed with "macho" behavior. But Payton was an exception. This was his next lesson: You can't succeed if you back away from obstacles, no matter how formidable. That linebacker who outweighed him by 40 pounds? Take him head on. That safety who thinks he has the perfect tackling angle? Try and stop me.
When Payton and Franco Harris were chasing Brown's career rushing mark, Brown made no secret of his bias toward Payton. Harris often chose to run out of bounds rather than absorb what he thought was an unnecessary tackle; Payton gladly would turn upfield and see if he could deliver a mightier blow. And when the collision ended, he made sure he bounced up. Hurt me? Forget it.
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And my how he blocked. He loved taking on linebackers, wiping out cornerbacks, delaying defensive ends. He never fretted about being overmatched. He just fulfilled his assignment, knowing he was demonstrating a complete mastery of his position. And reinforcing how rock-solid tough he was.
But he did hurt. He carried the ball more than any running back in NFL history, all of 3,838 times. And so many of those attempts were head-knockers, pad-on-pad, between the tackles, in a straight line and be damned who is in the way. The resulting punishment absorbed by his body should have been devastating. But Payton missed only one game in 13 years — one game — because he refused to back off from his challenges.
It would have been easy to sit out, particularly when he was suffering so many of those bad seasons with the Bears. He had plenty of legitimate opportunities to rest. A strength coach once caught him doing 525-pound dead lifts despite a pulled hamstring. Told it would be wise to stop. Payton replied, "I'm all right.”
He did nurse a broken toe by cutting back on weekly practices. Then he played on Sunday and gained 125 yards. To do otherwise was not Payton. He knew he was The Bears, and without him the team had absolutely no hope of being competitive, much less winning. So he suited up every game, dared every tackler to beat him up — and got up every time to play again. I don't want Douglas to play if he is really hurt, but nothing can be accomplished if you show up only during the good times.
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Payton played with class — and with fun. Oh, he had some showboat in him — the high steps, the way he carried the ball away from his body, almost carelessly, in his own, unique style. But there was a majesty to how he conducted himself, and a joy in his demeanor, and that is another lesson I want Douglas to learn. Payton suffered a multitude of disappointments in his career, all entwined with the ineptness of the team, yet he carried himself with a dignity and pride and happiness that made Bears fans proud to root for their team, even in the worst of times.
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He was one of those players to whom coaches love to point and say, "I wish everyone was like him." And not once refer to his talents. With Payton, you got so much more than a gifted athlete. At all times, he remembered who he was and how his actions would affect others. It is a lesson so many of this generation of irreverent, classless athletes should emulate. I want Douglas to always remember to stick out his hand and congratulate his opponent, win or lose, and never flaunt his superiority. Like Payton, I want him to keep his mouth shut and play. I want him to enjoy playing, not look upon preparation as a drudgery.
Payton was classy in another sense. He knew he was a star, and enjoyed it, but he never flaunted his status within the structure of the team. "He kind of downgraded his celebrity status," says former Bears linebacker Doug Buffone. "It was no big deal to him. He was very common, never in his ivory tower or standoffish." Remember, Douglas, check your ego at the locker-room door.
And like Payton, I want him to keep the faith. Payton played nine seasons before the Bears started winning consistently. Imagine the heartbreak involved when you are a competitor like he was, and it takes so long for a good streak to come along. Yet, he was eventually rewarded with a Super Bowl triumph courtesy of that wonderful 1985 Bears powerhouse. He had more than 2,000 combined rushing and receiving yards and scored 11 touchdowns for that team, which was dominated by crazy personalities and one of the great defenses in NFL history. Still, he walked away with a ring and the satisfaction of knowing all the hard work had not been in vain. Too frequently, we all give up too quickly if our goals are not easily obtained. Think how unfulfilled Payton would have been if he had not believed.
I will tell Douglas about all of this. I will tell him to be as much like Walter Payton as he can. If he comes close, he will be a star. Even if he never scores a single touchdown.
Sidebar: Perpetual motion, perpetual memories
TSN senior writer and and NFL Insider Dan Pompei, who covered the Bears for 13 years, reflects on the life of Walter Payton.
"Tadpole," he used to call me.
He had nicknames for everybody, Walter Payton did. Silly, whimsical nicknames.
He was like a little kid in so many ways. He couldn't sit still for much longer than it takes a hummingbird to flap its wings. Constant motion. Even his eyes danced. When everyone was looking for him, no one ever knew where he was. At the Pro Bowl after the 1986 season, I had to call his room 15 times and chase him for four days before he delivered the interview he had promised.
At those Pro Bowls, Walter was the brightest star among the brightest stars. It wasn't only that more fans were most attracted to him — other Pro Bowl players were, too. They wanted an autograph, a shoe, or at least a Payton moment. Walter found a way to leave them all smiling. The man spread a lot of joy. At the private memorial service for Walter last Friday, Mike Ditka said he had never been around someone so accomplished who had handled celebrity so well.
Walter once told me his greatest fear was one day waking up and discovering his whole life was a dream. He had that kind of appreciation for his success. Not that he thought it happened by chance. He also once told me that if he had not made it to the NFL, he would have been a senator or congressman from the state of Mississippi. Perhaps better than anyone, he understood the power of determination.
If Walter had made it to Capitol Hill, they would have had cherry bombs in the Oval Office, liquid heat in Strom Thurmond's underwear and whoopee cushions on Ted Kennedy's chair. Any unsuspecting man who ever entered the Bears' locker room when it was Payton's place knows what it feels like to have Walter take hold of your behind and squeeze. As I looked up at that up on the altar, I couldn't help but think that St. Peter already has been goosed.
Walter had big, strong hands and forearms, unusually big for his body. He would sneak up from behind and wrap those arms around you and bear hug you until the capillaries started bursting on your forehead. He found great pleasure in shaking hands and squeezing until you whimpered, or if you were stubborn, until a tear trickled down your cheek.
Last week, he didn't need the handshake to achieve the desired effect.