More scattershooting from Blackie:
OUR NEIGHBOR JONES:
Our neighbor Jones sez a man's home is his wife's castle.
Our neighbor Jones finds it hard to explain to his chillun why dad gets balder and mom gets blonder.
Our neighbor Jones sez he'd rather his mother-in-law didn't live with them, only it's her house.
Our neighbor Jones sez women can keep a secret just as good as men, only it takes more of them.
DALLAS COWBOYS:
So Smiley Jones has a harkback slogan for Valley Ranch digs: America's Team Lives Here. Wrong. America's Team belongs to the past, like Bronx Bombers, Fearsome Foursome, etc. Your Heroes need a new gimmick. As Bro. Dave Gardner says: "You can never do something again. You have to do something similar."
Whatzis? Some goldythroat (didn't get his name) reported that JJohnson served in advisory capacity to San Diego and was the one to advise hiring a general manager (John Butler) and give him the reins. (JJ would have doubtless given the same advice to Smiley Jones, had he been asked, and it would have been subsequently ignored.)
After 9-11, annual insurance tab for Texas Stadium quintupled, to something like $2.5 mil.
GENERAL FOOTBALL:
So the NFL Lords have decreed that no beer will be sold in stadiums after five minutes into final quarter. Reminds of a Joe E. Lewis observation about a midnight booze curfew: "If you can't get drunk by 12 o'clock, you're not really trying."
Intriguing verbatim from Colts' Edgerrin James in ESPN Magazine: "We're not guaranteed money in our contracts like basketball and baseball players. I ain't hating on nobody in baseball, but I know I'm speaking for every NFL player when I say it ain't right the best baseball player (Alex Rodriguez ) gets $252 million and our best player, Marshall Faulk, just signed for $200 million less than that. Ain't no crazy 300-pounders trying to break no baseball player's legs. And Marshall's money ain't even guaranteed, man."
INTERESTING STUFF
Sam Snead was not exactly your international diplomat. He snubbed British Open courses, saying, "If you're not in America, you're camping out." {ellipsis} Admittedly, that was the first impression here on first seeing Royal Birkdale in England. I recall writing that if that course was in North Dallas, it wouldn't take in enough green fees to pay the water bill.
The late Sam Snead wasn't above a hustle or two, a la Titanic Thompson. At his home resort courses in Virginia, Sam would bet he could beat a guest using only a tree branch for a club. (He actually had a hickory limb that he had honed and balanced on his workshop lathe, and it worked beautifully for him).
Personal misfires: First, after watching a Cotton Bowl display, there was the prediction from ole buster here that Jim Ridlon would make a better pro than the other Syracuse halfback, chap named Jim Brown. Then there was the conviction, after seeing Shawn Bradley run the Brigham Young floor, that the beanpole would become a dominating superstar in the NBA. Oh well. . . . And then there was the diner who opened his fortune cookie and read: "Don't eat the chow mein."