My parents took me to get new gym shoes one summer--some small place in downtown Wheaton, might not be there anymore. They probably had a wide selection, and it most likely would've seemed overwhelming to a kid. Different designs, color patterns, shapes, soles, all mounted to the wall in tidy rows on clear shelves the size of a single shoe. But in the Chicagoland area in the mid to late eighties, there were only two options for boys' gym shoes: Nike Air Jordans or Kangaroos. And when the salesman presented me with each pair--the Nike's red with black trim, the Kangaroos white with a zippered pocked on the side--he said, "Who do you want to be: Michael Jordan or Walter Payton? I studied both pairs and noticed my dad behind the salesman, pointing at the Kangaroos. When I looked up, my dad's eyebrows were raised, his mouth open in this exaggerated show of excitement, his head bouncing like a spring had burst in his neck.
I knew who Walter Payton was, knew that when my dad and his friends watched him school the opposition they barked like dobermans and high-fived each other. I had seen the posters, the jerseys, and I had watched him play. But I had never considered whether or not I wanted to be like him until that day. And when I thought about it, I realized I did want to be like him. So I pointed to the Kangaroos, tried them on, and after my parents paid for them, I charged out of the shoe store like a halfback running a draw play up the middle.
Since I wasn't a very athletic kid--there was the asthma, the apathy, and I was constantly anticipating a spell of malaise--I didn't bother going outside to emulate Walter Payton. (Watch me run sometime, and you'll understand: physical activity and me mix as well as green olives and rainbow sherbet.) I didn't have the speed, the power, the strength, or the agility. But what I did have was an exceptionally twisted imagination. So I'd put on my Roos and charge the stairs just like I had seen Payton taking a hill in a poster. Occasionally I'd make my dog sit in front of my bed, and I'd leap over her like Payton trying to score on a goal-line stance. Most of the time, though, Hershie would get startled and bolt before I broke the plane. If I was downstairs in the family room, I'd barrel into the loveseat, bouncing off the back cushions like it was a d-line clogging up the running gaps. Then I'd spin away and sprint behind the couch. Touchdown! I didn't have a football at this point, and even if I did, I wouldn't have been able to spike it inside. So I'd use a cat toy or a Nerf ball that went to my indoor basketball hoop. Or I didn't have any object that could be a make-shift football, I'd just continue pretending and spike the air.
Before he died, Walter Payton held a press conference revealing he had a rare form of liver disease. He sat next to his son, crying and pleading for his fans to keep him in our prayers. Seeing him break down like that was difficult, to say the least. I saw the footage and felt the urge to cry along with him. He was always this punisher, knocking down defenders, shoving a hand in their faces. He wasn't human; he was like Superman. Guys like that weren't suppose to cry. It didn't seem natural. In the face of pressure, it seemed like Walter Payton always found a way to succeed. It wasn't until the day he died--ten years ago, today--that I entertained that urge I felt during his press conference.
On Sundays when I'm watching football and there's a commercial, I'll spring from the futon, side-step the camping chair, burst down the hall into my room, and dive into my bed to finish off the run. I'm no Walter Payton, and I'd never claim to be. But I still can't keep myself from pretending sometimes.
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