He was known as “The Fridge” except to those closest to him.
Teammates called him “Biscuit,” as in one biscuit shy of 400 pounds.
Some used “Mudslide,” the special effect he created when taking off his shirt. This was not a nickname frequently used in William Perry’s presence.
Mike Ditka called him “Bill,” as if the most common of monikers could somehow normalize the cartoon character Ditka helped create.
Time Magazine called him “the most famous football player in the world” and put him on its Jan. 27, 1986, cover with Walter Payton pointing to him.
His first defensive coordinator, Buddy Ryan, called him a “wasted draft choice.”
Bill Tobin, who pushed to draft him, called him the “final piece of the puzzle” in the awesome 1985 Bears’ defense.
With Perry, there was always a difference between what he was called and what he was. Now, since the Bears cut him Tuesday, it’s appropriate to reflect on what he was rather than what he could have been.
Football experts always argued his ability. Some saw a huge man who was an athlete to boot. He could do things people his size just can’t do. He dunked a basketball, scooped up fumbles and tattooed Green Bay’s George Cumby into football immortality on a Monday night blast into the end zone.
That brief conversion to offense stamped 1985 worth remembering beyond scores. But it did more than slap a smiley face on a frighteningly good team; it did no less than rescue the No Fun League from the tedium of strikes and anti-trust trials. It also thrust Perry into a spotlight too big for even him to fill.
At first, Perry enjoyed the attention, endearing himself to Chicagoans on draft day with the quote: “I was big when I was little.” Somewhere along the fine line between having fun and making fun, Perry retreated, shunning the media and becoming a dour mercenary. The Bears got on him about his weight. Ditka expressed concern over his long-range health, blaming wife Sherry as only Ditka could do.
When he would talk, Perry would repeat, “I just want to have fun,” flashing the familiar gap-toothed grin. But only recently did he appear to be enjoying himself again. Still, he declined the Bears’ advice to stick around Tuesday for a proper farewell.
What he really wanted was respect as a football player. During the 1987 strike, he kidded with teammate Dan Hampton about pursuing a career in pro wrestling. Perry actually participated in one of those “Wrestlemania” circuses. Could imagination invent a better “Good Guy?”
But football came easy, too easy. Why should he listen to Ditka and lose weight when nobody could move him, and he could leap over guards like the Saints’ 300-pound Jim Dombrowski and make game-saving tackles in the backfield?
His critics eventually proved right. He was unable to sustain his athleticism. He couldn’t move laterally. He was quick but couldn’t run, strong but couldn’t endure. Yet, what critic thought he would last in the NFL past age 30?
When Perry was tested for body fat when he weighed closer to 300 than 400, the testers were surprised to discover the percentage was no more than the average lineman in the NFL. When he tried to reduce, he lost strength. He was a natural giant who liked pizza and beer and rarely was witnessed eating a bite of anything at training camp.
Before the 1985 draft, Tobin pulled a picture of Perry from his file and marveled at it. Tobin pored over game tape and test results. He envisioned a future Pro Bowl force if he only would leave the dinner table for the weight room and the film room.
Other scouts from other teams looked at the same picture and saw nothing more than the “before” photo in a Jenny Craig ad that never would include an “after.”
The Bears were happy to get him with the 22nd pick in the first round. That’s where good teams are destined eventually to fail if they aren’t smarter or riskier.
Perry never fulfilled the dreams of others, but he was far from a waste despite his waist. Ditka had to overrule Ryan to get him into the 1985 starting lineup. When they put him beside Steve McMichael and moved Hampton to end at midseason, the Bears gave up no more than one touchdown in 10 of their final 12 games. He was the classic “two-gap” player, able to hold his ground to either side of his blocker and attract double-teams to free up others. Ditka and defensive coordinator Vince Tobin fantasized using him at end or linebacker. Present coach Dave Wannstedt simply saw the reality of a man too slow to play his gap-shooting defense.
Perry was a country kid from Aiken, S.C., who took his money and built a home in Aiken, S.C. All he wanted to do is play some football and do some fishing. The fame, he always said, was easy come, easy go. The money he earned should buy a lot of bait.
He could have owned Chicago, just as he could have gone to the Pro Bowl had he just paid a little more attention to the microphones and the nutrionists everybody kept throwing at him. If you think Michael Jordan’s restaurant is popular, envision the possibilities.
Instead, he only borrowed the city, treated it fairly, and threw it all back as if he had caught a fish too big to digest or mount. He sacrificed much of his body, save his stomach.
If he’s happy, Bear fans should be happy, too. He put in a good day’s work and left more than a good day’s memories. Closing the Refrigerator door indeed will leave us all a bit thinner.
