Walter & Me (2 page)

Us kids were always tops in Momma’s eyes, though, and Walter was about to get the Momma treatment. She decided to make Chicago her temporary—but indefinite—new home. She just had to see Walter through this and went to all the doctor appointments with him. I wanted to be there, too, but I knew he was in good hands with Momma by his side. It was at that point that I started getting most of my information about Walter’s rapidly advancing condition straight from Momma. I knew Walter would try to give me the optimistic view with a wink and a grin like he often did, but Momma wouldn’t. No, sir. She’d just lay it on me, unfiltered and with no candy coating. I was counting on her for that, so I called her right after they met with the doctor for the final results of all his tests. Good, bad, or whatever, I wanted to know the truth.

“Momma, what did y’all find out?” I asked, hoping for any sort of good news.

No good news came.

“They told him it was really bad, Eddie. The doctor said his only chance is to have a liver transplant.”

“Yeah, that’s what Walter told me before,” I said. “He acted like it was no big deal, but it sounds radical to me. What do you think?”

“That’s what I think, too,” Momma continued. “And to have this surgery…you know…it could work, I guess, but they say sometimes they take and sometimes they don’t, so who knows? Walter asked me what I’d do if I was him.’”

“What did you say?”

“I told him I wouldn’t have it.”

I was wishing Momma would have told him to do whatever it takes, but like I said, with Momma you always get the truth. “What did Walter say to that?” I asked.

“Not much. He just said he didn’t want to be put ahead of anybody, that if he was going to do it, he’d wait his turn.”

I was relieved to hear that Walter at least wanted to have the transplant, even if he’d insisted on waiting in line like everyone else. There was hope again, but along the road of waiting for Walter’s turn, that hope turned into despair. A few weeks later, New Year’s Day 1999, brought with it a return visit for Walter to the hospital at the Mayo Clinic. He emerged from the hospital this time without his patented wink and grin. He’d been told he was no longer a candidate for a transplant and that he wouldn’t be placed on the transplant list after all.

We were all stunned and couldn’t make sense of what we were hearing. I didn’t believe it. I mean, this guy had made all sorts of lists as a football player. He’d received the kind of recognition that other guys would die for. Yet here he was, actually dying, and he couldn’t get on the one list that could save his life. I wanted to know why, so I started digging.

Though I may never know exactly what went down with all that, I suspect any hope we ever had that Walter would get a liver transplant was nothing more than false hope. After much research and talking with experts in the hepatobiliary field (liver, bile duct specialists), I’ve come to the conclusion that Walter was
never
a candidate for a liver transplant and was
never
on a transplant list. As I later discovered, by the time Walter got to the Mayo Clinic in mid-December, he already had bile duct cancer, so a liver transplant would’ve been pointless. So, why did the doctor tell Walter the only thing that could save him was a liver transplant? Why did he get his hopes up?

It could’ve been a few different things. Maybe the doctor told Walter a transplant was a possibility for PSC, not addressing the fact that it wouldn’t help a patient with bile duct cancer. Or maybe Walter simply heard what he wanted to hear. The doctor might’ve said something like, “A transplant would be the best ‘treatment’ for PSC…,” and then gone on to explain, in terms over everybody’s heads and to a patient deaf to anything negative, that Walter wasn’t a candidate for a transplant. Or it could just be that Walter pulled one over on me and Momma, simply telling us what he thought would make us feel better. Walter might’ve told Momma something like, “See, Momma, a transplant is all I need to beat this thing,” knowing full well that a transplant was out of the question. Having known Walter like I did, it wouldn’t surprise me at all had he done something like that.

No matter what actually happened with all of that, looking back, I wish all the doctors and such would’ve just told Walter to go fishing and enjoy the rest of his life. I can tell you I’d have jumped at the chance to join him out there on the water, bass fishing and finishing out his days in peace. Instead, we were there in a hospital together, and all I was joining him in was a state of devastation and depression. Even so, he didn’t stay there with me for very long. Walter quickly accepted the hand he was dealt, and he resolved to move on. Just like when he was living in my shadow growing up as a kid, he never once complained, blamed, or bellyached about what he was going through.

Walter was so set in his acceptance of the situation that when our close family friend, Bud Holmes, wanted to send his plane up to get Walter and fly him to MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston for a second opinion, Walter just flat-out refused the offer. Bud was in the room when the autopsy was performed on my daddy, Peter, after he died in Columbia, Mississippi, and I’ll never forget what he told me when he saw Walter sick. He said Walter actually looked older than Daddy did when his body was in that autopsy room. He looked older than a dead man? That told me that in Bud’s mind, Walter looked like a dead man walking.

Well, Walter didn’t act like a dead man, that’s for sure. He just kept trying to keep hope alive for his family, friends, and fans by continuing to assert that he was just waiting on a liver and that everything would be fine once he got on a list and the transplant had been done. But he knew the truth. Momma and I did, too. Momma had talked with the doctors one-on-one, and they didn’t sugarcoat it like Sweetness tended to do. She knew there would be no transplant, and she made sure I was well aware of that fact, too. I wanted to believe it didn’t matter. I was hoping Walter really was Superman and that he’d somehow find a way to overcome this kryptonite at the very last second, when all hope was seemingly lost. I imagined him as the Walter of 10 years earlier and tried to hold on to the dream that he would rise above and conquer his illness like he always conquered everything else in life. But down deep I knew it wasn’t going to be. I knew he was the Walter of today and that right then and there, he was dying. No matter how powerful I liked to imagine him to be, he wasn’t really Superman. Even with all of his otherworldly accomplishments on the football field, he was just flesh and bone like you and me.

The weakened flesh and aching bones of a mere mortal notwithstanding, Walter attacked his sickness with the same ferociousness he used to assault opposing defenses. There was nothing he could do about his physical condition, but his mentality never changed. As a mega-star athlete, he lived by the old “suck it up and play with pain” attitude, as well as his own personal motto of “Never Die Easy.” He took all that to heart as he struggled against a foe that he had no chance of defeating. In truth, he’d only had to apply it before on a football field. It wasn’t life or death when he was carrying that pigskin, but this was a whole new ballgame he found himself in. Others might have just crumbled, but not Walter. He still wasn’t going to die easy, even if he knew he was going to die.

At times like that, you realize that relationships are the only things we take with us when we go, and I wanted desperately to be there with Walter every step of the way. My job as Jackson State golf coach prevented me from seeing him as much as I wanted to. We talked regularly, of course, but as Walter’s condition worsened, that got harder and harder. He just didn’t want to talk much at times, so I’d usually just be looking at a silent phone instead of that face I knew so well. And when he did talk, he’d make it clear that he didn’t want the public to see him sick. One time he said, “If I’m going to have to leave here, I want them to remember me from my playing days.” He didn’t want to be remembered for a sickness. He wanted his fans and the generations that followed to remember him as Sweetness, with those bright white eyes sitting just below his ever-present headband and scanning ahead for an open running lane. To me, that says a lot about who Walter was. He didn’t want his fans to be in despair about his condition; he wanted them to remember how much fun the ride he took them all on had been.

Another thing we talked about, when he actually felt like talking there at the end, was our Christian faith. We talked more and more about that as he approached death, in fact. Walter and I shared the belief that through God, all things are possible. Not that all things we desire will happen, but that all things are possible—and only according to His will. Only by His grace were we able to do the things we did and enjoy the talents He gave us. Walter was so very thankful to God for graciously giving him the life that he had the great privilege of living.

Some writers and others have said Walter wasn’t religious. Jeff Pearlman wrongly, even recklessly, concluded from sources he interviewed that my brother would have “cringed” at all the religious expression at his funeral. Well, shame on Pearlman and his sources. In truth, Walter wouldn’t have had it any other way. It’s easier for writers like Pearlman to get attention if they just tell stories about the “big fish that got away” rather than showing real evidence to back up their sensational claims. You see, with “professional” writers and other members of the media, falsehoods and scandals often rise to the surface like dead fish. Now, I understand that a dead fish is easy to catch, but it sure don’t make for good eatin’. You have to be patient and do some deep-sea fishing to get to the good stuff. That’s where you’ll find the truth about Walter. It’s swimming deep under the surface with everything else worth catching. I promise it’s there. You just have to fish for it.

There are all these surface-level “revelations” floating around out there about the “enigmatic life of Walter Payton,” and we can have ourselves a debate about what’s true and what isn’t, but to say he wasn’t religious is a flat-out unreligious thing to do. Walter often professed his faith during his speeches and gave credit to the Lord for his talent, in public, yes, but even more so in private. Make no mistake; Walter was a believer in Jesus Christ and a follower of our Lord. He wasn’t Tim Tebow, that’s for sure, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t religious. Tebow puts it out there for all the world to see, and that’s great. You can’t miss it with him, but that wasn’t Walter Payton. He was a high-profile person with a low-profile personality. He liked his business to be his business, and he’d stay out of yours, too. He revealed who he truly was only to those willing to take time to look. You can argue Tebow’s way is better than Walter’s if you want. I’ll leave that to you. But whether or not Walter was religious and whether or not he’s with the good Lord right now, well, that’s not up to you. And it’s not up to all those sportswriters, either.

There’s another side to the story of Sweetness that has to be told. Guys like Jeff Pearlman can’t tell it. They don’t have memories of growing up with my brother. They didn’t know him before he was a star. They don’t have much more to give you than dead fish. The truth about Walter Payton can only come from those of us who knew him best, those of us who truly loved him, not just for a short time, but for his whole life.

I’ll never forget October 31, 1999, Halloween night. Walter was at his home, where he wanted to spend his final days with his wife, Connie, and other family. None of us knew exactly how long he had, and we wanted to spend as much time with him as we could. I was there for a visit and had just walked into his bedroom. I didn’t know exactly what we were going to say to each other, of course, but it turns out we were about to have a conversation that will stay with me forever. It was one of those special moments that comes once in a lifetime, and it was about to take place right there in that room between us Payton boys. I’ll let you in on that conversation later in the book, but for now, just take in the scene with me.

At first, there were no words spoken. There was only the background noise of a television with the volume turned low. I tiptoed farther into the room, and before I broke the silence, I just looked at him. There was my baby brother, unable to move, just lying there, dying. I shook my head. It couldn’t be. A million images of Walter and me ran through my mind. Our life together flashed before my eyes. I remembered us as children hunting in our neighborhood woods, as teenagers playing together on the field, as young men going out into the world. There was a hard conversation coming later in that room, but all I wanted to do when I saw him there was go back—back to the beginning of an era. Back to when the man you know as Sweetness was just my baby brother. Back to where you’ll find the truth about Walter Payton.

2. The Garden of Eatin’

I’m not one to point fingers, but there’s nobody to blame except Adam for bringing pain into the world. And it makes sense to me that it was his eating of forbidden fruit that did it. You see, Walter and I endured our fair share of wrath and pain from a little ol’ “forbidden” fruit known as the plum. The plums I’m talking about weren’t growing in the Garden of Eden, of course, and they weren’t declared “forbidden” by God. Still, they were in Reverend Hendricks’ garden, and Reverend Hendricks was, as should be obvious by my calling him “Reverend,” a man of God. So, there you go.

Now, Reverend Hendricks wasn’t just a man of God. He was also a sourpuss. He didn’t really speak much, unless he was speaking the Word…then he could get going, that’s for sure. He’d mind his own business for the most part, and his physical presence wasn’t much more imposing than his personality. He was a thin man of average height with a quiet manner and a noticeable limp. Of course, looks can be deceiving, and he was tougher than he appeared. Walter and I may’ve even used the word “mean” a time or two to describe him. Some have the fear of God in them, but we had the fear of Reverend Hendricks in us early on.

Reverend Hendricks lived in a big wood-framed house in the middle of our street, right across the road from our aunt’s house. Two wooded vacant lots divided Reverend Hendricks’ house and Miss Willie Mae’s house, so you can imagine all the little feet that explored those woods over the years, seeking mischief and whatnot. A well-worn path snaked through the two vacant lots and connected our street to the next street over. Then another path forked like a venomous tongue off the main trail and led straight to Reverend Hendricks’ garden.

That garden was the Reverend’s favorite thing in the world. And his favorite thing in his favorite thing in the world was a row of lush plum trees, full of fruit. Such good-lookin’ fruit, too. I knew I wasn’t supposed to touch or taste, but every time I saw those plums as a kid, I just couldn’t help but think about sinking my teeth into them…all of them. Right and wrong didn’t seem to matter much. Neither did punishment. It was nine-year-old Walter, called “Bubba” at the time, and 12-year-old me, called “Edward Charles,” up against that Serpent hissing in the trees, and we weren’t trying real hard to fight the temptation. We were plum poachin’.

A four-foot-high chain-link fence surrounded the “Garden of Eatin’.” Not quite cherubim and a flaming sword, but it was an obstacle nonetheless. In the middle of the garden were the finest plum trees you’ll ever lay eyes on, so it didn’t take long to see the “obstacle” as more of an obstacle course. You know, more fun than work. The diamond pattern wire of the fence was perfect for little barefooted brothers to grasp and climb right over.

In addition to plums, Reverend Hendricks raised green veggie things in his garden on the end flanking the path…and sunflowers, okra, tomatoes, and other unknown (at least to us kids) veggies and such. But the plums were what we had our eyes on. They were the objects of our desire, no doubt. Those big, ripe, yellowish-red plums might as well have been the apple that tempted Adam in the Garden of Eden. I mean, I know exactly what he was feeling. And I must admit that had I been there in the Garden of Eden, it would have probably been Edward Charles that brought pain into the world. And I even think I had it worse than Adam. I’d gotten a taste (legitimately) of those plums a time or two before, when the Reverend’s wife had brought some to the house. I’m sure that made my will that much weaker than Adam’s. Those plums were just plain delicious.

The taste of those plums from a week earlier was still in our mouths, and we had images of Reverend Hendricks’ forbidden plums dancing in our heads. Of course, plums in our heads wasn’t enough. We wanted those plums in our bellies, so Walter and I mapped out a military-style plan to get us some more. We were fixin’ to take all the plums we could see…and no prisoners. Our plan was to go by Miss Willie Mae’s house on the other side of the vacant lots, cut through the thick woods (which would provide cover), stay low, follow the path to the garden, and finally belly-crawl the last few feet. To make a quick escape, we planned to push the fence down. I didn’t want us having to worry about climbing over the fence if something went wrong. We’d grab as many plums as could fill our pockets and our hands as we cupped them against our tummies. Then we’d take the plums home and eat them all in the backyard.

We even plotted Reverend Hendricks’ moves, sort of like Danny Ocean and his boys accounted for the moves of Terry Benedict in
Ocean’s Eleven
. They knew where Benedict would be, and we thought we knew Reverend Hendricks’ moves pretty well. Like clockwork, the Reverend would walk to church every morning around eight and walk back at five. Our plan was to get home from school at four and then roll out “Operation Plum Poach.” With only an hour window, we knew we had to move quickly. The whole thing was pretty elaborate for a nine-year-old and a 12-year-old, but like I said, those were some kind of wonderful plums! They could drive a boy to do things he shouldn’t be able to do.

And so, the day finally arrived. Then the hour. Then the moment. It was time. The plan was a go. We were ready. I ripped off my T-shirt, and Walter seemed puzzled by that. It wasn’t part of the plan, so he asked, “Why you takin’ off your shirt?”

“Camouflage!” I said with the authority of a general. I suppose I trusted that our brown skin would make us less visible through the dark woods. It made sense to me and must have started making sense to Walter, too, because he stripped off his shirt and followed. We eased into the woods by Miss Willie Mae’s house, and then hiked to the back as if we were going through to the next street. Then we slid back through the woods as planned, taking the path toward the garden, and got within 10 yards of the fence, stopping short of the well-manicured lawn with no cover. When the coast was clear, we commenced belly-crawlin’ the rest of way, and finally reached the plums. We started snatching up the fruit that littered the ground on both sides of the fence.

We had plenty.

We were set.

We had more than enough.

We wanted more.

If we hadn’t gotten greedy, we shoulda/woulda/coulda escaped unnoticed right then and there, but I spotted some beauties still clinging to the top of one of the trees. Those plums had our names on them, so I started shaking the tree at its base to get them loose. Plums started plopping all over Walter, and he got to giggling about it. It must have been the funniest thing that ever happened to him, because he started getting louder and louder. There was no hushing him up. Looking back, I probably should have just shoved a plum in his mouth. That would shut him up for sure. When he finally stopped giggling, we looked around to make sure no one was looking. Everything seemed fine, so we kept going.

The fence was stronger than I thought it was going to be, so pushing it down wasn’t happening. Plus, we realized at about that point that we didn’t want this to be a one-and-done poaching. No, sir…we wanted to come back for more later on once the trees recovered, so we didn’t want to leave any signs that we had been there. I told Walter to get inside the fence with me to help pick up the freshly fallen plums.

I was feeling pretty good about life at that moment. We were little masterminds rewarded with the spoils of our conquest. Plums covered the ground inside and outside the fence. It was fruit galore! “Operation Plum Poach” was a success. Then a voice came out of nowhere…

“Have you eaten from the tree that I commanded you not to eat from?”

Okay, that isn’t what the voice said. And it actually wasn’t a “voice.” It was more like a roar.

“Hey!” Reverend Hendricks shouted from the window in his house. “Boys, get out of my trees! I sees ya, I sees ya! I knows who you is!” Reverend Hendricks had obviously snuck himself home without our knowing and was just sitting quietly, watching us, waiting for his moment. Definitely an ambush…and it worked in scaring the living crap out of us.

Instincts kicked into gear, and I was gone. I shot over to the fence like a deer, bounced off once, and then hit it again, bare feet first, and two-toe crawled it over the fence and into the woods. I guess the whole “never leave a man behind” thing hadn’t made it into our military-style plan, because I didn’t even think of helping Walter, who was struggling to get his fat butt over the fence.

Now, y’all only know Walter as “Sweetness” and one of the best football players of all time. So you probably won’t believe me when I tell you this, but at one time I was quicker than Walter. It’s true. In fact, at the time of “Operation Plum Poach,” you might have called him “Slowness.” I was no doubt much faster than him that day, because I disappeared into the woods while he continued to climb over that dang fence. I would just tell him to stay on the other side if I had to do it over again.

Walter finally jelly-rolled himself over and crashed into the woods like a big ol’ buffalo. Back in the cover of the woods, we took off together. It was like one of those Road Runner cartoons, with our legs and feet just circular blurs. Straight home and into the backyard we went. We could still hear Reverend Hendricks yelling in the distance, “I sees ya, I sees ya! I knows who you is! Just wait ’til your daddy gets home!”

Oh man, our daddy? It started sinking in when we heard “wait ’til your daddy gets home.” That’s when we were really scared and started thinking,
Okay, maybe we shouldn’t have done that.

By the time we got back home, we checked out pockets. All we had left was a couple of plums apiece, and they were squashed in all the frenzy of getting out of there. They were still edible, though, so we ate ’em. One thing we learned from hanging out with the older boys in the neighborhood was that if you’re stealing food, you always eat the evidence.

There was this one man outside of Columbia, Mississippi, where we grew up, who grew watermelons in a huge field. The older boys would sneak into his field and eat the heart of the watermelons but leave the rest in the field to rot. That put the farmer on alert to the fact that someone was stealing his melons, so he started watching and caught those melon robbers red-handed. Well, Walter and I learned from that. We weren’t going to get caught with any plums, so we ate them all up. Also, we just plain
wanted
to eat them all up. We hunkered down in our shared bedroom, savoring the taste of those juicy plums and hoping Reverend Hendricks was just talking when he said he saw us and knew who we were.

We tried to convince ourselves that we had pulled it off, but down deep inside, I think we knew the Reverend wasn’t just talking, because we kept looking out the window to see if he was coming. It wasn’t long before we saw the slim, well-groomed man of God limping his way up the street, straight to our house. He looked as dapper as could be in his suit, just like a pastor should. The only thing that didn’t match his suit was that scowl on his face. We were all made in the image of God, I know, but on that day, Reverend Hendricks’ image was definitely favoring the wrath of God. Every limp he took toward our door would send another surge of adrenaline through our bodies. And then the limping stopped. Was he healed? No, he was at our front door. There was a knock, and our daddy opened up.

“Hello, Reverend Hendricks, come on in,” Daddy said, thinking (or maybe hoping) the fine Reverend was there for a social visit. “Can I get you something to drink? My wife just made up some lemonade. Would you like some?”

“Yes, I believe I would.” Even angry, plum-less reverends couldn’t pass up a glass of my momma’s lemonade.

As both men walked into the kitchen, Walter and I eased on down the hallway toward the kitchen door to get a closer listen, as if we didn’t know what the Reverend was about to say.

“Brother Payton,” Reverend Hendricks said in a stern voice, perhaps only slightly less stern than it would’ve been without the taste of sugared-up lemons in his mouth. “I have a serious matter that I need to speak to you about.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be glad to help if I can,” Daddy offered.

“Now, Brother Payton, some boys stole some of my plums, got in my fence and was stealing plums,” Reverend Hendricks began. I had a lump in my throat bigger than any plum we stole that day. The Reverend went on, “I yelled at them, and they took off running. It was two of ’em, but I only got a good look at one, and it sure looked like Bubba…your boy, Bubba. Worst of it, they broke one of my trees, limbs and things.”

Daddy didn’t seem too happy about that. “Are you sure it was
my
boys?” he asked.

“Well, I didn’t get a real good look at ’em, but one of them was small and heavyset like Bubba. I’m not sure, but the other one looked a lot like Edward Charles.”

“Well, I tell you what,” Daddy stated, “if it was my boys, you can be sure they won’t ever do it again!”

The Reverend nodded. He seemed a little too pleased to hear that, from my perspective anyway. “I wanted you to know,” he said, pausing for effect, “because I could’ve shot ’em.” And that had some effect all right. Get shot for stealing fruit from trees? Now, that would just be plum stupid!

Anyway, hearing all that, we ran back down the hall into our room to hatch a quick plan. And by “hatch a plan,” I mean we were coming up with a lie. As the older brother with all the ideas, I took the lead. And I thought this idea was a particularly good one. “Okay, Bubba, here’s what we’re gonna do. When Daddy comes in here, he’s gonna be mad! I mean, mad! He might whoop us to death. Since Reverend Hendricks only saw you, you’re gonna confess. Then I’m gonna say, ‘Daddy, it’s my fault. I shoulda been watching Bubba closer. Don’t whoop Bubba, whoop me instead.’ Then Daddy won’t whoop either one of us, ’cause he’ll be so proud of me for sticking up for you that he just won’t be able to whoop either of us.”

Bubba bought in like a dumb little brother ought to when his smarter, older (and better-looking, if I do say so myself) brother presents a plan. So, now we just had to wait for Daddy to come through that door.

During all that listening and planning, I’d developed quite an urge to pee and was about to pee my pants, so I went to the bathroom to take a leak. While I was in there, Reverend Hendricks left, and I heard Daddy yell, “Bubba!”