More than an hour after the Chicago Bears had completed a 46-10 demolition of the New England Patriots in Super Bowl XX, the man who at that point had rushed for 14,860 of the NFL-record 16,726 yards that he would carry into retirement two seasons later sat sulking in the bowels of the Superdome.

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His back against the wall of his locker stall and a towel draped over his head, Walter Payton talked with the tiny group of remnant reporters about all the yards he had posted and all the touchdowns he had scored. And then in a rare display of festering anger -- a snippet of animus so blink-of-an-eye quick that it seemed to come and go with the same jaw-dropping alacrity Payton demonstrated any time he broke into a secondary -- he mumbled about the measly yard and meaningless touchdown he had not added to his accomplishments.

During a lopsided contest that would earn the league's most storied franchise and the era's most dominant player their only Super Bowl ring, the Bears scored three rushing touchdowns of 2 yards or fewer. The punky quarterback, Jim McMahon, had dives of 1 and 2 yards. The cartoonish William Perry, the 350-pound "Refrigerator" used by coach Mike Ditka as a blocking back in goal line situations, even scored on a 1-yard burst over the right side four minutes into the final quarter of the rout.

But the greatest runner in league history didn't score and, worse in his mind, hadn't even gotten the ball on those occasions when the Bears moved deep into "red zone" territory. During 13 seasons, Payton scored 125 touchdowns. And on each of those 125 occasions, he turned and politely handed the ball either to one of his offensive linemen or to a game official.

Scoring touchdowns, after all, was what the Bears paid him to do, Payton once noted. There was little sense in celebrating, he said, for only repaying a dividend on someone else's million-dollar investment. But that one time Payton might actually have spiked the football, not in defiance over the battered Patriots but rather as a sign he had finally achieved his singular goal of a Super Bowl title, he never got the opportunity, and it wounded his pride and his ego.

Shortly after the game, Ditka, a man who truly loves Payton every bit as much as he does his own children, apologized for the oversight. And living up to his reputation as a person of unparalleled equanimity, Payton hugged Ditka and shrugged off what he realized was an unintentional slight.

Then, as he subsequently ruminated over what he feared was an undistinguished Super Bowl legacy, Payton grew a bit darker and his mood increasingly depressed. Indeed, for a few minutes, as Payton agonized over how his performance in the title game might be recalled, his nickname could have been "Bittersweetness." A reporter attempted to console Payton by suggesting the Bears were such a fierce team, Super Bowl XX probably would be the first of several championship game appearances.

From his self-imposed locker cell, Payton glanced up from beneath the white towel, and he again invoked the favorite passage he'd often used to lecture young players about flagging diligence. "Like I have always told you guys," said the prideful Payton, bristling a bit. "Tomorrow is promised to no man."

Those words, along with the "Sweetness" nickname hung on him by teammates early in his 13-year career, always rang ironic. Never has the irony resonated so much, however, as it did Monday when Payton at age 45 succumbed to liver disease and cancer.

Only nine months ago, an agonized Payton announced to the world that he'd been diagnosed with primary sclerosing cholangitis, a disease in which the bile ducts are blocked and which is fatal unless the patient receives a transplant, usually within two years. A shockingly gaunt and jaundiced Payton wept openly that Feb. 2 afternoon at the plight that had befallen him, and shortly after a press conference in which he asked his legion of fans to pray for him, he dropped out of sight.

Friends and former teammates phoned, and Connie Payton, his wife, would make excuses about why he could not take their calls. Uncharacteristically, he missed appointments and turned over most of his several business affairs to associates. Defensive end Richard Dent, a former teammate, noted at one point that it "is like something is eating at him."

On Monday evening, just two days after SportsLine reported he had experienced "serious complications" that might preclude the potentially life-saving transplant, the world found out that what had been eating at Payton from the inside was an insidious malignancy. Dr. Greg Gores of the Mayo Clinic confirmed Payton suffered from bile duct cancer that forced his removal from the transplant priority list and, in essence, doomed him.

Never one to display any degree of weakness -- he missed just one game in 13 seasons and that came only because coach Jack Pardee ignored his entreaties to let him play with a leg injury -- Payton made sure his family circled the wagons in his final days.

But Monday, the man who brought tears of joy to so many caused grown men to sob uncontrollably at the news of his passing. Even those who realized weeks ago his situation had worsened and likely bordered on grave were undone by the swiftness with which disease ravaged his powerful body.

Bears owner Virginia McCaskey, the daughter of the legendary George Halas, on Monday spoke of Payton and another Bears back, Brian Piccolo, who also died from cancer. Mrs. McCaskey barely made it through her remarks before she was overcome with grief.

"He was a fighter, a guy who always struggled for the extra inch, not just the extra yard," said Matt Suhey, the former Bears fullback who was modestly talented but shared such courage and heart that he eventually was acknowledged by Payton as his closest friend. "He finally ran into a tackler he couldn't run through, that's all. But you can bet he tried like hell."

Walter Payton's son Jarrett leaves the podium after speaking to the media Monday. (AP)

It is incomprehensible to even think of Payton, a man described by former Bears wide receiver and onetime teammate Dennis McKinnon as "invincible," languishing away as a shadow of himself. Payton was a large man only in deed, and when he once gazed upon the tree-trunk legs of fellow Hall of Fame running back Earl Campbell, he feigned shock. But at 5-feet-10 and 205 pounds, he was muscularly built. And he forged his toughness every offseason by sprinting up a dusty, 45-degree hill, dodging ruts and sidestepping weeds as he sweated his way not only to the summit of the steep grade but also to the top of his profession.

"He made that hill famous, and that hill made him great," former Bears safety Dave Duerson once said.

There was a smooth, almost fluidly floating running style that carried Payton in the open field. But most of his 16,726 yards came on physical bursts between the tackles, almost brutish forays right through the gut of harm's way. In a statement, NFL commissioner Paul Tagliabue characterized "Sweetness" as "a perfect" complement to Payton's life, and that is certainly the case off the field.

Between the sidelines, though, Payton played with a passion, urgency and competitive bent that belied the nickname and on Monday evoked this recollection from former Green Bay defensive end Ezra Johnson: "He ran so hard, there were times you felt he was going pull your arms right out of the socket."

Said former Washington Redskins defensive end Charles Mann, a contemporary: "I don't think he liked the long runs, the ones where he just streaked past everybody. I honestly think he hunted out tacklers just to see if he could run through them. He was the greatest competitor I've ever faced, there's no doubt."

On most sports highlight shows Monday night, Payton was born again, running in somewhat grainy footage through nine of 11 Kansas City Chiefs defenders, bouncing like a pinball but never tilting on his way into the end zone. In an old special titled Purely Payton, he was alternately a whirling dervish and a battering ram. There were highlights of Payton hurdling to touchdowns, stiff-arming opponents, dashing for long gains and powering for 2 yards in third-and-1 situations.

There were, to be sure, better pure runners than Payton, but few so single-minded.

The man who retired within one good season of besting Payton's career rushing record issued a statement Monday night, Barry Sanders calling the Hall of Fame star "the man to whom every runner looks up." Fellow Hall of Fame tailback Eric Dickerson noted: "It's so sad, so very sad, a tragedy, really. If you were a kid coming up when he was playing, he was the runner you wanted most to (emulate)."

A saddened Ditka, who appeared at a late afternoon press conference red-eyed and with his face swollen from tears, termed Payton "the best player I've ever seen on the field and probably one of the best people I ever met off it." Later, when told that Payton's 16,000-plus yards were the equivalent of nearly 10 miles, the distraught Ditka only shook his head in amazement.

Clearly this last mile had been the longest for Payton and those close to him. Just as clearly, a dying Payton had accepted that his ravaged liver might make it impossible for him to stiff arm the cruel certainty that lay before him or hurdle the most challenging defensive scheme he had ever seen. Just as he long ago forgave Ditka for not getting him his Super Bowl touchdown, Payton reconciled himself to his fate.

"I'm looking at it as a sprained ankle or twisted knee," Payton said shortly after revealing the diagnosis of PSC. "I have to stay positive. Nobody else can make me stay positive. I have to do that. Then whatever happens, happens. If in two years something happens and I get a transplant and my body accepts it and I go on, that's fine.

"And if in two years I don't, then that's the way life was meant to be for me."