Sweetness (23 page)

For teams like Omaha and Bishop, the strategy would have been pointless. Payton was faster, stronger, and tougher than the opposition, and his line opened gaping holes on nearly every play. If a defensive end or linebacker didn’t get to him, he was gone. Southern, however, featured a defense with three lighting-quick linebackers and a bruising front four. “You had to have three or four people watching him at all times,” said Harry Gunner, the Jaguar defensive coordinator. “Back in those days, if you did an extensive job scouting Jackson State, you knew they gave away certain formations and plays. Our guys were great at following directions. So we told them, ‘Here’s the play that’s probably coming—don’t let Payton get loose.’ ”

In one of the most exciting—and controversial—games in SWAC history, Payton took a rare beating. His uniform was caked in dirt, his chest stung from a cornucopia of crushing blows. The fans at Mumford Stadium relentlessly taunted him, cursing his name and mocking his Heisman efforts. Two years earlier the Tigers had ruined Southern’s homecoming with a last-second win, and the memory in Baton Rouge was raw. Entering the fourth quarter, the Tigers trailed 21–13, but marched down the field and had the ball at Southern’s four-yard line. On first and goal, Payton took the handoff and barreled over Armond Brown, the team’s star linebacker, and into the end zone. “It was crushing, because we were determined not to lose,” said Brown. “Not in front of our own fans.”

With the score now 21–19, Hill kept his offense on the field, electing to tie the game with a two-point conversion. Lining up at the three-yard line, quarterback Jimmy Lewis pitched the ball to Payton, who was drifting left. Payton lowered his head, charged forward, and ran into a pair of Southern defenders at the goal line. He lunged forward, the upper half of his body clearly falling into the end zone. Several Jackson State players raised their hands, celebrating yet another Payton achievement. The crowd booed. Whistles were blown. Bates, the Southern coach, began thinking about the upcoming kickoff return.

Not so fast.

The five officials gathered in a small huddle, talked for another minute or two. Finally, a decree was issued. The ball had never crossed the goal line. No score. “The ref told me Walter’s knees had hit the ground first,” said Hill. “I couldn’t believe it. There was no way he didn’t score. No possible way.”

Payton grabbed the football and slammed it toward the turf in disgust. He ripped his helmet off his head and threw it aside. “No way!” he screamed. “No way in hell!”

The Jaguars held on for the 21–19 triumph, a crushing blow for Jackson State and for Payton. Though he ran for 113 yards and a touchdown against one of the nation’s best defenses, all was lost. In his mind, the defeat killed the Heisman hopes.

Upon returning to Jackson, Hill inspected all available photographs from the game. One in particular showed Payton stretched far across the goal line. He sent the picture to various media outposts, hoping to keep the Payton flame alight. The only news outlet to run the photograph was Jackson State’s own
Blue and White Flash
, which blew it up and placed it beneath a headline reading YOU BE THE REFEREE.

The game marked the last time Hill ever had Payton charge through the defense on a goal line play. Blessed with powerful legs and Bob Beamon–esque leaping ability, Payton would be better served going over—not through—packed-in opponents. “From that point on, we began a drill in practice,” said Hill. “I’d have all the linebackers hold hands, and Walter would have to fly over them without being pulled down.

“That’s how he learned to soar.”

With the loss to Southern, Walter Payton’s senior season was pretty much shot. The Tigers fell again, to Grambling, the following week, and then Payton shocked the coaching staff by sitting out a game against Bethune-Cookman with a mild knee injury (he was used solely as a kicker). The Tigers won their season finale with an emotional 19–13 win at Alcorn State, and Payton’s collegiate career was complete. After his final game, Payton, along with Connie and a couple of Tiger players, purchased two six-packs of Colt 45 Malt Liquor.

“I’m telling you, I chugalugged the first tall, cold can before Rickey (Young) had the car started again,” Payton wrote. “I guzzled the second, third, and fourth on the way, and I finished the fifth as we got out of the car. It hadn’t quite hit me as we walked in the door, but as I popped the top on number six and began sipping, I became so drunk I could hardly see.”

Connie, who never drank, was infuriated. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Walter Payton,” she lectured. “You’re just getting what you deserve.”

She was right. Payton spent the remainder of the night hunched over a toilet.

With Jackson State’s season over, the NFL’s personnel gurus continued to flock to campus to conduct workouts. Their praise was universal. As Tom Siler noted in his weekly
Sporting News
column: “Pro scouts, judging from my research, would prefer Payton to Griffin. He’s twenty pounds heavier [this was a tremendous exaggeration on the part of Jackson State’s coaches, who listed Payton as a six-foot-one, 215-pound bruiser with 4.3 speed]. Payton, the scouts say, is a great runner.” The Dallas Cowboys, owners of the second pick in the upcoming draft, were so wowed by Payton that they actually sent Hill a buffet of weight equipment to fill a sparse exercise room in Sampson Hall and make a good impression. The Atlanta Falcons came multiple times. So did the Colts. And the Dolphins. And the Bears. And the Raiders. Scouts loved the way Payton ran and caught and blocked, and they especially appreciated how, after scoring a touchdown, he took the ball and casually handed it to an official. “He always acted like he’d done it before, and he’d do it again,” said Bernard Fernandez, who covered Jackson State for the
Clarion-Ledger
. “He was no ordinary kid.” Ken Herock, an Oakland scout, had heard stories of Jackson State’s freak of nature, but wanted to see for himself. “He was an NFL back, that much was obvious,” said Herock. “I scouted Archie Griffin at Ohio State, and I wasn’t sold. He was too small, and not that quick. But Walter had all the tools you looked for. And the most impressive part was his makeup. He’d sit down and watch the tapes with you and break them down. There was nothing not to like.”

For Heisman voters, it mattered not. Though Payton rushed for 1,029 yards, and tallied nineteen touchdowns, one field goal, and six extra points for the 7-3 Tigers, he was a nonfactor. As predicted, on December 3, 1973, New York’s Downtown Athletic Club announced that Griffin, the Ohio State junior, had won the Heisman Trophy in decisive fashion. Having rushed for 1,695 yards and twelve touchdowns, he was an overwhelming—and easy—choice.

Walter Payton placed fourteenth.

PART THREE

CHICAGO

Larry Ely, Chicago Bears linebacker, 1975

I came to the Bears from my first NFL team, the Cincinnati Bengals. One of the coaches there in the spring of 1974 was Bill Walsh. I ran into him somewhere after I’d signed with the Bears, and I told him about going to Chicago and trying to win a spot. He said, “You’ve got a real treat coming.” I said, “What?” He said, “You guys have a rookie running back named Walter Payton, and he’ll end up being the best who ever played the game.”

That was before Walter ever took a single NFL handoff.

CHAPTER 10

GOING PRO

WALTER PAYTON WAS WEARING A PURSE.

Back in the fall of 1974, such an accessory was, inexplicably, en vogue for young Southern men of color. So that’s what the greatest football player in the history of Jackson State University had slung over his shoulder: A black leather handbag, dangling from a thin strap.

As did Robert Brazile and Rickey Young, his two Tiger teammates. The three men, all either twenty-one or twenty-two, all nervously twitching, stood alongside a wall in the nondescript Hattiesburg law office, saying nothing, staring toward the ground. Decked out in fancy new suits and shiny dress shoes, the players felt awkward and out of place. As star collegiate athletes, Payton, Brazile, and Young were used to the casualness of university life, as well as the dirt and grass of a hundred-yard field.

But not to this.

They were brought here on this late-November day by Bob Hill, who, when he wasn’t terrifying his players, took it upon himself to safeguard their futures. Back in his days as a high school coach, Hill had been introduced to Paul H. Holmes, a local white attorney known to everyone as, simply, Bud. The two struck up a friendship, fostered primarily upon Holmes’ unorthodox approach to race relations. Instead of tiptoeing around issues of black-white, Holmes attacked race with the tactfulness of a jackhammer. “Y’all are a helluva lot better off than we are,” he told blacks on more than one occasion. “Your ancestors knew somebody wanted you and paid good money. My ancestor was probably sent here out from some prison. My people came out of prison, yours were selected. We all came here under difficult conditions. So why be mad?”

Hill liked Holmes. Liked his honesty, liked his vulgarity, liked his passion for football. Mostly, he liked that he was one of the few white attorneys in Mississippi willing to extend a helping hand toward young blacks. In 1969, when Hill was still the backfield coach at Jackson State, one of his former high school players, a kid named Verlin Bourne, had gotten in some legal trouble. He called Bud. “I don’t know if you’d take a black client,” said Hill. “But I know this kid, and . . .”

Holmes stopped him midsentence.

“Hell, why wouldn’t I?” he said. “Bring the nigger up here and lemme meet him.”

Hill laughed. Such was Bud being Bud.

Now, five years later, Hill and Holmes were at it again. The NFL Draft was scheduled for January 28, 1975, and according to the many scouts who had visited Jackson State’s campus, all three players were guaranteed to be selected—Payton and Brazile within the first dozen or so picks. The problem, however, came with representation. While various Southern attorneys and agents scoured the campuses of Ole Miss, Mississippi State, and Southern Miss, few—actually, none—trekked out to Jackson State. It’s not that the Tigers lacked talent. Everyone knew Hill’s program was a buffet of NFL prospects. No, this was about reputation. The white Mississippi agent who represented black players was known as a sellout to his race. College coaches wanted nothing to do with you. Prospects were told to ignore your phone calls. “Truthfully,” said Holmes, “I didn’t give a shit. If you could play, you could play.”

That’s why Hill and his players were here, in Holmes’ office, seeking out representation. The five men spoke for roughly twenty-five minutes, with the coach and agent doing 99 percent of the talking. Holmes would look up at Payton and Brazile and Young, their eyes wide, their lips pursed. He felt as if he understood what it was to be them—young and black and Southern born. That’s why, as the meeting closed and silence choked the room, he turned to Hill and spoke loudly.

“Coach,” Holmes said, “I just don’t think I can represent these boys.”

Hill was stunned. “Really,” he said. “What’s the matter?”

“Well,” said Holmes, “they seem like perfectly nice niggers. But look at those purses. I’ve never, ever represented any little queers before.”

With that, the players burst into laughter. Holmes shook their hands and promised honesty and respect. “All I ask of you is to be good citizens, look people in the eyes, and carry yourself with dignity,” he said. “If you can do that, we can work together.”

Walter Payton nodded. He had no idea what he was getting himself into.