A True Foot Soldier Who Leaves Some Fond Memories

Walter Payton was amazing throughout most of his 13-year NFL career but never more so than in his first two or three seasons, when he ran behind offensive lineman such as Dennis Lick, Jeff Sevy, Revie Sorey, Dan Neal, Dan Peiffer and Noah “Buddha” Jackson. The backup tight end was the punter, Tom Parsons. Stop me when you see a name other than Buddha that you recognize.

Sevy was from Cal and brought some of his ‘70s, tie-dyed Northern California ideas with him, including a post-practice ritual in which he organized the offensive linemen into a circle and had them raise their hands toward the sky and hum.

He insisted they would be energized by the sun, but because the sun was rarely visible over the Bears’ Lake Forest (Ill.) practice field during football season, his theory never received a true test.

I don’t know if Payton was bothered in those days by the lack of blocking in front of him. He couldn’t even count on his fullback, Roland Harper, who weighed barely 200 pounds. In fact, the only great blocker on the team was Payton. But I do know that I never heard him complain.

He was the best soldier to ever play in Soldier Field. If there was a hole for him, he ran through it. If there wasn’t, he bounced off would-be tacklers until he found space to run.

In 1976, his second year in the league, he gained 1,390 yards on a team that finished 7-7. In 1977, he averaged 5.5 yards a carry in gaining a league-leading 1,852 yards for a team that finished 9-5 and made the playoffs largely because he willed it. He was the closest I’ve ever seen to a one-man offense.

Oddly, considering that he’s the NFL’s all-time leading rusher, I don’t remember any one run he made during those seasons I covered the Bears for the Chicago Sun-Times. I do remember, though, how most of them ended, with him lowering his shoulder and ramming it into the solar plexus of a linebacker or a defensive back.

Although he was listed at 5 feet 10 and 200 pounds, both exaggerations, he never gave an inch or an ounce. When Payton broke the all-time rushing record in 1984, the man who’d held it before him, Jim Brown, said he was glad Payton had done it, instead of Franco Harris or Eric Dickerson, because he never saw Walter avoid a tackle by running out of bounds. Neither did I.

I never saw him hurt, either, despite the violent collisions he caused. After the worst of them, the ones you could hear and practically feel in the press box, he would somersault and spring to his feet.

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Professional sports are often described as boys’ games played by men. The thing that struck me most about Payton, even more than the way he played his game, was that he never let go of the little boy inside him.

His nickname was “Sweetness,” and, as anyone who saw him interact with his wife, Connie, and his two children can tell you, he was sweet. But what he he really was to those who knew him inside the dressing room was mischievous.

Rare is the Bear who wasn’t goosed at one time or another by Payton. But his teammates weren’t his only victims. If you were a reporter interviewing a player and felt a pinch on your backside, you assumed Payton was the perpetrator. But when you turned around in an effort to catch him, he was back at his locker, minding his own business. Don’t let anyone tell you he wasn’t quick.

His relationship with sports reporters was about the same as it was with defensive tackles. He was happiest when dodging us. But I never thought it was because he didn’t like reporters--he might not have had a malicious bone in his body--as much as it was because he didn’t have time for us.

He was too hyperactive to sit and reflect on his craft. There was a switchboard telephone in the interview room in Lake Forest. Payton would often interrupt his interviews to answer the phone, acting like the receptionist. Callers inquiring about the schedule or ticket availability would hang up without knowing they had spoken to Payton.

In my four years in Chicago, I went to Payton’s place once. He and Connie had an apartment in a northern suburb of Chicago, not far from Lake Forest, and he agreed to an interview, although I’m still not sure why.

At one point, he was playing his drums, listening to his stereo through his earphones and watching television while waiting for a friend to make his next move in their chess game. It wasn’t rude. It was Walter.

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Was Payton the best running back ever?

That’s questionable. Brown was more powerful, Gayle Sayers was more elusive, O.J. Simpson faster, Tony Dorsett quicker.

But he was the best football player I’ve ever seen. Not only was he the Bears’ best runner and blocker, he was probably their best passer in the years I covered them and Bob Avellini was the starting quarterback. He also was a kicker at Jackson State, which contributed to the record 46 points he scored in one game, and enjoyed challenging Bear kicker Bob Thomas to field goal contests after practice.

About the only goal important to him that he didn’t accomplish was scoring a touchdown in the Super Bowl.

Several years after I left the Bears’ beat, when the team had improved immensely, Payton had his chance in the 1986 Super Bowl. I’m even more peeved at Mike Ditka today than I was then for calling Refrigerator Perry’s number at the goal line instead of Payton’s for the Bears’ final touchdown in a 46-10 victory over New England.

“I should have just given it to Wally [Payton] and to hell with what Ditka wanted,” Bear quarterback Jim McMahon wrote in his book after that season.

But McMahon, like Ditka, thought the Bears would have other chances to score in that game.

If not in that game, they thought the Bears, who looked like a dynasty in the making, would return to the Super Bowl for years to come.

We never really know, though, what’s around the corner.

When Payton announced in February that he had a potentially fatal liver disorder, I thought he would receive a transplant and somersault off the hospital bed as he used to on the football field. It wasn’t to be. But I’ll guarantee you he fought to the finish.

Good night, Sweetness.

Randy Harvey can be reached at his e-mail address: randy.harvey@latimes.com.