Sweetness by Jeff Pearlman Read Free Book Online

cranium. “They were apples and oranges all the way down the line,” said Moses, Walter’s friend and classmate. “Eddie would find himself as the leader of any group he was a part of. Walter was much more laid-back—his leadership came from his gifts.” Classmates told Boston that the boy was a secret prankster, but it was hard to see. The kid was so . . . quiet . On Jefferson’s fields, he would run circles around the other boys, ducking, weaving, bobbing, slicing, juking, escaping. His moves were distinctly artistic and ethereal, so much so that a ridiculous rumor started about Walter Payton taking ballet classes after school.
    And yet, as Walter Payton began his freshman year of high school in the fall of 1967, he showed little interest in organized football. He was a music guy; firmly entrenched as a drummer in both Jefferson’s concert and marching bands. When asked about the gridiron, he mostly shrugged dismissively and noted, “That’s Eddie’s world. Not mine.”
    So what changed between his freshman and sophomore years? What pushed him toward organized football? In a word: Eddie. Or, to be more precise, Eddie’s departure. Walter’s older brother graduated from John J. Jefferson High in the spring of 1968, earning a prized football scholarship to Jackson State College, one of the best black schools in the nation. No longer, Walter believed, would he be measured against the Big Man on Campus. No longer would he have to meet the standards set by his sibling. “I followed an older brother who starred in my sport,” said Boston. “And I can tell you one thing—it’s thankless.”
    In the waning days of summer, 1968, Walter took part in organized football workouts for the first time. With the stifling Mississippi sun beating down on his shoulders, he trudged out to Jefferson High’s practice field for the daily eleven A.M. gatherings. His shoulder pads were grayish and scuffed, likely hand-me-downs from Columbia High. There was a box of white jerseys in a large cardboard box, and each day the players would pick one randomly. Walter could be No. 2 one day, No. 23 the next. (Once the season started, he was assigned No. 22, which had belonged to Eddie. Whether he was happy about this or not, we’ll never know. But he didn’t complain.)
    Out on the sandlots, the game had come easily to Walter—run fast, run hard, score. But now there were whistles blowing, coaches yelling, designated plays to follow. “The first time I got the ball in practice and heard all those footsteps coming, I panicked,” he wrote in his 1978 autobiography. “I had visions of getting ground into the turf under the weight of a half-dozen huge upperclassmen towering over me, so I scooted to daylight and ran for my life.” Walter, however, was running the wrong way. He scored for the opposing unit.
    Boston stormed onto the field and lectured his new back. He demanded the play be run again. This time, Payton scooted through the wrong hole, where he was met by an oncoming linebacker. “I just stopped,” he wrote, “in embarrassment.” Despite the miscues, Boston had a soft spot for the green running back. Payton was physically gifted and eager to learn. He didn’t talk trash, wasn’t lazy, and never took a play off. “He was fun to have there,” Boston said. “You liked being around him.”
    Even with a regal last name and an increasingly statuesque body, Walter was handed nothing. With Eddie’s departure, Boston made it clear that the number-one halfback would be Everett Farr, a modestly talented senior with limited moves but an energetic approach. None of Walter’s friends remember him complaining or being especially upset. Boston pulled him aside and assured him his day would come. In the meantime, he bided his time by starting at strong safety and checking in for Farr when the senior needed a breather.
    In 1968 the Green Wave finished 7-3. Late in the season, in a game against Marion Central, Farr broke his foot, and