海角大神

One of the most telling anecdotes in Super Bowl history involves Walter Payton, who was the heart and soul of the Chicago Bears for many years.

After 10 mostly futile seasons toiling for the franchise, the punishing running back finally could call himself a champion after Super Bowl XX in 1986.

The Bears had just shellacked the New England Patriots, 46-10, in the Super Bowl鈥檚 most lopsided victory to that point. But in the joyous aftermath in the New Orleans Superdome, Payton went missing. Instead of celebrating with his teammates in the Chicago locker room, he had retreated to a broom closet for a good cry 鈥� not of joy, but of disappointment.

Payton was heartbroken. On the sport鈥檚 biggest stage he not only hadn鈥檛 scored a touchdown, but when Chicago had a short-and-goal opportunity late in the third quarter, a hulking rookie defensive lineman, William 鈥淭he Refrigerator鈥� Perry, was sent into the game to carry the ball the last yard into the end zone. It was a whimsical, gimmicky moment that would forever prevent Payton鈥檚 name from appearing in the game鈥檚 scoring summary.聽

It took his angry agent to read him the riot act and force him to return to the locker room and put on a good face. Anything less, he warned, would ruin Payton鈥檚 good-guy image and paint him as a selfish moper.

This is just one of the windows on the inner Payton that Jeff Pearlman offers in his nearly 500-page biography of the Hall of Famer, Sweetness: The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton. It stands as one of the most engaging, thoroughly researched, and frank football books imaginable.

As a powerful, well-told, and tragic story, it ranks alongside Jane Leavey鈥檚 2010 blockbuster about Mickey Mantle, 鈥淭he Last Boy.鈥�

One irony here is Mike Ditka鈥檚 reaction to Pearlman鈥檚 鈥渢ell it like is鈥� profile of Payton. The Bears鈥� former coach said if he met the author, he would spit in his eye for revealing so much of the seamier side of Payton鈥檚 life after his death, including his marital infidelities and suicidal thoughts. This was without reading the book, and by the coach who鈥檇 missed the opportunity to call Payton鈥檚 number, not the Fridge鈥檚, in the Super Bowl.

Pearlman claims his portrait of Payton is not meant to be exploitative, and that the 678 interviews he conducted were a reflection of his desire to tell a fascinating life story well. The end result: He came to love Payton, not for his insecurities and shortcomings, but for his sheer humanity. 鈥淚 love what he overcame, I love what he accomplished, I love what he symbolized, and I love the nooks and crannies and complexities,鈥� Pearlman concludes in the book鈥檚 final paragraph.

Pearlman only interviewed Payton once, in 1999, as a reporter for Sports Illustrated, when Payton was so ill and frail that Pearlman strained to recognize pro football鈥檚 reigning all-time rushing leader. 聽He died later that year at age 45, a gut-punch to the fans who came to know 鈥淪weetness鈥� as one of the most genuinely friendly stars in the game. He understood celebrity and embraced its demands, going beyond mere autograph-signing to introduce himself to people on the street with a warm, 鈥淗i, I鈥檓 Walter 鈥� Walter Payton.鈥澛�

He had a reputation for being kind-hearted and caring and knew the names of ballboys and team interns 颅鈥� and even where they went to school. The NFL has honored his memory by naming its annual player community service award the Walter Payton Man of the Year Award.

The 鈥淪weetness鈥� nickname, interestingly, stemmed not from his outwardly sunny and playful personality, but from something that occurred during a practice for a college all-star team. While eluding a would-be tackler, he yelled out to the defender, 鈥淵our sweetness is your weakness!鈥�

Payton was incredibly determined to overcome any doubts about his ability, and used the humiliating first game of his pro career, when he gained zero yards, as a motivation thereafter. He trained hard, making countless runs up a steep, treacherous hill near his home during the offseason. He didn鈥檛 shrug off losses, either, and initially refused to participate with teammates in taping 鈥淭he Super Bowl Shuffle鈥� video in 1985 after Chicago was handed a rare regular-season loss. He later was taped against a blue screen and his image spliced into the smash-hit, rap song project, a natural for a guy who had once been a finalist in the national 鈥淪oul Train鈥� dance competition while in college.

What happened to the Super Bowl ring that Payton earned as a member of that 鈥�85 championship team is a story symbolic of the frustrations the Bears鈥� star encountered in retirement.

To meet his community service requirement for speeding violations, Payton became a volunteer for a high school basketball team in Hoffman Estates, Ill.聽 After a pep talk about commitment and trust, he handed a dumbstruck Nick Abruzzo his Super Bowl ring and told him to keep it for the weekend. 鈥淚 trust you, just like you need to trust one another,鈥� he said.

Abruzzo held a party at his house and in handing the ring around it was lost. When he reported back with the jarring news, Payton managed to tell him, 鈥淒on鈥檛 worry, it will turn up.鈥�

It did, but not until several years later, when it was found by a fellow Hoffman Estates athlete and major Payton fan who had moved the Abruzzos' discarded family couch to his college dwellings at Purdue University. One day, while his dog was trying to retrieve a chew toy caught in the couch鈥檚 underside, the young man reached underneath and felt the ring.

It was returned, but to Payton鈥檚 estranged widow.

Ross Atkin is a sports writer for the Monitor.

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