jday
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To be honest, much of my childhood is a blur. Perhaps my most vivid memory, though, centers around my family gathering around the television to yell, scream, jump, clap, and run around in circles in a state of absolute and unadulterated bliss as the Cowboys destroyed teams in the early 90’s. “Destroyed” is a bit strong…but after living through the Cowboy dark ages of the 80’s, it certainly seemed that way as a kid. A few years ago I watched a few of those games from my childhood on NFL replay and was surprised to see that those Cowboys of the dynasty were not as dominate as my memory and their 3 Super Bowls suggested.
Particularly in the playoffs against the likes of the 49ers and the Packers, the Cowboys of that era had to scratch and claw out every win, often times winning by no more than a touchdown or field goal. The Bills, obviously, were a different story; the Cowboys had their number in the Super Bowl, which is why many of us in those day’s honestly looked at the NFC Championship as the Super Bowl. The AFC simply was not on the NFC’s level in the early nineties. The cap is largely responsible for the fix, but there was also an alleged shift from ownership apathy about winning because they were still making money to an understanding that the more a team wins the more money there is to make.
Perhaps the story that best defines my family fandom was a fateful Sunday in my early teens. My family was responsible for worship at the various churches we attended throughout my lifetime. My mom sang and played piano. My dad sang and played guitar. My older brother played the drums. And I like the proverbial kindergartner that got stuck with the triangle, was saddled with bass guitar. This one particular church we attended was located smack dab in the middle of the ghetto of Dallas. On one fateful Sunday the preacher was in the middle of one of his infamous monologue’s about I-can’t-remember-what when he made the dire mistake of going over his allotted time and into a Cowboys game. I’ll never forget – my father nudged me with his elbow and said, “Let’s go.”
Right about now you are probably thinking “let’s go” involved getting up and leaving the service quietly and respectfully. Nope. What “let’s go” meant was mounting the pulpit and packing up our instruments, speakers, and microphones/microphone stands while the pastor was standing mere feet from us preaching to the congregation. What “let’s go” meant was making a huge spectacle of ourselves as we walked out amps, guitars, equipment and all. And as my father slammed his foot on the accelerator leaving the church grounds he announced to us all, “There’s nothing religious about missing the Cowboys game.”
Given the above, you can probably guess the football Sunday tradition was very much a big part of my family experience. Like all families, we had our share of hard times and heated arguments, but Cowboys football always had this way of bringing us back together. It was an integral part of how we coexisted, despite having so many different and strong and sometimes pig-headed personalities within one household. When I can remember good times, it usually involved something with the Cowboys. And that is why, I believe, I am to this day incapable of rooting for any other football team with any genuine interest. I tried college football. I couldn’t get into it. I tried following other teams, when the Cowboys were terrible. It just wasn’t the same.
So for me, as much as I love watching football, if they don’t have a blue star on the side of their helmet, you can bet there is something I’d rather be doing….like playing Madden with a team that has that blue star on their helmet. Either way, I’m all Cowboys all day every day. No other sport and no other team. If it ain’t Cowboys football, chances are, I ain’t watching it. And while I don’t agree with my father on most things, if you have something important say to me, even if your intentions revolve around my eternal salvation, by all means say your piece…just make sure your soapbox dissertation doesn’t run over into a Cowboys game…otherwise you might be interrupted by those infamous words of wisdom from my father….”let’s go; there’s nothing religious about missing the Cowboys game.”
Particularly in the playoffs against the likes of the 49ers and the Packers, the Cowboys of that era had to scratch and claw out every win, often times winning by no more than a touchdown or field goal. The Bills, obviously, were a different story; the Cowboys had their number in the Super Bowl, which is why many of us in those day’s honestly looked at the NFC Championship as the Super Bowl. The AFC simply was not on the NFC’s level in the early nineties. The cap is largely responsible for the fix, but there was also an alleged shift from ownership apathy about winning because they were still making money to an understanding that the more a team wins the more money there is to make.
Perhaps the story that best defines my family fandom was a fateful Sunday in my early teens. My family was responsible for worship at the various churches we attended throughout my lifetime. My mom sang and played piano. My dad sang and played guitar. My older brother played the drums. And I like the proverbial kindergartner that got stuck with the triangle, was saddled with bass guitar. This one particular church we attended was located smack dab in the middle of the ghetto of Dallas. On one fateful Sunday the preacher was in the middle of one of his infamous monologue’s about I-can’t-remember-what when he made the dire mistake of going over his allotted time and into a Cowboys game. I’ll never forget – my father nudged me with his elbow and said, “Let’s go.”
Right about now you are probably thinking “let’s go” involved getting up and leaving the service quietly and respectfully. Nope. What “let’s go” meant was mounting the pulpit and packing up our instruments, speakers, and microphones/microphone stands while the pastor was standing mere feet from us preaching to the congregation. What “let’s go” meant was making a huge spectacle of ourselves as we walked out amps, guitars, equipment and all. And as my father slammed his foot on the accelerator leaving the church grounds he announced to us all, “There’s nothing religious about missing the Cowboys game.”
Given the above, you can probably guess the football Sunday tradition was very much a big part of my family experience. Like all families, we had our share of hard times and heated arguments, but Cowboys football always had this way of bringing us back together. It was an integral part of how we coexisted, despite having so many different and strong and sometimes pig-headed personalities within one household. When I can remember good times, it usually involved something with the Cowboys. And that is why, I believe, I am to this day incapable of rooting for any other football team with any genuine interest. I tried college football. I couldn’t get into it. I tried following other teams, when the Cowboys were terrible. It just wasn’t the same.
So for me, as much as I love watching football, if they don’t have a blue star on the side of their helmet, you can bet there is something I’d rather be doing….like playing Madden with a team that has that blue star on their helmet. Either way, I’m all Cowboys all day every day. No other sport and no other team. If it ain’t Cowboys football, chances are, I ain’t watching it. And while I don’t agree with my father on most things, if you have something important say to me, even if your intentions revolve around my eternal salvation, by all means say your piece…just make sure your soapbox dissertation doesn’t run over into a Cowboys game…otherwise you might be interrupted by those infamous words of wisdom from my father….”let’s go; there’s nothing religious about missing the Cowboys game.”
