In John Facenda vocce: It was a dark and overcast day. The type of day when the warriors from Mount Olympus decend on consecrated turf to play what is called NFL football. The visegoths from the North were in battle-ready array, mammoths like throwbacks to the ghosts of early 20th century football when blood, sweat, spit and heart-and-body piercing assassins thread the earth. A seemingly underweight Tony Dorsett took the field as a thousands voices roared their approval, like Romans seeing their best lion-killer. Tony Dorsett, mink-wearing disco-dancing, mirror-dropping soon to be great executed an eye-popping cut to right tackle, lost in the grunts and mud and detritous of a man's game. Off right tackle. Toward the 30, the 40, the 50. Driven out of bounds. But on his way to legend. To the pantheon of greats on the team of Landry, Lombardi, the Gipper and St. Paul. (end of Facenda vocce) Well done, Tony!