By Dyson Smith
I love Walter Payton dearly. This has been the case ever since I listened to the 1985 Super Bowl Shuffle.
He swung his hips and sang unapologetically or virtuously. At the thirty second mark he raps:
Well they call me Sweetness and I like to dance! Running the ball is like making romance!
The coolest thing is that Walter did love to dance. He was on Soul Train and snaked
to Kool & The Gang before he ever Superbowl shuffled. When Walter wasn’t high stepping into endzones, running defenders over, he spent most of his time studying at Joffrey Ballet. I wondered if the only way Walter could offset the violence of football was to practice gentleness in his away life. A careful negotiation, His nickname was sweetness. I imagined him sweet. Walter, when I moved across the country, away from the bigness of Chicago, I couldn’t stop watching your highlights. Days into Sacramento I was prompted to reveal my Windy City dysfunctions. The woman to the left of me asked if I had known anyone to get killed in the city, and upon answering Yes she said You must be tough. Walter, that same night I went back into my room and stretched out a leg hold as far as my body allowed. Walter, would you believe me if I told you that I pirouetted in secrecy? Just as you did. But still, Walter, in most conversations I still fear I’m perceived as tough, rough, abrasive, to the touch. How must I dance?