This is where the problems began.
For all his Jim Thorpe-esque skills, Sanders was sleeping-dog lazy. In practices, he went all-out every third or fourth play and refused to wear shoulder pads because, he would say, "I'm not gonna tackle anyone anyway." In meeting rooms, he was known to doodle and doze off. Told early on that Cowboys who refused to participate in the team's weight training regimen would be fined, Sanders dramatically whipped out his checkbook and jotted down a five-digit figure.
When Mike Woicik, the team's gruff strength and conditioning coach, complained about Sanders' indifference, Switzer sided with his new star. "We're talking about Deion Sanders here," Switzer told Woicik. "If he doesn't want to do something, he doesn't have to."
Woicik was speechless. Credited by many players as a key to the back-to-back Super Bowls, Woicik was a no-nonsense taskmaster who demanded maximum effort. "For Mike, anything short of a funeral was an unacceptable excuse to miss a session," says Kevin Smith. "Mike had the personality of a lamp, but if you had to bench press he knew exactly how many you were supposed to do. When you came in and you didn't do it, he'd say, 'You were out f-----' around last night. You must've been drinking last night. You must have been drinking two nights ago.' He'd be pissed. He wouldn't speak to you for a week. If you tested on the bench and you didn't make it, he wouldn't say a word to you for a whole week until you came in and did it. That's how he was. Your goals were his goals."
Throughout the locker room, Woicik was as respected as any Cowboy coach or official. And Deion Sanders had the nerve to treat him … like this?
Who were the Dallas Cowboys becoming?
"I still remember Deion's first team meeting," says Clayton Holmes, the veteran cornerback. "We were so fundamental about film. The way we studied it was critical. Well, Deion comes in, puts his feet up on a table and doesn't even watch." When Dave Campo, the Cowboys new defensive coordinator, asked the $35 million man to break down a play, Sanders let out a sly laugh. "Hey, Coach," he said, pointing toward the screen, "I got that dude right there. Wherever he goes I go. All that Cover Two stuff you're talking about -- y'all work that out."
Seeing that the Cowboys' defensive back meetings lasted significantly longer than they had in Atlanta or San Francisco, Sanders took a page out of the Barry Bonds Playbook by investing in a black leather executive's chair and rolling it into the conference room. As his peers sat in standard metal folding chairs, Sanders lounged in comfort. "Guys thought that was kind of funny," says Schwantz. "Maybe not right -- but funny."
Although most veterans accepted Sanders' ego and indifference in exchange for the promise of otherworldly play, Aikman -- who had offered to defer part of his salary to help Dallas afford the defensive back -- was disgusted. It was bad enough Switzer approached discipline as if he were the proprietor of the Moonlite Bunny Ranch. Now here was "Neon Deion," teaching via example that image is everything and practice is overrated. From across the locker room, the quarterback would watch Sanders' postgame dressing ritual and cringe. As Jeff Rude of the Dallas Morning News described it: "Most people slip on a shirt when they get dressed. Deion puts on a jewelry store."
Around his neck, Sanders placed two thick gold chains with dangling diamond-studded 21s. He wore a diamond-studded Rolex watch, two gold diamond bracelets and matching diamond horseshoe earrings.
"There was a division between Deion and Troy that began to bubble over," says Kevin Smith. "We called it 'Double Doors' at Valley Ranch. Once we walked through those double doors it was football. We could laugh and joke, but it was all about football. To Aikman, that was sacred.
"When Deion came in, something changed for the worse. Guys who should have been studying football on a Wednesday at 12 o'clock were focused on other things. Deion was such a freaky athlete that he could shake one leg and be ready to cover anyone. But the guys following his lead weren't nearly as talented. You know what they say about dogs that chase cars -- they don't live long."
One of Sanders' most devoted disciples was Sherman Williams, the rookie running back with much talent but zero work ethic. "Deion had Sherman's ear 100 percent," says Kevin Smith. "He was a rookie who'd show up around 10 o'clock, 11 o'clock in the morning, smelling like weed and rolling with a posse. Guys like Sherman needed to be reminded of the importance of hard work. That did not come from Deion."
"You led by example," adds Dale Hellestrae, the offensive lineman. "And his example wasn't very good."
Sanders made his debut on Oct. 29, when the Cowboys thumped the Falcons, 28-13, in Atlanta. The stars of the game were (ho-hum) Emmitt Smith (26 carries, 167 yards), Irvin (10 receptions, 135 yards) and Aikman (19 of 25, 198 yards, two touchdowns), yet the spotlight belonged to Prime Time. It was his moment in the sun. His day. In 44 defensive sets, Falcons quarterback Jeff George threw his way twice. The first time, receiver Bert Emanuel beat Sanders for an 11-yard gain. The second, Sanders batted down the ball.
Though he talked as if he were the Muhammad Ali of the gridiron, Sanders' play in 1995 was merely OK. In nine games as a defensive back, Sanders intercepted two passes and contributed a paltry 22 tackles (that's a robust $318,182 per tackle).
"Personally," says one Cowboy, "I thought Kevin Smith was a better player." Whereas the other primary cornerbacks -- Smith, Larry Brown and Clayton Holmes -- embraced contact, Sanders was a feather duster. When he tackled, it was with the gusto of a 90-year-old woman.
"One time a running back ran a sweep toward him, and Deion dove half-hearted into the turf," says Case. "We're watching film the next day, razzing him pretty good. As serious as could be, he said, 'I saw that dude coming and I had to make a business decision.'"
