The last time I saw a healthy Walter Payton was at O’Hare, waiting for his plane, all alone, in the boarding area. He held a long cigar, about the size of an oboe, and he had no use for it.
“Someone just gave this to me,” he explained upon hailing an acquaintance, a haggard typist-clerk who gladly accepted the handoff and all that went with it. Walter made sport of the poor soul’s clothing and something stupid he’d written in a recent column.
“And don’t smoke that on your flight,” Walter said, “because I’m not going to bail you out of jail.”
When Walter succumbed to cancer Monday, I thought about that brief exchange. Here was the greatest football player ever, biding time at an airport, like the rest of us mopes. When did Michael Jordan last set foot in O’Hare? Would he dare to now, even with his usual complement of bodyguards?
But that was typical Walter, the superstar who didn’t act the part. Surely he could have hailed his own ride just by picking up the telephone. Instead, he chose privacy over private planes, and if that sounds like a contradiction, consider how he became famous. The enemy is supposed to tackle runners; he ran over tacklers.
Walter gained his 16,726 yards during a slightly more graceful era than the 1990s, but only slightly. For who he was and what he accomplished, he could have surrounded himself with an entourage and traveled solo through crowds. But he was a celebrity of the people, a mingler who shunned the pedestal for the sidewalk.
How Walter managed to remain so approachable, yet so understated, speaks volumes about how he treated you and me. The better he became in his profession, the better he became at dealing with fame. Perhaps this explains why the public was at ease in his presence, not merely in awe.
Long after Walter shed his shy side, he still resisted dwelling on himself. Some time ago he decided to write a book, and yours truly was honored to attempt mission impossible. Three weeks into the project he mulled a title for his autobiography. I volunteered, “Ants in My Pants.”
Still the unpublished tapes reveal some insights. Walter said he felt a distinct chill during his early encounters with Gale Sayers. Also, exceeding the normal statute of limitations, Walter still chafed about sitting out that one game his rookie year (while Mike Adamle started) in Pittsburgh. Fred O’Connor, the running backs coach, “used me to make a point . . . I didn’t play because I didn’t practice with a bad ankle . . . but I don’t count that as a missed game.”
Repeatedly, Walter mentioned how hurt he was about reviews of a playoff loss to Washington in January 1987. He had fumbled. The experts detected an erosion in his skills. Walter said: “I thought I had (earned) more respect than that.”
Jordan invented crises to motivate him. Perhaps that was Walter’s deal, not that he needed any extra gas for his engine. It never idled. Or maybe Walter had the same insecurities that at once haunt and create geniuses. Know this: No athlete commanded more respect than Walter, and it was all on merit.
I suspect he knew that; he simply refused to bask in it. He deflected attention as adroitly as he did linebackers. How fitting, if not fair, that on the October Sunday in 1984 when Walter broke Jim Brown’s record, Chicago was focused on a baseball game lost by the Cubs at San Diego. And Walter still hasn’t scored in Super Bowl XX.
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But instead of the usual fleeting stuff, our affection for Walter is forever. He was an outstanding man who happened to play football. Humble, sincere, fun. At Friday’s memorial service, Mike Ditka and John Madden both nailed it. Walter was great before and after football too. If the current Bears want to honor him, never mind Sunday’s calisthenics in Green Bay. Walk in his shoes when the game is over too.
I still haven’t smoked that cigar because I know it will explode, and somewhere, Walter would be laughing. If only he were still here to do it. Goodnight, sweet prince.