CHICAGO — On Jan. 10, 1988, Walter Payton played in his last NFL game — a loss to Washington in the NFC semifinals. Excerpts from Mitch Albom’s column the next day:
CHICAGO — He sat there, alone, ignoring the cold, ignoring the departing crowd, ignoring the scoreboard, which read Washington 21, Chicago 17. The game was over. Both teams were already inside. A frozen wind blew over Soldier Field. Walter Payton remained on the bench.
His eyes were barely visible beneath his dark blue helmet. His shoulders slumped beneath the pads. A yellow metal heater was blowing a few feet away, but he made no attempt to move closer.
In the final minute of this game, on fourth down, no time-outs, Jim McMahon had seen all of his receivers covered, and in desperation, had tossed a short pass to Payton in the flat. The Bears needed eight yards for a first down and any hope. Payton got seven.
“WAL-TER!” the fans began to yell. “WAL-TER!”
He did not move, did not respond. He just sat there as fans screamed, then fell into a respectful silence.
For a while it seemed as if he might never leave. His head was bowed, his body limp. After 13 years, and 199 games, and more yards than any football player has ever gained, there were tears running down a grown man’s cheeks.
Finally, in he came. He found a place by his locker and curled against the wall. A mob of reporters encircled him. A locker room attendant stepped in front: “Five yards! Give him five yards to breathe!”
Here was a guy who earned every step he took, a running back who so dazzled the sport that he defied logic. Didn’t he miss only one game in his career? One game? In 13 seasons? What was he made out of?
Who knew? We only knew it was durable, and never stopped pumping, moving his feet, juking, twisting, and high-stepping into end zones. There were games where he raked in more than 200 yards rushing and seasons where he raked in more than 2,000 all-purpose yards and, although much of his career was spent with dismal Bears teams, he finally saw his mountaintop in the 1985 season.
“Sweetness” they called him, a sissy moniker only tough guys can carry. No one could ever keep pace with Payton’s off-season routine (running sand hills behind his house in combat boots was only one part of that). No one ever crossed him. And now, after his final game, a huge crowd of reporters stood in a silent circle, waiting, not interrupting, as Payton, officially retired, sat with his helmet on and his eyes closed.
In time, after a shower, a shave, moments with his teammates, Payton spoke. He spoke in the soft, high voice that has always contradicted his playing style. He said leaving the sport hadn’t really sunk in yet.
But as we say good-bye to Walter Payton, let the tapes show that on his final play, that final swing pass, he charged right into Washington’s Barry Wilburn, and would not be tackled — he wrestled, struggled, twisted and resisted until both stumbled out of bounds. The game was lost. But he had retired the way he had always played: fighting for one more yard. In the end, only the sidelines would stop him.