Remembering Walter Payton, Football Great … And Racer
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Sunday is a day I don’t want to see. It marks the 10th anniversary of the death of the late, great Chicago Bears running back Walter Payton.
“Sweetness,” a most appropriate name for a man who was one of the toughest SOB’s on a football field, but one of the nicest, most humble and fun-loving guys off it, passed away from a rare liver disease on Nov. 1, 1999.
The guy who couldn’t be stopped on the gridiron was stopped by an opponent he couldn’t stiff-arm, leap over or slip free from its grasp.
You might wonder what does this all have to do with NASCAR or motorsports. I’m getting to that; bear with me (no pun intended). I covered Payton throughout his career with the Bears, from his rookie campaign on up until his final stint two years after the Bears’ one and only Super Bowl win.
I got to know Payton pretty well during those years and we developed a rather unique friendship. He always liked to play practical jokes on me, or lightly block me into walls, trees, whatever was around. It was his playful way of playing with me, and I laughed and took it all in. I mean, being Walter Payton’s comedic foil is a pretty significant accomplishment that not too many people can be proud of or claim.
I hung around Payton off the field at times, too. One of my favorite memories is hanging around several practice sessions of a rock band formed by Payton and several teammates and athletes on other Chicago pro sports teams for charity, with Sweetness on the drums. And yes, he never missed a beat pounding on the ‘skins, just like never missing a beat running left, right, upfield and downfield.
But there was one thing that Payton and I shared almost exclusively from other reporters, a part of our friendship that he rarely exposed to others: a love of auto racing. As he moved on from racing past others on the football field, Payton gravitated to a different kind of competition: sports car racing (primarily the then-Trans Am Series), including doing battle with other celebrities that also had love affairs with four wheels, like the late Paul Newman.
And even though he was on four wheels rather than two legs, Payton was just as competitive. He didn’t take any crap from other drivers, just like he didn’t take any crap from other football players. It was yet another reason why Payton was so respected, regardless if it was the football field or race track.
I went to visit Payton at his office probably about a year or so before he passed away. The irony is he had as much racing memorabilia in it as he did football memorabilia. He had sports car stuff, CART open-wheel stuff and yes, NASCAR stuff – and lots of it.
Which leads me to perhaps my favorite memory I have of Payton, and it occurred nowhere near Chicago’s Soldier Field, where he starred for so many years.
Rather, it was at Indianapolis Motor Speedway back in 1994, when Payton had joined as a part-owner for Dale Coyne’s IndyCar team.
As can be expected, fans gravitated to Payton as he walked along pit road on race morning, maybe two hours before the green flag dropped to start the Indy 500. But it was much more than just fans. Crew chiefs, team members and drivers all wanted to get autographs or have pictures taken with him – and he was more than obliging.
But in the midst of all the activity that was going on along pit road, Payton told those waiting patiently to get his signature or photo that he was going to take a break and would return in a little while. No one seemed upset. They honored his request for a little time to himself, yet stood by close enough that when he beckoned them back, they’d be ready.
Payton then told me to walk with him for a bit. He walked maybe the equivalent of 10 or 12 pit stalls before he found a lone spot on the concrete wall he liked, sat down and started talking racing to me. Out of the blue, with no prompting or questioning from me or anyone else, Sweetness talked about how much he would have loved to race at Indianapolis in an open-wheeler or Daytona in a stock car.
I could readily see he had a passion for racing that rivaled his passion for football. He smiled and, yes, I know it may sound like a cliché, but he honestly had a twinkle in his eye as he looked at some of the cars that were along pit road, or just taking in the aura that is Indianapolis Motor Speedway.
“Man, what I wouldn’t do to get in one of them,” he said, both woefully and dreamily at the same time, while wistfully staring at the 33 cars on the starting grid.
Here was one of the greatest running backs in NFL history and all he could talk about was climbing into an IndyCar.
Then, he changed the subject somewhat by talking about how much he’d like to also drive a stock car, but then joked about how, while CART welcomed him with open arms, he also felt NASCAR wasn’t quite ready for a high-profile black man in its sport – even if that man was indeed Walter Payton, a superstar athlete and superstar gentleman that transcended both racial bounds and out-of-bounds.
Then, he tilted his head, looked at me almost sideways as if deep in thought, smiled with his famous pearly whites and said, “You know what, if they won’t let me drive, maybe I’ll just go out and buy a NASCAR team. How’re they going to stop me then?”
We both laughed heartily, even though Payton could have financially lived up to that humorous threat of sorts if he wanted to.
We talked racing for a few more minutes, about how he liked the road courses at Wisconsin’s Road America as well as Mid-Ohio. He talked about having recently attended a couple of different racing schools to hone up on his skills and how he was looking forward to running yet another sports car race in the coming weeks.
I never jotted down one quote or put any of our discussion on tape. It was a totally off-the-record chat not between athlete and reporter, but one between friends, bound together by a mutual love and passion for racing and motorsports.
When Walter died in 1999, I admit I did the same exact thing his former teammate, William “Refrigerator” Perry did: neither of us could bring ourselves to attend Sweetness’ funeral. To see the hearty, full-of-life man I’d known for so many years be destroyed by a disease that ate away at his insides until he was virtually nothing but a skeleton, I just couldn’t see him like that or remember him that way.
I watched the funeral on TV – obviously, it was a huge event in Chicago – and said a number of prayers for Wally, a name that he only allowed close friends to call him, something that I was blessed that he acquiesced to with me, as well.
As I sit here writing this, I think back to all the times I spent with Wally, from practices to training camp, from post-game to watching him play those drums at countless practice sessions.
But perhaps the fondest memory I’ll ever have of the man I was blessed to call a friend is that May afternoon at Indianapolis. And the odd thing about it all? We didn’t once mention football.
In numerous conversations I’ve had with him over the years, current Sprint Cup driver Greg Biffle has used a catchphrase over and over when he really wants to pay the highest compliment to a fellow driver, crew chief or anyone associated with a race team: “He’s a real racer.”
I thought of Biffle’s comments when I thought of Payton Thursday night as I wrote this. Sure, he may have only been an amateur or sportsman when it came to behind the wheel, but I’m here to tell everyone, Walter Payton was not only a hell of a football player, he was also one hell of a real racer, too.
Man, I miss him.
