Walter & Me (15 page)

It turned out that Walter was right. It took me a while to understand, but I eventually came to understand that Bud just liked to break the ice with a sledge hammer. He thought friends should be able to say anything to each other, even if that anything was shocking to the rest of world. Chances are, if you were ever shocked by Bud (or by Bud and Walter together), he (or they) was (or were) just messing with you. If you were on the inside, you got it. If you were on the outside, well, you might’ve suffered the same fate as Brent Musburger.

Musburger was a reporter at the CBS affiliate in Chicago at the time. He wasn’t national yet, and he was trying to set up a press conference so he could interview Walter and introduce him to Chicago. When Musburger called Bud and presented the idea, Bud agreed it was a good one. The Bears hadn’t yet signed Walter, and Bud knew if Walter could come out of the press conference looking good, it could only help his client. The plan was for Walter to talk about how he wanted to do nothing but play in Chicago, and that would serve to make the Bears look like they didn’t know what they were doing having not yet signed him. In the end, Bud knew the whole thing would give Walter leverage in his contract negotiations. So, Musburger wanted to know if Bud could get Walter to come up there for the press conference, and of course Bud agreed. But he didn’t just want Walter to talk about how much he wanted to be in Chicago. Bud also wanted to have some fun with it, because he’d heard Walter was a prankster extraordinaire. Walter and Bud would prove to be a match made in heaven in that way, but at the time Musburger called for the press conference, Bud was still trying to see what kind of sense of humor my little brother had. He found out pretty fast and in a big way.

Before heading to Chicago for the press conference, Bud said that he pulled Walter off to the side and said, “Let’s go up there and let’s have some fun with this, okay? Here’s what I want to do. We’ll fly to Chicago and get out and meet the local press and others out there. Now, you’ll do the press conference just fine, but before you go on air, I want you to act like a dumb, ignorant, subservient, backwoods black guy, and I’ll play the part of a dumb, ignorant, redneck lawyer that must be a member of the KKK. We’ll just make ’em all a little nervous about what you’ll say on air.” Hmmm…sounds familiar. Guess they weren’t much for coming up with new material.

Well, hearing Bud’s little plan was music to Walter’s ears. Bud was his kind of agent, that’s for sure. Walter just loved the idea. And I mean, he dearly loved it. He told Bud, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’ll be fun. Yeah, we’ll do that.” According to Bud, Walter really got a big kick out of thinking about pulling that prank, and all the nervousness he had about going to Chicago and doing that press conference just melted away.

The way Bud told the story, they flew into Meig’s Field Airport in Chicago, and there was a limo waiting for them and everything. It was a big deal to the media folks of Chicago, and Bud and Walter smiled at each other as they sat there on the plane, looking at all the cameras pointed toward them. So, Bud and Walter let everyone else get off the plane first. They wanted to be the last ones off, and Walter was the very last one off the plane, walking behind Bud. Walter walked off that plane, and the press just looked at him. Walter was looking at all the snow, though, and he got an idea. He started right up with the gag by pointing at the snow and saying, “What’s that mess?”

Bud followed right along. “Well, now, that’s snow,” he responded so everyone could hear. Then Walter took it to a whole new level.

“Nah, that’s cotton,” Walter said in the dumbest sounding voice he could muster.

Bud almost laughed and gave away the whole thing, but he somehow kept it together. “Nah, Walter, it ain’t no cotton. Hell, come on over here. I’m telling you, it’s snow.”

“What, I got to play in that mess?” Walter continued. “I ain’t getting off this plane.”

“Now, now, you come on here,” Bud said, sounding just as redneck as redneck could be. Bud and Walter then started to act like they were about to punch each other, with Walter not wanting to get off the plane. Finally, Walter got off the plane, got in the limo, and they went downtown. But the fun was just beginning. They walked into the studio to see Musburger, and that’s when the joke got very interesting. Every other word Walter said was “nigger.” You know; nigger this, nigger that. “How ’bout them niggers?” he’d say, or, “How many niggers y’all got? I don’t see any.” Stuff like that. And the whole time, Musburger was just sitting there getting all freaked out. He was convinced that what was going to be an exciting day for him was about to turn into the worst day of his life.

Everything Walter said made Musburger flinch. It scared the hell out of him. All of a sudden and far too soon for Musburger, it was 10 minutes before they were scheduled to hit the air. Walter went out there, and they set him all up with a mic and everything. They got Walter all situated, and he had a little camera he brought, and he was sitting there playing with everything like he was dumb as a box of rocks. All the CBS people were real frantic, because it was almost time to go on the air, and they didn’t know what Walter was going to do. Walter and Bud could see them all huddled up not knowing what to do, with no idea what was about to go out on the air. They were actually trying to decide whether to cancel the show or not, from what I understand. They had all the press out there, too. I mean, everybody, so it would’ve been a big deal to cancel. Walter and Bud knew they wouldn’t. So, anyway, they get ready to go, and Musburger finally came over to Walter and Bud just moments before show time and said, “Look, we’re getting ready to go on air. I don’t want to…I’m asking you guys…don’t use the ethnic slur.”

Walter looked Musburger square in the eye, acting as dumb as could be, and said, “What you talking about? What you mean by ‘ethnic’?”

“You know, that word you all keep using. That ethnic slur,” Musburger said, not amused.

Bud decided to cut in. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, continuing the ruse. “Do you know what he’s talking about, Walter?”

“No, sir, Mr. Bud. I don’t.” Then Bud looked at Walter and shrugged his shoulders.

Musburger was getting frustrated. “You know what I’m talking about, that word you use,” he said again. He didn’t want to say it, but Walter and Bud were determined to get Musburger to say the word.

“What word you talkin’ ’bout, Mr. Musburger?” Walter said again.

“That word. You guys keep saying….” Then he whispered, “
Nigger.
” He had to choke it out of himself. Bud actually started feeling sorry for Musburger, but Walter smelled blood and wanted to make it worse for the poor guy.

“Mr. Musburger,” Walter said in response, “I promise, I told you I’s a good nigger. I ain’t no bad nigger.”

Musburger was completely freaked at that point. “No, come on, now, you can’t use that word out there,” he said, seeing his career flash before his eyes. “You understand me? You can’t use it.”

Walter didn’t skip a beat. He just answered, “I’s a good nigger, Mr. Musburger. I promise, I’s a good little nigger.”

Then the lights turned on, and it was show time. Musburger took to the air and started in for about five minutes. Bud says he must’ve been nervous as hell, but all he did was brag about Walter’s career at Jackson State and all the records he set. He showed a bunch of video clips of his days at Jackson State and just went on and on about him like he was the best thing to come to Chicago since sliced pizza. Walter hadn’t said a word or given any indication as to whether or not he’d be using “that word” on the air. Finally, Musburger was out of great things to say about Walter, and it was time to turn Walter’s mic on. Musburger gave Walter the cue, “And I’m going to now introduce you to the Bears’ No. 1 draft choice.” The press, and especially Brent Musburger, held their collective breath. “This is Walter Payton,” continued Musburger. “Now, I’m going to ask him if he has anything to say.”

What they didn’t know (and what you don’t know yet, come to think of it) was that Walter had worked part-time at Channel 16 in Jackson while a student and did a lot of “on the scene reporting.” He had a minor in radio and TV. As a matter of fact, when Bud’s client Ray Guy, as a rookie, hit the Astrodome ceiling with a punt, Walter was down there that night with a camera, interviewing Ray for Channel 16 in Jackson. So, if they’d have done their homework, the Chicago press would’ve known that Walter was no rookie when it came to being in front of a live camera.

Walter switched back to his normal voice, smiled, and said, “I am so honored to be here today to just have the thought of being able to play for the same team that legends like Red Grange, Bronko Nagurski, Sid Luckman, Gale Sayers, and Dick Butkus played for. And the great George Halas. It is the wildest dream of my life to be able to have this honor, to be able to be out there where Gale Sayers has run up and down the field. I just hope that I don’t embarrass.” Walter did so much more than just not say “that word.” He was downright eloquent.

There was clearly nothing dumb about Walter during that press conference. Nothing dumb in the least. It didn’t matter what they asked him, my little brother answered it with style and class. Bud once noted that even Musburger appreciated the charade at that point. “As soon as the thing was over,” Bud said, “Brent Musburger came up to us, made sure nobody was around, cut his eyes at Walter, shook his head, then turned to me and said, ‘Damnit, you’re right, he sure is a smart-aleck nigger, isn’t he?’ I never saw Walter laugh so hard before or since. He just laughed and laughed and laughed at what Musburger said.”

Walter and Bud sure had some good times together and really clicked in an odd sort of way. And I think Bud fully appreciated what I was going through at the time, too. What’s more, I think he cared. My situation reminded him a lot of his good friend, Hank Williams Jr. I’ll never forget Bud’s story of the two of them fishing on Barnett Reservoir the day after a Hank Jr. concert in Jackson. They got to drinking, and Hank Jr. got to spillin’ his guts. He turned to Bud and said, “You didn’t come to see
me
last night, you came to see my daddy.” Bud didn’t quite know what to tell him, so he didn’t say much. Then Hank filled up the silence saying, “Well, I’m a musician, too,” before he took another drink.

It was true, you know. Everywhere Hank would go there for a while, all anyone would want to hear him sing were his daddy’s songs. Not long after that conversation with Bud, though, a song of his own bubbled up: “Standing in the Shadows”. And these lyrics made their way to my ears:

I know that I’m not great

And some say I imitate

Anymore, I don’t know

I’m just doing the best I can

After all, I’m standing in the shadows

Of a very famous man

Oftentimes, I felt like him, standing in the shadows of a legend who happened to be my little brother, the one I’d taught the tricks of the trade. But what good is a big brother if he’s only there to give you something to follow or to keep you tagging along? No, there’s more to it than that. Sometimes I think the greater test of a bond for an older sibling comes not in patting the younger ones on the head when they’re coming up, but in patting them on the back when they’ve passed you by. When my little brother became a star, he found me standing in the shadows cheering him on. And when that era was over, I couldn’t think of a better way to spend my time than to pour myself into some other young athletes as the head golf coach at Jackson State. I think of Mr. Bradley sometimes with all he did for us young athletes when he opened that sports complex in Columbia when Walter and I were kids. And now here was one of those kids all grown up and getting ready to make his mark on NFL history.

Eventually, with the help of Bud Holmes, Walter and the Bears came to terms. He signed a three-year contract that gave him the richest deal in franchise history at that time. Bud got Walter the highest signing bonus for any player ever from Mississippi, in the amount of $126,000 ($1,000 higher than the bonus Archie Manning got). Might not seem like much now when talking about a player like Walter, but back in 1975, it was a fortune. Walter was thrilled, and that’s when things really started to fly in his life. He was a Chicago Bear. He was in the NFL. He had achieved his dream, and now he was getting ready to live it. And for a good little while there, I even got to live it with him. That’s right—Payton & Payton was coming to the NFL.

9. Becomin’ Sweet P

Do you know how long a mile is? Well, it’s exactly 5,280 feet. A football field, on the other hand, is only 300 feet long (360 feet if you include the end zones). There are almost 18 football fields in a mile. Now, it’s 825 miles or so from Columbia, Mississippi, to Chicago, Illinois. That’s around 14,138 football fields. Quite a long way no matter how you slice it. It’ll take you about 14 hours by car to get from my hometown to the Windy City, and that’s if you take the straightest of shots. Well, Walter certainly didn’t take anything even close to a straight shot. There were many twists and turns on his path to the Bears. Hell, there were many
paths
on his path to the Bears. It took Walter 21 years to get to Chicago. And he went much, much farther than 825 miles. I can’t even begin to count how many football fields he had to run along the way. Funny thing was, once he arrived, my brother’s journey was just beginning. And so was mine.

Walter was living the dream when he became a Bear. All of his hard work had paid off, and he had reached the highest level of football. While he was settling into his new life in Chicago and training for his rookie season, I was starting a whole new phase of my life about 9,417 football fields away in Memphis, Tennessee. The CFL didn’t work out, so I was out of football and had started teaching at Vance Junior High School before moving over to Booker T. Washington High School. That’s where I became the athletic director, the math teacher, the PE teacher, and the football coach. Time rolled on by for Walter and me, and as the summer turned into fall, Chicago Bears fans got a glimpse of their new all-purpose athlete. Walter proved to be a beast returning kickoffs, and he slowly showed he could be a force running the ball through the line of scrimmage, too. But it wasn’t easy for him at first.

When he first took the field in high school, Walter hit the ground running, but it wasn’t like that for him as a rookie in the NFL. Of course, it wasn’t really his fault, if you ask me. It was largely because the Bears didn’t have much going on offense when Walter showed up. In fact, it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to say that when Walter got there the Bears’ best offensive play was the punt. After that, it was all pretty much downhill, and not in the good football sense of the term. Chicago just wasn’t a very good team, and Walter wasn’t going to be able to turn things around on his own. It doesn’t work like that in the NFL. Every player in the league was a star on his high school and college teams. It’s just that some stars were bigger than others, and when Walter came to the Bears, they seemed to have more of the “others.”

Quarterbacks Gary Huff, Bob Avellini, and Bobby Douglass just couldn’t provide the kind of potent passing attack that could keep opposing defenses honest. Noah Jackson, Revie Sorey, and some other young and inexperienced players made up the offensive line, so there wasn’t a whole lot at the time to run behind. Dan Jiggetts came in the next year, and that would be the start of what would later become a great offensive line for Walter, but it was hard for him to find much room to run that first season. Any defense facing the Bears simply zeroed in on the rookie running back, and I mean that literally when talking about Walter’s infamous debut. It’s widely known that Walter totaled zero yards rushing on eight attempts in his very first game as a Bear. That was a tough beginning to a tough rookie year for my little brother, and in all honesty, it was probably even tougher for me, because I was pulling so hard for him. I wanted him to get out there and be bad-ass on the grass right away. That’s just not how it was going to be, though. Unless, of course, we’re talking about what he did as a kick returner.

Despite Walter’s ability to play almost any position at Jackson State, one thing he never did in college was return kicks. I never did that in college, either, so I was surprised to see they had Walter back there catching the ball and running it back as a rookie. He was supposed to be their star running back, pounding through the line of scrimmage, leaving a trail of sweetness behind him, so I wanted to know why they had him returning kicks. I called him up and asked, “Why you doing that? Why you returning kicks?” He had a very simple and wise answer for me. “Because they pay me,” he said. Okay, little brother, I can dig it. The Bears got their money’s worth, too, because Walter led the league in kickoff returns as a rookie. That was something he made sure I knew and would never, ever forget. Never, ever.

Now, of course, if you don’t know anything about Walter’s stats during his rookie year, you might read what I just wrote and think he only returned kicks and did nothing as a runner. You’d be wrong. He didn’t do what the world would come to expect from him, but he wasn’t exactly a slouch either. He didn’t get zero yards rushing in every game. He got better and better as the season went on. Even with a young Bears O-Line and no passing attack to speak of, Walter’s talent eventually just had to shine through. There was nothing anyone could do about it. Uncommon, God-given talent like his has a way of doing that. As I mentioned, he led the league in kickoff returns, but he also finished the season with 679 yards rushing. Might not sound like a lot, but considering he was a rookie on a bad team, it was pretty good. Oh, and for some perspective, his 679 yards were actually the most for any Bears running back since 1969. If it was a poor first year in the NFL for Walter, it said more about the state of the Bears at the time than my baby brother’s level of sweetness on the field. Still, it didn’t hurt to get a little boost in the sweetness department over that following summer.

Remember how at Jackson State, Walter was in a funk from being rejected by that girl and her mother, and how he came out of that funk after meeting Connie? Well, the summer following his rookie season in the NFL, Connie (who was Walter’s fiancée at the time) left Jackson State and came to Chicago to be with him. They wed a few weeks later on July 7, 1976. That was a wonderful day for my little brother, and I must say, it really topped off his sweetness tank. He started to explode during his second year. That season Walter really stepped it up and basically became the Bears’ offense, carrying the ball 311 times, which was the most in the league. He led the league in kickoff returns as a rookie, like I said, and now here he was in his second year as a pro leading the league in rushing attempts. He gained 1,390 yards on the ground, which didn’t lead the league, but it sho’ nuff led the National Football Conference (NFC). The Bears finished the year 7–7, which was their best season in eight years. Maybe Walter should’ve married Connie sooner.

Whether Connie was the reason or not, Walter Payton was back in a big way. It was exciting for me to watch him doing what he was doing out there. He was in the best league in the world with the best players in the world, and he was playing like the best of the best. Doesn’t get much better than that. Well, except for being in the NFL with him. That would’ve been better for sure. I enjoyed watching Walter so much during that breakout second year that I started to think about our year together back at Jackson State. I was reliving all the fun we had together as Tigers, and I started to get the itch again. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I was enjoying my job as a high school football coach and teacher in Memphis. It’s just that watching Walter out there during his second season made me want to play again. And if I’m being perfectly honest, growing up I never dreamed that I’d have stopped playing and moved to coaching so soon. I was still a football player, really. It’s just that I wasn’t playing football. So, while I was coaching and teaching and watching Walter introduce himself to football fans everywhere, I just kept trying to stay in shape, wishing, hoping, and praying that somebody in the NFL would give me a shot. I thought maybe someone would remember the things I did in college or the type of athlete I was when I played. Eventually, I got a call that changed everything.

Al Tabor was the special teams coach with the Cleveland Browns during that time. When I was at Jackson State, Al was coaching at Southern University. I’d played against his team while a Tiger, so Al had firsthand knowledge of what I could do. He’d seen me run up and down the field in an up-close and personal kind of way. Well, he eventually left Southern University and became part of the Browns, and he remembered me from when he saw me play back in college. In the summer of 1977, he called me up and said the six most beautiful words I’ve ever heard anyone say to me. “You think you can still play?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Okay, you think you can return kicks?”

Now, again, returning kicks wasn’t something I’d done in college, and I never really saw myself as that kind of player. I always imagined I’d be a running back at the next level, carrying the ball, making guys miss, breaking ankles and records all at the same time. Then I remembered what my brother told me during his rookie year about why he was returning kicks, and I thought,
Okay, now, swallow your pride and get paid.
My response started out a little weak, perhaps, but I finished strong. “Well, I guess I…yep, I can. Sure can.”

Al was happy to hear it. “Well, we want to bring you in and give you a look,” he told me, “and then if everything works out, we’ll sign you.” I hung up the phone and un-hung up my cleats. I felt like a teenager again, just as thrilled as I could be and filled with the love I had for the game when I first started playing with the neighborhood kids. That call from Al was what I’d been waiting for, and I went out jogging right away to be sure I was in tip-top shape for the upcoming workout, thinking the whole time about all the kicks I was about to get a chance to return on the highest level in football. I was humbled and excited about the opportunity and couldn’t believe it was really happening.

Well, the rest of the Browns coaching staff saw what Al saw in me when I was at Jackson State. I made Cleveland’s team as a free agent, and I was finally in the NFL. I was getting my shot. The problem was, it wasn’t much different than the shot I got in the CFL. I was only with the Browns for two games, a victim of the numbers. You see, our All-Pro defensive tackle, Jerry Sherk, was injured at the time, so they were allowed to have another player on the roster while he recovered. I was that player. We were trying to play games with one less defensive lineman until Jerry got well or we put him on injured reserve. Well, we ended up putting him on injured reserve a little quicker than I thought we would, so he couldn’t play any more that year. They were just going to try to wait him out, so they signed me instead of another defensive lineman. But we just weren’t doing well on defense, and with Jerry on injured reserve, they had to bring in another defensive lineman to replace him. Room had to be made for the new defensive lineman, so I got cut. As they say, the good Lord giveth, and the good Lord taketh away. Fortunately for me, sometimes when the good Lord does that, he giveth again right away.

I’d done enough in those two games with Cleveland that the Detroit Lions took notice. They picked me up off waivers, and I finished the last eight games of the season with the Lions. So, between the Browns and the Lions, I got to play 10 games, and I just have to mention what happened on December 17, 1977. It’s my book, so you’re just going to have to deal with me braggin’ on myself a little here, okay? It was the last game of the year for the Lions, against the Minnesota Vikings. I was really feeling my oats that day and returned two kicks for touchdowns. I ran a kickoff back for a 98-yard score and returned a punt for an 87-yard touchdown. That’s 185 yards and 12 points on two plays. And you know, I actually could’ve had a better game on November 6, 1977, which was about the third week I was with the Lions. We were playing against San Diego at home, and I was ripping up and down the field all day. It was the best I’d ever feel in the NFL, but holding flags erased some good runs and a lot of yardage. Still, I was showing flash out there, and a lot of people saw it. It was a great time for me, and I think more than anything, I was feeling like me again. On the day I scored two touchdowns, I established in the eyes of many that I could play. Some people realized that I was Eddie Payton and not just Walter’s brother. Of course, it was inevitable that some would always compare me to him.

When I first got in the league, somebody said, “Man, you run just like Walter.” I always responded with a wisecrack by saying, “Nah, Walter runs just like me.” Still, some compared us, and I actually took that as a compliment. I even earned the nickname “Sweet P.” Not “Pea” like Sweet Pea from Popeye, but the letter P, for Payton. Walter was Sweetness, and I was Sweet P. I absolutely loved it. I mean, in the NFL, when you’re known by a nickname, that means you’ve arrived. People don’t really know what you’re about until they know you by your nickname. When other players in the NFL hang a moniker on you, that sets you apart from everybody else; it’s really something to wear with pride. Walter and I did just that as Sweetness and Sweet P out there on the fields of the NFL.

You know, when Cleveland first signed me and I made it into the league, people weren’t yet calling me Sweet P. I was just a rookie like all the other newcomers. It’s funny; I was older than Walter, but I was the rookie, and he was the third-year player. I was at a press conference for the Browns, and all us rookies had to step up to the podium and tell the media who we were. Of course, they all knew who I was already. And I don’t mean they knew I was Eddie Payton. No, I mean they knew me as Walter Payton’s brother. Well, I didn’t exactly see it that way, and I let one particular reporter know all about it. He asked, “Well, how does it feel to be the brother of a superstar?” I came right back at him almost without even thinking about it and said, “I don’t know. You’ll have to go to Chicago and ask him how it feels.” That line became my crowning statement and has been talked about by many. I thought it was a pretty good line, but I know it’s been presented by some that I said it out of jealousy, resentment, or spite. Those folks need to get a sense of humor already. You know, if I couldn’t be a football player or a teacher or a coach, I might’ve tried stand-up comedy. I just love cracking jokes, and that’s exactly how my response to that reporter’s question was intended—as humor. Of course, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t also a dig at the smart-ass reporter who asked such a dumbass question. I mean, “How does it feel to be the brother of a superstar?” Maybe I should have just asked, “How does it feel to be a dumbass?”