rags747
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handled it after a 3pt loss to the Skins:
Game over
Commanders: 20
Cowboys: 17
Jimmy Johnson: Indignant.
As is ritual, after the game the Cowboys met for a few moments as a team, showered, spoke with the media, dressed and bolted for the airport, where they boarded a chartered airplane for the return to Dallas.
Win or lose, the postgame flight is an opportunity for players and coaches to wind down, reflect and begin the recovery process. After the requisite 15-minute keep-it-down-because-we're-supposed-to-be-devastated silent time, men open up. They joke, laugh, play dominoes, play cards, talk smack, eat dinner.
Upon boarding, Johnson walked toward his seat near the front of the airplane and spotted the flight attendants preparing dinner. "Don't give my guys anything to eat!" he roared. "I mean it! Nothing!" Johnson sat down and cracked open a Heineken. Then another Heineken. Then another. Unlike the tea-toting, Bible-fearing Tom Landry of Cowboy lore, Johnson's off-the-field cravings encompassed the music of Barbra Streisand, violent movies, white shag carpet and -- most of all -- cold beer.
When the plane reached cruising altitude, players quietly scattered about. Like most teams, the Cowboys sectioned their airplane. The front five rows belonged to the coaching staff and executives. Behind them sat a handful of broadcasters and media types. Finally, taking up the rest of the jet's space were the Dallas players. Each row of the American Airlines jet has four seats. Every player had two seats to himself.
While gazing out the window, Robert Jones felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Charles Haley. "Do me a favor," Haley said. "Let me sit here so I can play cards with these guys." Haley nodded toward the nearby trio of Thomas Everett, Tony Tolbert and Kevin Smith, the team's regular Tonk players. "So I get up, and I'm just sort of leaning on my seat, watching the guys play," says Jones. "What else did I have to do?"
Jones stood facing the rear, unaware as to why the airplane suddenly went silent. When he turned his head, he understood. There was Jimmy Johnson, eyes the color of maraschino cherries, breathing down his neck. "I didn't think he was setting up to jump me, because I'm quiet, I'm not causing a scene -- I'm just standing there looking," says Jones. "So when I saw him, I stood straight up so he could get by. I figured he was going to the bathroom or walking the plane or something." Jones pressed his body toward his seat to make room for Johnson to pass. He held the position for two seconds … three seconds … four seconds … five seconds. Nothing.
Johnson looked into Jones' eyes and yelled, "Where's your f------ seat?"
Quiet by nature, the linebacker stammered. "Uh, Charles had to use it because they were playing cards," he said.
"You know what?" said Johnson. "You're the weakest f------ middle linebacker I've ever come across. You play an entire game at middle linebacker and you make one f------ tackle? Find your damn seat!"
Jones paused.
"Find your g--damned seat," Johnson said, "before you don't have a f-----' job."
Gulp.
Jones stumbled around before falling into Haley's lap. From three rows up, Frank Cornish, the backup center, laughed softly. Johnson's head spun like an owl tracking a vole. "Stop smiling!" he hollered.
"Coach," said Cornish, "I'm not smiling. Nothing's funny."
Johnson shuffled back to the front of the plane, slurring angrily. As the players whispered "What an a------" and "What's up his a--?" he re-appeared. Cornish, who had stood to use the bathroom, saw Johnson scowling at him again. "Coach," he said, "we're all disappointed that we lost. But nobody is taking it for granted."
Johnson's lower lip quivered. "Frank, are you challenging me?" he said.
"No," responded Cornish. "Not at all."
The center quickly exited, stage left, into the bathroom.
A former sixth-round draft choice, Cornish was a solid, dependable, eminently disposable reserve. If Johnson felt the itch, he would cut him in a second. "I never liked that about Jimmy," says Robert Jones. "Think about the guys I was with when he jumped on me -- Charles Haley was a star, Thomas Everett was the starting safety, Kevin Smith was a shutdown corner, Tony Tolbert was a great defensive end. He chose me and he chose Frank because we were guys he could pick on and not worry about. He never messed with his bread-and-butter guys, because he was a bully. Bullies only pick on the guys they can mess with."
In a final dose of brutality, Johnson -- again retreating to the front -- walked past fullback Tommie Agee, who was sitting on the armrest of his seat because Emmitt Smith was cramping and needed to stretch his legs. "Tommie," he said, "what are you doing out of your seat?"
Agee tried to explain, but his coach didn't want to hear it. "Sit down!" he said. "Sit the f--- down!"
And then Johnson left to drink another Heineken.
In the rear of the plane the players were outraged. Here were the Dallas Cowboys, 11-3 and manhandling the NFC East. They had the league's best record, best running back, best quarterback, best possession receiver and one of its best defenses. And their coach felt the need to treat them like 4-year-olds. "F--- this!" said Irvin. "I know we lost, but he shouldn't have come back here like that." Haley patted Jones on the shoulder. "Man, that was so wrong," he said. "I took your seat and he didn't say nothing to me." Players were fed up with Johnson's insensitivity.
Jimmy Johnson seems pretty happy on TV, but back in his coaching days he exhibited a mean streak.
The following day, the Cowboys were scheduled to gather at noon for a meeting at Valley Ranch. Safety Ray Horton was sitting alone outside the weight room when Johnson approached. "Ray," he said, "how are the guys?"
An elder statesman who knew this would be his final season, Horton lacked the insecurity to sugarcoat an answer. "Coach," he said, "they're really pissed at you."
Johnson failed to flinch. "That's fine," he said, "as long as they play for me."
Moments later Johnson entered the team meeting, stood before the room and made an announcement. Horton knew what was coming -- Johnson would apologize and the organization would move on. Right?
"I know some guys are mad at me," Johnson said, "but I just want to win."
And that was that.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Game over
Commanders: 20
Cowboys: 17
Jimmy Johnson: Indignant.
As is ritual, after the game the Cowboys met for a few moments as a team, showered, spoke with the media, dressed and bolted for the airport, where they boarded a chartered airplane for the return to Dallas.
Win or lose, the postgame flight is an opportunity for players and coaches to wind down, reflect and begin the recovery process. After the requisite 15-minute keep-it-down-because-we're-supposed-to-be-devastated silent time, men open up. They joke, laugh, play dominoes, play cards, talk smack, eat dinner.
Upon boarding, Johnson walked toward his seat near the front of the airplane and spotted the flight attendants preparing dinner. "Don't give my guys anything to eat!" he roared. "I mean it! Nothing!" Johnson sat down and cracked open a Heineken. Then another Heineken. Then another. Unlike the tea-toting, Bible-fearing Tom Landry of Cowboy lore, Johnson's off-the-field cravings encompassed the music of Barbra Streisand, violent movies, white shag carpet and -- most of all -- cold beer.
When the plane reached cruising altitude, players quietly scattered about. Like most teams, the Cowboys sectioned their airplane. The front five rows belonged to the coaching staff and executives. Behind them sat a handful of broadcasters and media types. Finally, taking up the rest of the jet's space were the Dallas players. Each row of the American Airlines jet has four seats. Every player had two seats to himself.
While gazing out the window, Robert Jones felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Charles Haley. "Do me a favor," Haley said. "Let me sit here so I can play cards with these guys." Haley nodded toward the nearby trio of Thomas Everett, Tony Tolbert and Kevin Smith, the team's regular Tonk players. "So I get up, and I'm just sort of leaning on my seat, watching the guys play," says Jones. "What else did I have to do?"
Jones stood facing the rear, unaware as to why the airplane suddenly went silent. When he turned his head, he understood. There was Jimmy Johnson, eyes the color of maraschino cherries, breathing down his neck. "I didn't think he was setting up to jump me, because I'm quiet, I'm not causing a scene -- I'm just standing there looking," says Jones. "So when I saw him, I stood straight up so he could get by. I figured he was going to the bathroom or walking the plane or something." Jones pressed his body toward his seat to make room for Johnson to pass. He held the position for two seconds … three seconds … four seconds … five seconds. Nothing.
Johnson looked into Jones' eyes and yelled, "Where's your f------ seat?"
Quiet by nature, the linebacker stammered. "Uh, Charles had to use it because they were playing cards," he said.
"You know what?" said Johnson. "You're the weakest f------ middle linebacker I've ever come across. You play an entire game at middle linebacker and you make one f------ tackle? Find your damn seat!"
Jones paused.
"Find your g--damned seat," Johnson said, "before you don't have a f-----' job."
Gulp.
Jones stumbled around before falling into Haley's lap. From three rows up, Frank Cornish, the backup center, laughed softly. Johnson's head spun like an owl tracking a vole. "Stop smiling!" he hollered.
"Coach," said Cornish, "I'm not smiling. Nothing's funny."
Johnson shuffled back to the front of the plane, slurring angrily. As the players whispered "What an a------" and "What's up his a--?" he re-appeared. Cornish, who had stood to use the bathroom, saw Johnson scowling at him again. "Coach," he said, "we're all disappointed that we lost. But nobody is taking it for granted."
Johnson's lower lip quivered. "Frank, are you challenging me?" he said.
"No," responded Cornish. "Not at all."
The center quickly exited, stage left, into the bathroom.
A former sixth-round draft choice, Cornish was a solid, dependable, eminently disposable reserve. If Johnson felt the itch, he would cut him in a second. "I never liked that about Jimmy," says Robert Jones. "Think about the guys I was with when he jumped on me -- Charles Haley was a star, Thomas Everett was the starting safety, Kevin Smith was a shutdown corner, Tony Tolbert was a great defensive end. He chose me and he chose Frank because we were guys he could pick on and not worry about. He never messed with his bread-and-butter guys, because he was a bully. Bullies only pick on the guys they can mess with."
In a final dose of brutality, Johnson -- again retreating to the front -- walked past fullback Tommie Agee, who was sitting on the armrest of his seat because Emmitt Smith was cramping and needed to stretch his legs. "Tommie," he said, "what are you doing out of your seat?"
Agee tried to explain, but his coach didn't want to hear it. "Sit down!" he said. "Sit the f--- down!"
And then Johnson left to drink another Heineken.
In the rear of the plane the players were outraged. Here were the Dallas Cowboys, 11-3 and manhandling the NFC East. They had the league's best record, best running back, best quarterback, best possession receiver and one of its best defenses. And their coach felt the need to treat them like 4-year-olds. "F--- this!" said Irvin. "I know we lost, but he shouldn't have come back here like that." Haley patted Jones on the shoulder. "Man, that was so wrong," he said. "I took your seat and he didn't say nothing to me." Players were fed up with Johnson's insensitivity.
Jimmy Johnson seems pretty happy on TV, but back in his coaching days he exhibited a mean streak.
The following day, the Cowboys were scheduled to gather at noon for a meeting at Valley Ranch. Safety Ray Horton was sitting alone outside the weight room when Johnson approached. "Ray," he said, "how are the guys?"
An elder statesman who knew this would be his final season, Horton lacked the insecurity to sugarcoat an answer. "Coach," he said, "they're really pissed at you."
Johnson failed to flinch. "That's fine," he said, "as long as they play for me."
Moments later Johnson entered the team meeting, stood before the room and made an announcement. Horton knew what was coming -- Johnson would apologize and the organization would move on. Right?
"I know some guys are mad at me," Johnson said, "but I just want to win."
And that was that.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
