TheWarrenReport
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The scoreboard got it wrong last night. After the Cowboys' grueling Sunday night season-opener, the Jumbotron at FedEx Field should have read:
DAL 7
DAL 13
While the game will be recorded as a "W"in for the Commanders, it'd be just as reasonable to declare victory for the Cowboys; after all, they did beat themselves.
Many fans seem determined this morning to divvy up blame as if it were a zero-sum equation. If the unrepentant Alex Barron isn't responsible, Tashard Choice must be. If Jason Garrett's arrogant play-calling isn't to blame, it must be Wade Phillips' avuncular leadership. Fans, fans, don't fight. You're all right. This was a team loss. Every player, every coach and, yes, every one in the front office, can claim a slice of today's bitter special: humble pie. Yes, even our new-contract-worthy-and-Kardashian-approved wide receiver and our elite-level, salt-of-the-turf quarterback can grab a forkful. (Especially given that absolutely everyone forked up last night.)
Though it was our second-string right tackle's holding penalty that dashed a dramatic comeback more cruelly than Simon Cowell reviewing a new Captain & Tenille album, the entire Cowboy's organization should have been flagged for the greater infraction: complacency. Before the game The Cowboys disguised it as switch-flipping, Super-Bowl-bound self-confidence. I pray the team recognizes how transparent that costume appears in the mourning light. We could blame the Emperor's new tailors, but shouldn't we consider the roles of those so easily duped and short-sighted they feel (felt?) compelled to perpetuate the con, trusting that fans would fall for the flimflam, too? (And, we do. Boy, do we.)
In his tenure with the Cowboys, Bill Parcells made many mistakes — perhaps the most haunting, his failure to draft decent linemen. (Many proved themselves offensive, just not in the correct modifying sense.) However, Parcells gave words to a principle that led him to earlier successes and embodies the similar mindsets of such dissimilar predecessors as Jimmy Johnson and Tom Landry: "Never let good enough be good enough." Sure, like all mortals, Parcells was better at sermonizing than harmonizing his words and actions — otherwise, Pat McQuistan and Bobby Carpenter would never have survived more cuts that Rocky Balboa — but his deftly expressed quest for the best allowed him to admit many mistakes as evidenced by... Parcells' roster-churning... Johnson's sacrificial-lamb-slaughtering... and, Landry's divine discipline. Vince Lombardi also preached the pursuit of perfection, always emphasizing that the goal was unreachable and yet that excellence was the natural, thus attainable, by-product of the effort. (I fear the Packers still get the message while the Cowboys deem the notion "cliche.")
Instead, this off-season, pre-season, and now, sadly, regular season, the Cowboys have been resolute, determined to stand pat when previous regimes would have addressed glaring concerns. It is tempting to believe Parcells, Johnson and Landry would have:
* flushed the offensive line's depth following the playoff dross in Minnesota
* provided true competition for a kicker who's a more sure open-field-tackler than field-goal-converter
* enforced greater repercussions for mentally-unfocused players who kill more drives than Jim Furyk
* established a hierarchy so that the sins of the assistants are assumed by the head coach... not by default, but by a reasonable, informed sense of accountability
And, it is tempting to believe that with such dynamic leadership and strict discipline, the players would respond more reflexively than they do to Keith Brooking's passionate, if belabored, pre-game wind-ups. ("We're going to "bite... and scratch... and kick," um, are you ready for some football, Keith, or some foreplay on Jersey Shore?)
It is hard to ask for help. I know. In the past year, I had great cause to seek aid and yet refused to acknowledge even the need for it many times. Was it Shame that prevented me from being honest with others and admitting mistakes so that my friends might help correct them? No, I worry it was Pride and, lest we forget, Pride is not a virtue, but rather, one of the seven deadly sins. (The eighth is running a play from your own 36 with only four seconds remaining in the first half of a tight ball game.) Like my favorite team, I was complacent; I assumed my problems — fiscal, professional and emotional — were subject to simple self-correction, as if I could do no harm that could not be remedied by waking up to another day. Like Jerry Jones, I assured myself: Succor is for suckers. Sleep tight. Wake up. Man up. Pull those bootstraps and claim what is rightfully yours. However, it is this very sense of entitlement that undermined my efforts to improve. It wasn't until I could candidly admit my errors to my collaborators and my loved ones, that I could effectively right my wrongs. I blame myself for succumbing to the national trance; hypnotized, we believe there is no hardship that we can't overcome ourselves. Hogwash. Failure is not the mother of all personal flaws. Failure is the mother of success. And like most moms, she is overworked and under-appreciated.
Now, I can and do ask for help when needed. I remind myself a hand up is not a handout. More importantly, I recognize that the admission of my errors is only the first step towards my recovery. Yes, I will drink to that. Gladly. Make that a double. And, I'll pop the bubbly if the Cowboys confess their pre-season woes were indicative of some wrong-headed personnel policies, that last night's play-calling and clock-management reflect troublesome leadership issues and that holding calls and fumbled balls are the consequences of bone-headed judgment on the field, not the sideline. Only once the entire team accepts responsibility for earning its reputation as a contender rather than marketing this image 'round the clock, will Dallas have a chance to advance. Only when I accept an active role in my future do I have the opportunity to live its glory. Better to work tirelessly into the night than wake up well-rested and self-satisfied... the mourning after.
DAL 7
DAL 13
While the game will be recorded as a "W"in for the Commanders, it'd be just as reasonable to declare victory for the Cowboys; after all, they did beat themselves.
Many fans seem determined this morning to divvy up blame as if it were a zero-sum equation. If the unrepentant Alex Barron isn't responsible, Tashard Choice must be. If Jason Garrett's arrogant play-calling isn't to blame, it must be Wade Phillips' avuncular leadership. Fans, fans, don't fight. You're all right. This was a team loss. Every player, every coach and, yes, every one in the front office, can claim a slice of today's bitter special: humble pie. Yes, even our new-contract-worthy-and-Kardashian-approved wide receiver and our elite-level, salt-of-the-turf quarterback can grab a forkful. (Especially given that absolutely everyone forked up last night.)
Though it was our second-string right tackle's holding penalty that dashed a dramatic comeback more cruelly than Simon Cowell reviewing a new Captain & Tenille album, the entire Cowboy's organization should have been flagged for the greater infraction: complacency. Before the game The Cowboys disguised it as switch-flipping, Super-Bowl-bound self-confidence. I pray the team recognizes how transparent that costume appears in the mourning light. We could blame the Emperor's new tailors, but shouldn't we consider the roles of those so easily duped and short-sighted they feel (felt?) compelled to perpetuate the con, trusting that fans would fall for the flimflam, too? (And, we do. Boy, do we.)
In his tenure with the Cowboys, Bill Parcells made many mistakes — perhaps the most haunting, his failure to draft decent linemen. (Many proved themselves offensive, just not in the correct modifying sense.) However, Parcells gave words to a principle that led him to earlier successes and embodies the similar mindsets of such dissimilar predecessors as Jimmy Johnson and Tom Landry: "Never let good enough be good enough." Sure, like all mortals, Parcells was better at sermonizing than harmonizing his words and actions — otherwise, Pat McQuistan and Bobby Carpenter would never have survived more cuts that Rocky Balboa — but his deftly expressed quest for the best allowed him to admit many mistakes as evidenced by... Parcells' roster-churning... Johnson's sacrificial-lamb-slaughtering... and, Landry's divine discipline. Vince Lombardi also preached the pursuit of perfection, always emphasizing that the goal was unreachable and yet that excellence was the natural, thus attainable, by-product of the effort. (I fear the Packers still get the message while the Cowboys deem the notion "cliche.")
Instead, this off-season, pre-season, and now, sadly, regular season, the Cowboys have been resolute, determined to stand pat when previous regimes would have addressed glaring concerns. It is tempting to believe Parcells, Johnson and Landry would have:
* flushed the offensive line's depth following the playoff dross in Minnesota
* provided true competition for a kicker who's a more sure open-field-tackler than field-goal-converter
* enforced greater repercussions for mentally-unfocused players who kill more drives than Jim Furyk
* established a hierarchy so that the sins of the assistants are assumed by the head coach... not by default, but by a reasonable, informed sense of accountability
And, it is tempting to believe that with such dynamic leadership and strict discipline, the players would respond more reflexively than they do to Keith Brooking's passionate, if belabored, pre-game wind-ups. ("We're going to "bite... and scratch... and kick," um, are you ready for some football, Keith, or some foreplay on Jersey Shore?)
It is hard to ask for help. I know. In the past year, I had great cause to seek aid and yet refused to acknowledge even the need for it many times. Was it Shame that prevented me from being honest with others and admitting mistakes so that my friends might help correct them? No, I worry it was Pride and, lest we forget, Pride is not a virtue, but rather, one of the seven deadly sins. (The eighth is running a play from your own 36 with only four seconds remaining in the first half of a tight ball game.) Like my favorite team, I was complacent; I assumed my problems — fiscal, professional and emotional — were subject to simple self-correction, as if I could do no harm that could not be remedied by waking up to another day. Like Jerry Jones, I assured myself: Succor is for suckers. Sleep tight. Wake up. Man up. Pull those bootstraps and claim what is rightfully yours. However, it is this very sense of entitlement that undermined my efforts to improve. It wasn't until I could candidly admit my errors to my collaborators and my loved ones, that I could effectively right my wrongs. I blame myself for succumbing to the national trance; hypnotized, we believe there is no hardship that we can't overcome ourselves. Hogwash. Failure is not the mother of all personal flaws. Failure is the mother of success. And like most moms, she is overworked and under-appreciated.
Now, I can and do ask for help when needed. I remind myself a hand up is not a handout. More importantly, I recognize that the admission of my errors is only the first step towards my recovery. Yes, I will drink to that. Gladly. Make that a double. And, I'll pop the bubbly if the Cowboys confess their pre-season woes were indicative of some wrong-headed personnel policies, that last night's play-calling and clock-management reflect troublesome leadership issues and that holding calls and fumbled balls are the consequences of bone-headed judgment on the field, not the sideline. Only once the entire team accepts responsibility for earning its reputation as a contender rather than marketing this image 'round the clock, will Dallas have a chance to advance. Only when I accept an active role in my future do I have the opportunity to live its glory. Better to work tirelessly into the night than wake up well-rested and self-satisfied... the mourning after.
