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When Sundays were all about Walter Payton

It can't really be 20 years.

It can't really be 20 years already since we lost Walter Payton to liver disease and cancer.

Maybe it's hard to process because in your mind's eye, it doesn't seem that long ago that we lost our Sundays, the Sundays that mattered only because of Walter Payton, the Sundays when he turned misery into magic.

For those of us whose wheelhouse was a childhood era filled with one horrible Bears team after another, Payton was more than just a reason to watch.

He was the only reason to watch.

And he wasn't just the greatest Chicago Bear ever. He remains the best football player ever to don a jersey, an easy case to make if you saw the man run the rock, catch the football, block and even throw.

What made it so was that he did it on his own, that his greatest work was done for the first 10 years without a Pro Bowl offensive lineman, without a hint of an offense, without a team around him.

It's also why most of us who watched him suffer in silence and greatness for so very long understood why he felt betrayed in Super Bowl XX.

You think of being a mile away in the upper reaches of the Superdome that day and watching the Bears run 20 plays from the New England 10 or closer, while the gimme TDs from the 1- or the 2-yard line went to Jim McMahon (twice) and William Perry.

If you can't see why that would hurt Payton on what was supposed to be the greatest day of his football life, then you didn't see the first decade of his career when most of his yards came after breaking tackles.

In the backfield.

Slightly different from Emmitt Smith running 10 yards downfield without being touched, and it's just one of the reasons Payton was so beloved.

You remember Cowboys Hall of Famer Randy White saying of a Payton run in 1976, during which Walter ran the width of the field twice, "It was the greatest run I've ever seen - and he lost one yard on the play."

You remember getting off the bus from school, reaching in the mailbox and finding out he made the cover of Sports Illustrated for the first time in 1976, a very big deal, but then in a box filled with memories you find this week, a better one, from 1982 with the headline, "Chicago's One-Man Gang."

Nothing could have explained it better.

You remember Phyllis George and that CBS highlight package in 1977, set to, "Nobody Does it Better."

You remember the Kansas City run.

You remember the catch and run that set up the winning field goal in the "Ice Bowl" in the Meadowlands.

You remember, as a vendor at Soldier Field, how he always asked for a Reggie Bar when he passed your food stand before a game under the north end zone, so you started bringing his favorite candy bar to every game.

You remember seeing him sitting alone at O'Hare Airport a few days after a miserable 1980 season, thanking him for another amazing year, Payton as shy and humble then as the day the Bears drafted him in 1975.

You remember him playing every down of the 1981 season with a separated shoulder. He carried the football 339 times that year, catching another 41, for a last-place, 6-10 team.

And never skipped a play.

You remember the day he ran 70 yards after an interception, chased down the thief and knocked him out of bounds on the 1, even though the play could not possibly change the outcome of another ugly loss.

You remember the way he refused to run out of bounds, instead pounding a defensive back and picking up a few more yards.

You remember the devastating block that saved Jim McMahon from a blitzing linebacker in Minnesota.

You remember Walter over the top.

You remember the satisfaction, the smile on his face as the Bears took out the Rams in the NFC Championship.

You remember "The Hill," where he trained every morning in Arlington Heights.

You remember Mike Ditka saying, "When God wanted to create a running back, he made Walter Payton," and you remember John Madden saying, "There's never been a better football player."

You remember the way he handed the ball to an offensive lineman or simply dropped it after scoring a touchdown.

You remember the strong toss, the sweep and Walter turning the corner.

You remember the punishment he took, followed by an instant leap to his feet, that he would never let defenders think they got the best of him.

You remember when Sunday was Payton Day.

You remember him sitting alone on the bench, his face buried in his hands after his final game, and feeling terrible for him but also sorry for yourself because you would never get to see him carry the football again.

You remember that he always said, "Tomorrow is promised to no one," and how he played every play - and lived every day - like it might be his last.

You remember Walter Payton, sad that he was taken so young at age 45, on Nov. 1, 1999, and you lament the good he would have done with his life had he not been stricken.

You remember that his children were deprived of a lifetime with their father.

And, selfishly, you remember the joy he brought you, the bond you shared on Sundays, the losing endured together and the reverence you had for his authentic refusal to give up on a play, a game or a season.

You remember the greatest ever … but you think of him often.

And you're grateful he belonged to Chicago.

  It was a very big deal in 1976 when Walter Payton made the cover of Sports Illustrated for the first time. Barry Rozner/brozner@dailyherald.com
  Found in a box with dozens of other issues, Barry Rozner prefers this SI cover photo of Walter Payton. It's a reminder of how alone he was on the field. Barry Rozner/brozner@dailyherald.com
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