Sweetness: The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton – Interview with Author Jeff Pearlman

I was but a pre-teen in the 80’s.  As the 90’s came and high school began and nostalgia kicked in, outside of my beloved Philadelphia Eagles, there wasn’t much cooler from the Reagan era than the’85 Bears, widely regarded as the greatest team to ever step on the gridiron.

The names are legendary – from Ditka to Dent to Singletary – but none more so than the great Walter Payton, who dominated his way to the all-time NFL rushing title with both power and grace.

While the exact dates escape me, I also remember his tragic illness, and the outpouring of emotion for such a wonderful human whose life was cut short.

The thing is, like all people, famous people particularly, there is always a deeper complexity.

I am a big fan of author Jeff Perlman ever since I read The Bad Guys Won.  I interviewed him for both Boys Will Be Boys and The Rocket That Fell to Earth.  When I saw the backlash he was getting for his latest biography, Sweetness: The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton, I had to reach out and grab a copy.

What I took from the book is hard to describe.  For the most part, I want to dismiss Payton as an egotistical prima donna who thinks the world owes him for being God’s gift to sport. But I can’t fully do that.  The reason is you just need to put things in perspective.  Were this guy not the one of the greatest athletes who ever lived, we wouldn’t even have the chance to reflect on his enigmatic life.

To his credit, and contrary to what his critics might say, Pearlman is fair.  He doesn’t gloss over unsavory topics, nor does he minimize Payton’s greatness both on and off the field.  He paints a full picture, and (as he always does) does so in a very entertaining way.

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So…all press is good press, right?

That’s true, in the same way the customer is always right and an apple a day keeps the doctor away. I used to work as a clerk at CVS. One time a customer stole a bag of M&Ms, with the justification that they were already slightly opened. I probably averaged 10 apples per week as a kid, and I still got chicken pox.

The initial publicity for Sweetness was, from my viewpoint, terrible. Just terrible. Did it garner attention? Sure. Was it good attention? I don’t think so. Chicago is a huge book city, sales-wise, and thanks to the criticisms and threats of people who hadn’t bothered to read the book, I was branded as this evil legend killer out to destroy the legacy of Walter Payton. It crushed me … really, really, really crushed me. Because I put so much into this project, and came to truly love and admire the man. So was it good? Not to me.

Aside from the drum you were beating that none of the critics had actually read Sweetness, what was most frustrating about the backlash?

Honestly, the lack of thought and introspection. I felt like I was a permanent guest on Sean Hannity’s show. People kept screaming, “How dare he write this after Walter Payton died?” As if definitive life biographies, from George Washington and Abraham Lincoln and John Kennedy and Mickey Mantle and Roberto Clemente and Jesse Owens, are violations of a person’s trusts. And then people would say, “Why now? Why twelve years after he died?” And they meant that not enough time had passed … that we need 20 years … 25 years … 50 years. It was rough. And the other thing was this: Heading toward the release, I thought the strength of this book was the new material. Like, Jane Levy’s book on Mickey Mantle was fantastic and tremendous, but we already knew Mantle was a womanizing alcoholic. Her work expanded the portrait, but didn’t reveal it. With Payton, nothing was known. He was a mystery. I thought that was fantastic. But, for many Chicagoans, the myth took precedence over the truth. They had a vision, and they wanted it preserved—truth be damned.

How much of it was at least somewhat warranted?

None. I don’t think so. This is what biography is—a defining and re-living and re-examination of a life. You know how I’d deserve the criticism? If I’d left the stuff out; if I merely treated Walter Payton the same way Don Yaeger had in “Never Die Easy.” That’s not a rip of Don—his job was to caress the image. But if I’d painted mythology, I’d deserve the treatment I ultimately received. I’m a journalist, not an image soother.

You’ve taken on some pretty controversial topics and figures in previous books. How did this compare in that the subject was for the most part well-loved by the public?

Huge difference. Huge. And one of the things that appealed to me about Walter Payton was his image, and his decency. When I say I started this book with a blank page, I literally started with a blank page. I knew nothing of his shortcomings. Nothing. The problem, I suppose, is that when you write of someone like a Roger Clemens or Barry Bonds or Michael Irvin, people have preconceived notions, and aren’t surprised to find their heroes are human, with the public failings to back it. Payton was an angelic public figure. So folks were caught off guard.

How much more challenging was it covering a subject that is deceased?

Less so, to be honest, because the person isn’t hovering over the project, instructing people what to say, what not to say, to talk or not to talk. That said, I think it comes with a greater responsibility. You want to get the person’s legacy right, because—to a certain degree—you’re defining it.

Why can I not find a youTube clip of Walter Payton in a cut off purple belly shirt dancing on 24 Karat Black Gold?

Watch closely:

Yes, Payton’s options out of high school were limited in large part because of his race. And when it came to his career at Jackson State, especially around Heisman talk, folks bemoaned the lack of respect Walter got from national press. But when he had the choice between Kansas State on Jackson State, he did opt to go to the latter because of comfort, familiarity and ultimately indecisiveness. How would things have been different had he gone to say K State?

First and foremost, we might not be talking about Archie Griffin as a two-time Heisman Trophy winner, because suddenly Walter Payton would be playing in a major conference against top teams. He had no shot of winning the award at Jackson State, even though he was the best player in the country. Aside from that, hard to say. Maybe, had his college career been more high profile, the Colts don’t trade the No. 1 pick in the 75 draft to Atlanta, and they take Payton instead of Ken Huff. Then we’re talking about a Bert Jones-Walter Payton backfield in Baltimore. Then the Colts win three Super Bowls. Then they never leave for Indianapolis. Then Mike Pagel becomes the next Joe Namath and elves poop gold and Emmanuel Lewis wins the Academy Award … and … and …

Hard to say.

Truly he was enigmatic. And you really touch on both the magic and the tragic. You describe him as both shy and humble, yet at times flashy (ie whether it’s dancing or arriving as a rookie at practice with literal bells on). Frankly, my desire to both love and hate him, drove me crazy just reading it. How were you able to handle it as someone trying to write an unbiased biography?

I hated the way he ignored his out-of-wedlock son, and I hated the way some people close to him tried to justify it. I was 1,000 times wrong, and there’s no way to justify it. But, truth be told, we all have major mistakes in judgement; all make really poor decisions. He was human, just like me and you. So, while reporting and writing, I kept that in mind at all times. This wasn’t a saint or a devil. Just a person with an amazing ability to play football.

You touch on undiagnosed ADHD. Again, there seem to be two very different people in this book. The moody, selfish Walter and the giving, warm person. Seriously (kidding aside) there was some sort of mental illness at work, right?

Mmm … hard to say. Certainly he suffered from some level of a manic, depressive state, but, not being a doctor, it’d be impossible for me to truly diagnose. I do believe, post-football, he was genuinely depressed. Obviously, making suicide threats isn’t a normal way to act. Mostly, I hurt for him, post-NFL. He was a guy looking and searching for meaning, when meaning wasn’t there. It was a painful thing to chronicle, because I’m sure there are thousands of ex-athletes out there experiencing the same thing as we speak.

Payton undeniably benefited as a college player under Hill. Did his early years in the NFL under uninventive coaches on horrible teams stunt his growth (as much as it can be suggested Payton’s career underachieved)?

Tough question. Certainly he could have benefited from an offensive philosophy that didn’t solely involve run right, run left, run straight. And it would have been nice to play alongside an above-average quarterback and some halfway decent wide receivers. But, at the same time, his greatness was placed in the spotlight, much like Earl Campbell in Houston and Billy Sims in Detroit. They were the shows, solo, and it led to magnified attention.

Are the book critics who scream about your portrayal about Payton’s drug use, many of them the same enablers who turned blind eyes to other self-destructive habits such as his womanizing, simply hypocrites? Does no one care about the way he objectified females and for the most part played the role of absentee father? It seems the drug use is the least of his transgressions.

Nah, not really. Look, a guy covering the Bears during Payton’s day had no responsibility to uncover his womanizing. That wasn’t the job. The only writer I truly took offense to was someone named John Kass, a columnist for the Chicago Tribune and the guy who, somehow, was assigned to fill the shoes of Mike Royko. Without reading the book … without so much as sniffing the book, Kass wrote a column slamming me … slamming my writing. Literally, he hadn’t touched the book, but decided “I’m a columnist, I’m tough and I’m gonna take a stand, dammit!!!” It was pathetic and really unfair. But, I’ve been told, such is the way this clown goes about things.

Some may say this book humanizes him. Rather, does it portray him not as an Everyman but instead a privilege famous person who can get away with things a normal person would not?

Both. He was a human, with insecurities, problems, issues—just like all of us. And he also was a priviledged star, handed free stuff, women, etc. But, all things considered, I think he handled celebrity uncommonly well. I’ve seen many stars turn into complete jerks come fame. He never forgot the fans; never lost sight of who paid his salary.

To Payton’s kids, he comes off as “Superman.” Do you think that their feelings are true or part of the legacy campaign of Connie?

Honestly, I don’t know. They’re both really nice kids who take a lot of pride in their father.

How should we, the public, remember Walter Payton? What does our opinion about this man, one whom the NFL names its Man of the Year Award after, yet who has obvious (and arguably serious) character flaws, say about our hero worship of sports figures?

First and foremost, great football player who worked his butt off. Ran hard, played hard, never gave up. I say “first and foremost,” because he was a football player before all else. That’s why, to the public, he mattered. After that, I think it’s OK to think of him as a complex, unique, conflicted individual, who aimed high and, on occasion, fell short. In other words, he was a human.

Visit JeffPearlman.com for more information. For a special treat, be sure to check out the Music of Walter Payton in the Walter Payton Museum.

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