Dear Bill: Getcha Popcorn Ready!

AN OPEN LETTER TO BILL BELICHICK (Emphasis on "chick")

Dear Billy Boy,

Getcha popcorn ready! You figure to have the best seat in the house when the upstart Boys from Big D exact revenge and snatch the baton from your greasy, grimy, filthy, cheating hands come February 3.

You have had your run. It's been a good one. Only you and God know how much of that is directly related to your greaseball, cheating ways and how much can be attributed to your genius. We in Dallas want to thank you for being a placeholder. Thank you for being a bookmark, if you will, filler while we fumbled about and finally figured out how to return to our rightful place atop the NFL.

You did a fine job of being Almost America's Team. You made some nice memories, I am sure. You may even sleep soundly at night with none of the Ghosts of Cheatings Past slipping their clammy fingers about your throat. Granted, you looked like a slob while dominating America's game, but that's forgivable. We understand a person can lack basic class and ordinary social skills and still be a coaching savant. So, we forgive you.

And we dismiss you with our thanks. Now, kindly finish your incredible run through the regular season, dispose of your AFC opponents, and come take your ass-whipping like a man. Then you can scrawl your name that so wonderfully lends itself to playful misappropriations - like, Belichimp, Belicheater, Belichump...and the one we will add after your colossal collapse against the Cowboys in the Super Bowl, Belichoke - onto the script of NFL history and begin the slow, painful slide into the oblivion you so richly deserve.

Oh...and merry Christmas.

Yours Truly,
AN Unofficial Representative of America's Team

Yesterday...When Your Team Was Your Team

Some of you are long enough in the tooth to remember when a player was drafted by the team he would likely spend all - or at least the bulk - of his career serving. Back then, you cheered for your "team," and you knew who they were. You knew their names and their numbers. You knew their strengths and their weaknesses. And you knew they were your team.

Not so anymore. It is a rare bird, the athlete who stays with the team that drafted him. It still happens, mostly with the player a team identifies as the face of its franchise. It especially still happens with such players in the NFL, but not so much in the NBA or MLB. Those entities have stronger player unions, so the carrot-dangling is more attractive, and the bidding more cutthroat. I mean, come on, if you are a truly elite baseball player, you know you are going to end up in New York, Boston, or LA eventually, right?

I realize that as I fly through my midlife crises (yes, they are plural), I am apt to suffer from some Good Ol' Days Syndrome. Nostalgia is bound to set in, and I will view the past with my perfect-fitting, rose-colored glasses. But it was better then, wasn't it? It was better when most of the players on your team stayed on your team. You weren't just cheering for laundry and locale...you had heroes.

Nowadays, if you are, oh, let's say, a Cowboys' fan, for instance, you have to hate Terrell Owens when he plays for the Niners and desecrates the Star, but then love him when he dons the Star and decimates the rest of the league. If he is playing for the enemy, his over-the-top celebrations are annoying and self-serving. But if he is scoring those TDs for the 'Boys, well, we're just having fun, right? What's wrong with a little in-yo'-face celebration, anyway, huh? Grow up! Take it like a man, ya big crybaby!

It is dizzying the way our loyalties and logic change with every new wind that blows a player from here to there or there to here. Every year, we are cheering for a new set of players, but presumably, the same "team." How do I know they are my team? Look at the color scheme and the logo.

Ah well, the good ol' days are gone forever. But, hey, the good new days have brought us of the Internet and Blogging...

Hm. Now that I think about it, there might be a little irony in my using today's technology to pine for yesterday.

My Favorite ThanksGiving Day Football Memory

My favorite Thanksgiving Day memory has less to do with the timeless story of Pilgrims and Native Americans than it does with Cowboys and Redskins. It was 1974. I was thirteen years old.

This memory involves the annual gathering of the boisterous, love-out-loud maternal side of our extended family. It centers on the small, two-bedroom, hardwood-floored, white clapboard home of my grandparents (affectionately, called by one and all, "Big Granddad and Granky"), and on a small, wind-blown, edge-of-town motel, where roughly half of the letters in "VACANCY" glowed in the office window.

The day began bright and cool. By 9am, my two now ex-uncles by marriage; my mom's baby brother, also an uncle, but just three years my senior, so more like a brother; and I were involved in our annual ping pong tournament. We used the table in the Fellowship Hall of the tiny Baptist church, where Big Granddad served as pastor. All we had to do was walk across the front lawn to get there. The rivalries were fierce, and the pumping fists of the victorious inevitably met the scowls and demands for "one more game" of the vanquished.

By 11 or so, the ankle-biters, the younger male cousins were up and about. Ping pong gave way to backyard football. Each of the ex-uncles, one with a cigarette dangling from his lips, the other with the intensity of Roger Staubach burning in his eyes, played QB. The rest of us were receivers. The game never reached any sort of concluson. It was brought to a screeching halt when Big Granddad rallied the troops to the dinner table.

What a dinner it was! Turkey and ham and all the fixin's. Granky's homemade rolls. Pies of every description. We could have fed "Cox's Army," Dad would say. I agreed, though I had no idea who Cox was, why the guy needed an army, or whether they would even be hungry. But we backyard warriors were hungry, so the prayer seemed, as Thanksgiving Day prayers often do, inordinately long.

When the prayer ended, the feasting began. We dug in with zest and gorged ourselves on all the goodies. I didn't dilly-dally. The clock was ticking. It wouldn't be too long before kickoff. This year, my Beloved Cowboys were playing the Hated Redskins. I couldn't miss that!

There was just one thing missing. Big Granddad, good Baptist preacher that he was, hadn't yet warmed to the idea of having a television in his home. That was a problem! I couldn't see any way around it. There was nothing to do but beg Dad's car keys and risk running down the Delco battery in his Chevrolet listening to the game on the radio.

Just when all things football seemed rather bleak to me, my two favorite ex-uncles ordered us older boys into their cars, along with Dad and Big Granddad.

"We're going to a motel to rent a room and watch the game," They declared to the women. I don't remember a single woman protesting. But if they had, it would have fallen on the deaf ears and disappearing backsides of we "men," for we were in full sprint toward the getaway cars. That motel room was small and its decor Spartan, at best. The TV was small, too, and the picture a bit grainy, as there was no cable; only a tall antenna that trembled slightly in the West Texas wind.

For nearly three quarters, it seemed my uncles had rented that room for nothing. The Cowboys were trailing those damned Redskins, 16-3. The mood was somber, but we reminded ourselves that Captain America (aka, Roger Staubach) was king of the miracle comeback, and as long as he was at the helm, all was not lost.

Then the unthinkable happened. Roger was knocked looney by those Redskin bastards. He had to come out of the game, and that lankey kid from Abiline Christian University, Clint Longley, was pressed into duty. What happened after would make this the greatest Thanksgiving Day game of all-time. Longley would lead the desperate Cowboys to three touchdowns, while the defense would yield just one more TD to the Redskins, and the Cowboys won, 24-23.

The play of the game, and one of the most dramatic plays in Cowboys' history, came with just 35 seconds left. It was second down, ten to go at midfield. The Dallas Morning News would record the event like this:

Just before the huddle broke Drew Pearson, who would naturally be the guy
Washington doubled, told Longley, "I'm going to fake inside and then go deep."
Pearson was supposed to go deep over the middle and hope. Faintly hope. But Drew
faked inside and Stone bit. Then he turned and started running with safety Brig
Owens and Stone straight for the goal line.

Longley calmly lofted the ball. Drew looked up and saw it and then got an
extra burst of speed and ran under the ball inside the goal line for a
touchdown. Rather a TOUCHDOWN!

Pandemonium ensued in that motel room. Pillows were flying. We were all whooping and hollering and hitting the ceiling. Not one of the men yelled at us boys for jumping on the bed. The Cowboys had won! We had watched them do it together.

All was right with the world.

I am thankful for the extended family that filled so much of my childhood with love and laughter. I am thankful for my two crazy ex-uncles, wherever they are today, for playing ping pong and backyard football with a couple of rotten, loud-mouthed kids, and then shelling out their hard-earned cash to make it possible for us to witness history. I am thankful for my dearly-departed Dad, who watched a sport he couldn't care less about to be with a son he loved entirely. I am thankful for a nation with the wisdom to be annually, and officially, thankful.

Today, I thank my God for precious memories, the ones made...and those in the making.

Happy Thanksgiving, you wonderful Americans (and, yes, that even includes you dirty Redskins fans.) May today find you in the presence of those you love the best, making memories of your own.

SUPER BOWL SATURDAY??? PLACE YOUR VOTE HERE

Playing the Super Bowl on a Saturday? Heresy, you say? No way? Not gonna happen?

Maybe not. But there is a small groundswell, an organized corps of hardcore fans, calling for the NFL to move the Big Game from Sunday to Saturday. They call themselves the FFU (which does not stand for Double FU, but for Football Fans United.) These folks have built themselves a website - superbowlsaturday.com - to get their message out and rally more troops to their cause.

While the mere suggestion seems to smack of something short of sacrilege, they do make some valid points to support their suggestion. Visit their site, study their arguments, and decide for yourself.

You can vote in a poll on their site...but I would love to hear your comments and get your vote here, too.

T.O Reminds Me To Be Angry For Bullet Bob

On Sunday, Terrell Owens caught four touchdown passes. With assists from Tony Romo and his offensive teammates, he beat the Washington Redskins 28-23. He also tied a thirty-seven year old Cowboys' record, held by the late, great "Bullet" Bob Hayes, for touchdowns caught in a single game.

He reminded us all of Hayes' legacy, and that reminded me to be pissed that the legendary speedster is not in the Hall of Fame.

Many ardent Cowboys' fans and more than a few writers will tell you there exists an anti-Cowboys bias in Hall of Fame voting. The conspiracy theory follows the logic that, while being in the NFC East is a boon to the Cowboys as far as keeping them on the national stage, it results in their being hated in the major eastern media markets. There are few things fans in Philly, New York, and DC hate more than the Dallas Cowboys. Has that hatred spilled over to the journalist keepers of the keys to the Hall of Fame?

Maybe. Who knows? You can certainly see a disparity between the number of great '70s Steelers, who won four Super Bowls, and the equally great '70s Cowboys, who competed in five Super Bowls, winning two. Rayfield Wright, without doubt one of the greatest offensive linemen of his day, had to wait until he was an old man to be inducted. Cliff Harris and Drew Pearson top the list of '70s Cowboy greats who still wait.

But there is no greater injustice in relation to Halls of Fame than Bob Hayes being shut out of Canton. He was a singular player. He was more than just the fastest man in the world at that time, he was a great receiver. He was the reason zone coverage was invented. He was a four-time All-Pro, who caught seventy-one touchdown passes in his career (and that was plenty for that era.) He changed the game, leaving an indelible mark upon it, and helped lift the Dallas Cowboys to the status of "great team."

Sure, he had off the field struggles with drugs. Back then, that was rare...and a big deal. It isn't any wonder that he had to wait. But how long must the NFL keep the man in Purgatory? They let him grow old, rot, and die without bestowing the honor he deserved. It is time to right that wrong. What he did off the field was wrong...and he paid. What he did on the field was extraordinary...so pay up! Give the man his due. Send his jersey to Canton and his soul to football heaven.

FOOTNOTES:

1. A 2005 Football Digest article places Hayes at the top of their list of men waiting to be enshrined.
2. Bob's Wikipedia page.
3. Hayes not on the 2008 list.

Forget the Patriots, The Dolphins May Be Perfect Yet Again

The NFL's super-annoying supermen, the '72 Miami Dolphins, have to be sweating rather profusely about now. For the first time since the near-miss of the '85 Bears, their status of sole perfection seems in real doubt. The Brady Bunch of New England appears intent on writing a little of their own history...and promptly relegating the aging smack-talkers to footnote status.

Meanwhile, the bigger story may be that the Dolphins franchise is currently on pace to set the other record of perfection. The same team that once went 17-0 may well go 0-16 in 2007. Their season of futility and frustration continued Sunday with their 17-7 loss to the Eagles.

Serves them right, though, really, doesn't it? They have been whipping everyone's ass with that '72 season long enough. Maybe this year the old coots from back when can invite the young bucks from the current team to their drinking party when and if the Patriots finally do stumble along the way. They can escape reality together. The old guys can continue to believe they were the greatest of all time (never mind that the current Patriots would destroy that long-overrated bunch of over-achievers by half a hundred points at least), while the young ones try to forget they are the worst.

In anticipation of the coming party, I propose this toast:

From winning without a loss to losing without a win,
You're as perfect now as you were back then.

Goooooo Raiders!

This is a funny video. A disappointed Sooner is trying to answer a reporter's questions to no avail...thanks to the "Goooooo Raiders" fan.

Texas Tech 34, OU 27 means the 'Horns have hope. Let's ALL repeat...

"GOOOO, Raiders!"

Being Barry Bonds

What if you broke the most hallowed record in all of sports...and almost everyone was angry at you for doing it? What if you became the Fall Guy for a generation of drug abusers? What if you were arguably your generation's best in the sport you played, but had very little chance of making the Hall of Fame?What if you were Barry Bonds?

I know, you wouldn't be. You're too squeaky clean, too honorable, to committed to the integrity of your industry. You never cheated. Not on your taxes. Not on your wife. You never stepped outside the lines of propriety in order to get ahead. You never looked for that angle, however immoral or illegal, to give yourself a leg up on your competition.

Plenty have. Plenty have paid for it, too. They got their pink slip or their prison jumper for their troubles. So, you don't feel sorry for Barry Bonds. The guy could have been the least bit likeable and maybe this would never have happened. He could have stayed clean...or at least come clean when he was interrogated under oath. Jason Giambi did. He took his lumps for it, too. But he won't face prison time. Barry may.

I am in no way defending Barry Bonds. I'm not. But I refuse to celebrate the indictment of the man who is the face of a problem much greater than himself. He wasn't alone in his cheating. He wasn't the only one shooting up so he could bulk up. He was just the only one who did it while assaulting a hallowed record.

I imagine it isn't much fun, being Barry Bonds. I doubt it was a great deal of fun even when he was smashing the record-setting tater. Probably wasn't any fun when his achievement was mocked and an asterisk burned into the historic ball he hit out of the park. It was even less fun when he was served notice that a grand jury had indicted him.Being Barry Bonds has to be a pretty lonely feeling. But somebody had to be Barry. Somebody had to bring this house of cards tumbling down. Who knows where it will end? How many will be forced to own their mistakes, their duplicity, their cheating, their law-breaking?

Maybe...just maybe, this turns the tide. Or, maybe it at least stems the tide. Perhaps, at long last, the playing fields will be level again, and the athletes who do it the right way will have a crying chance. Maybe the madness will end...and we can all return to believing in Santa Claus, happy endings, and the integrity of professional sports.

If so, I will celebrate that.

But I will not celebrate the fall of Barry Bonds. Self-destruction is not a pretty thing. It isn't fun...or funny. It's just...sad.

Dear New Orleans: We've Moved On

We move on. Our capacity to care, to really care, about the plight of strangers knows its bounds. It's human nature, I think. No one of us can be deeply concerned about every issue facing every segment of humanity. We would implode, go into psychological and emotional meltdown.

And, so, we have moved on, most of us, from the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. The haunting images of the huddled masses in the Super Dome, of the decimated homes of the Ninth Ward, of the rusting, abandoned cars, and the hollow eyes of worn out victims are fading in our minds.

We have moved on to other things more pressing, closer to home. We are concerned with rising gas prices, falling property values, a teetering economy, an impending election.

I am sorry to say that I had moved on. I was there, in New Orleans, just ten days after the event that would forever change the face of the city. I stayed there, lived and worked there, for nine months...as an insurance adjustor. Every day during those long months, I dealt with devastated people and their decimated properties. I saw the incredible resilience of some. I saw others reach the breaking point. I hugged an older woman while she shuddered and wept over her lost life. I listened while a young mother ranted about how little was being done by the American government to help restore her beloved city. I talked with some who declared they would never go back there; they just couldn't. Others said they would never live anywhere else.

I was there and it felt like I would always be there, if not in body, then in spirit. I would never forget the sights, the sounds, the smells of that place. But here I am...I've moved on.

Thankfully, not everyone has. Some cannot. Dallas Mavericks coach Avery Johnson is one of those. He is a New Orleans native, and he is angry and frustrated at the lack of progress in the recovery and rebuilding of one of America's most unique and soulful cities. Can you blame him?

Me neither.

Read the Avery Johnson quotes as recorded by Phil Jasner of the Philadelphia Daily News here.

Read...and remember those who still cannot just move on.

An Open Christmas Card To Randy "Ebenezer" Galloway

How lonely it must be to live in Randy Galloway's world. The crusty old alleged sportswriter has made his living sniping at Jerry Jones and all things Cowboys-related for the past decade. Only God knows (because it is doubtful Galloway can remember that many stiff drinks ago) how many times he has called for Jerry to fire himself as General Manager. It has been a popular stance that no doubt sold more than a few papers for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram.

So, what does Mr. Negativity do now that there is so little about which to be negative? Well, he just looks a little deeper until he finds something. There aren't too many bad things you can say about a team that is 8-1, has yet to lose a road game, and has taken care of business on both sides of the ball. But if you look hard enough, you will always find something you can bitch about. And, if bitching is your thing, then that's just what you will do.

So, this week's Galloway column accuses the Cowboys of being good, but dumb. Certainly, the 'Boys took a couple of dumb penalties, especially the Kevin Burnett taunting penalty just before the half. That could have cost a lot more than the three points that immediately resulted from it. But it didn't. The Cowboys saw to it that it didn't by storming out to a comfortable second half lead and then cruising in with a relatively easy road victory.

Even Galloway reluctantly admits that the Cowboys, as currently constructed by his whipping post, owner and general manager Jerry Jones, are pretty darn good. Declares the surly, dried-up, marginally-talented sportswriter, "The NFC East is under new ownership." That difficult admission notwithstanding, Galloway continues to strike that lone, dissonant cord in a symphony of cheers.

So, join me in offering Season's Greetings to Dallas' very own Randy "Ebenezer Scrooge" Galloway:

Enjoy that lump of coal while the longsuffering Cowboys fans celebrate a bountiful Christmas for a change. Your bitching is nothing more than the faint, fading voice of the glassy-eyed Ghost of Christmas Past.

The Doubters Are Disappearing

The Tony Romo nay-sayers and doubters are dwindling, if not disappearing entirely, and they should be. When the 7-1 Dallas Cowboys faced off against the red-hot 6-2 New York Giants in Jersey on Sunday, the only tangible difference between the two teams was the QB position.

In every facet of the game, the Giants match up well with the Cowboys. Just take a look at each side of the ball.

Let's start with defense:

• Defensive line. You have to give the edge to the Giants. They have perhaps the most feared pass rush in the NFL.
• Linebackers. The edge here goes to Dallas, if for no other reason than DeMarcus Ware; although, James Brady and Greg Ellis are difference-makers, too.
• Secondary. This seems to be a wash. Both are capable of making and giving up big plays.

What about offense?

• Offensive line. Again, a wash. While Dallas' line is big, strong and effective, the Giants are no slouches. It seems whomever they line up at running back plays effectively, and they usually give Eli Manning more than ample time to read the defense and make plays.
• Receivers. Each team has an elite tight end, capable of taking over a game. Witten did it to the Giants in week one; Shockey did it to the Cowboys on Sunday. Each team has an elite receiver and a good package of complementary receivers.
• Running back. You might give the edge to the two-headed tandem of the Cowboys. But the Giants' backs run with power and authority and can chew up yardage and the clock while doing so.

How about special teams? Again, pretty much a wash. You have to give the Giants the edge in returns and kick coverage. The Cowboys have one of the best punters in the game, but so do the Giants. Both kickers are effective.

That leaves but one position to discuss: the quarterback. The Giants have Eli, their first-round franchise savior. He is a Manning, a blue-blood, a chip off of the NFL's royal QB family. The Cowboys counter with their undrafted free agent phenom. He hasn't the pedigree of a Manning. He wasn't the darling of his draft. In fact, he wasn't even a consideration in his draft. Seven times he was passed over by all thirty-two teams.

But you tell me, when the game is on the line and you need your field general to make one play or lead one drive to secure victory, which do you want? The blue-blood or the bloodhound? You want Eli with his deer-caught-in-the-headlights look or Romo with his possum-eating-peat-seed grin? You want the man who costs his team with indecisive play, leading to three delay of game penalties at home, for crying out loud, or the one who evades a sack, rushes toward the line of scrimmage, ducks a defender, and pops up to float a TD pass to the corner of the end zone?

Coaching aside, there was one difference between the Giants and the Cowboys on Sunday. One! The signal-caller. Go ahead and reserve judgment, sit on the fence, wait and see all you want. Jerry's money was well spent...and what he bought is worth every penny.

So, step back nonbelievers, for the rain will surely come!

Inspiration vs. Perspiration: Bloggin' On Empty

I heard a preacher or a writer or some sorta communicator type say that his work was "10% inspiration and 90% perspiration," and as a professional (who acts like an amateur) communicator myself, I thought, "Well, that sucks." I have since learned what the fellow, whose face and name I cannot for the life of me recall, meant.

Sometimes, it just doesn't flow. You sit in your chair beneath the glow of the 60 watt overhead bulbs and the whir of the ceiling fan you ought to be dusting...and stare at the softly lit computer screen with nothing to say. But you're a blogger. You have millions - or maybe a half-dozen - people waiting with bated breath to read what you write. You have to say something, don't you?

So, you reach way down deep into your soul, feel around in there, and find it empty. You rack your brain and find that hurts almost as much as racking your balls. Nothing in your heart. Nothing on your mind. So what do you do?

Do you do what I just did? Do you write anyway...about nothing and hope it flies? Or do you walk away and live to fight another day? I guess it depends on your work ethic. When inspiration is nowhere to be found, perspiration is bound to result.

So, there you have it, my fellow blogger: my advice when you are bloggin' on empty. Write anyway. Write away. Write now.

PS- I know this is a sports blog and it appears at first blush that this post has nothing whatever to do with sports. Look closer! I referenced racking balls, which, in its original context, is a billiards term. That's a sport. Right?

Mighty Mo Owns Texas

Look, this is Texas. In the summer, we rival Hell for heat, and beat the h-e-double L outta Hell for mosquitos and chiggers (well, the chigger thing is mostly east Texas, but rattlesnakes and Mesquite thorns make up for their absence in west Texas.) In the winter, we get just enough freezing rain every year to challenge our ability to drive our SUVs 70 everywhere we go. We like our trucks monster size, our women hot, and our sports, well, football. This is not hockey country.

Every other sport is judged against the national sport of Texas. Basketball is fine once football season is over. At least it keeps us from having to watch American Idol with our wives. Baseball is ok, too, except the Rangers suck and the Astros are in Houston, and Houston sucks. But football! Football is king. Churches plan big days around the great game. Pastors cut sermons short and some churches have even decided Sunday evening services are superfluous, I am convinced, because people get suspicious when the preacher calls in sick every time the Cowboys play a late game.

Texans' three favorite sports are Cowboys football, high school football, and either Longhorns or Aggies football (depending on whether you prefer gay military cheers and girls that look like goats or the classy confines of Austin town and super-cool stylings of Burnt Orange-and-White.) We grew up playing football anywhere and everywhere we could, from asphalt streets to gravel pits. What we did not grow up doing was playing hockey. The only ice we could find was in the fridge or the cold stare we got when we dared approach the homecoming queen with a date proposition. We didn't play hockey. We didn't watch hockey. And we didn't see how any right thinking person could call Wayne Gresky "The Great One" when he never even met Bob Lilly, let alone got his ass tackled by him.

Enter Mike Modano. When the Minnesota NHL franchise decided to head south and introduce Dallas/Fort Worth to hockey, they had one ace in the hole...Mighty Mo. Singlehandedly, Modano made fans of us all. He showed us that grace, class, toughness, and speed could be demonstrated somewhere other than the gridiron. His rugged good looks and boyish grin made our women fans. His quiet voice, understated persona, and high profile female trophy bagging won over Generations X and Y. And his leadership style, his willingness to bite his tongue when mistreated by management, and get up and go again when clocked by a cheap shot won over the Baby Boomers and their parents.

Modano is our kinda guy, a Texan's Texan, even if he is from the frozen tundra of "up North." We forgive him all that. We embrace him. And we celebrate his new status as greatest American-born scorer of all freakin' time, baby!

Move over Roger. Make room, Troy. Time for Mike to join you.

Detroit Journalist Rips On Bloggers

This McCosky guy is just way too proud of his pedestrian journalist gig. He hates bloggers and their blogs, but he says he respects the American idea of everyone having an opinion. How magnanimous! What a pompous ass(hole)!

Truth be told, he is likely just smarting over the fact that he and his craft are becoming more and more marginalized, and enjoying less and less "celebrity" status. He is having to learn to live with the notion that any asshole with one eye, half a brain, and a marginal command of the language can do his job.

All of that and he has to live in Detroit. I'd be pissed, too.

Poor fellow.

Why The Eagles Wear Green

There are few things more annoying than Philadelphia Eagles fans. Not only are they obnoxious, they are annoyingly delusional. They tell themselves they have a legitimate reason to scorn the Dallas Cowboys and belittle their fandom. They point to recent years, which have featured some very nice Eagles teams and some admittedly atrocious Cowboys' squads and squawk about superiority. The trouble with all of this is that, historically, the Philadelphia Eagles are little more than a pedestrian pro football franchise that has enjoyed marginal success and has floundered much more than it has thrived.



Consider some comparative facts regarding the Eagles and the Cowboys:

• The Eagles have won three NFL Championships, all of which predate the merger and the Super Bowl. They won them in 1947, 48 and 60. The Eagles have managed two trips to the Super Bowl. They are 0-2 in the big game. The Cowboys organization was not founded until 1960, yet they have represented their conference eight times (an NFL high) in the Super Bowl, winning it five times, tying them with the 49ers and Steelers for the most Super Bowl wins by a franchise.


• The Eagles have been to the playoffs twenty times in their sixty year history, or 33% of the time. Their post-season record is 17-17 and they are below .500 in regular season wins and losses with an all-time record of 474-521-25. Conversely, the Cowboys have been to the playoffs 28 times since 1960, or 61% of the time. their playoff record is 32-23, and in the regular season, they have posted a stellar record of 408-300-6.


• Furthermore, despite the recent relative success of the Iggles against the Cowboys, the all-time head-to-head record favors Dallas: 52-41.

There is no doubt the Eagles fans hate the Cowboys, and with good reason. They hate them the way any fan of any team hates the team that is everything they wish their team could be. Meanwhile, the Cowboys' fans can barely muster the interest to hate the Eagles. They have other fish to fry, like the Redskins and the Giants, whom they detest at least as much, if not more. I don't blame Eagles fans for feeling the way they do. I just wish you could find one that is honest and rational enough to admit that the "Cowgirls" are a pretty damn good sports franchise.

It was great fun last Sunday night seeing the defeated look on the faces of the dozen or so fans who took their humiliating 38-10 defeat at the hands of the hated Cowboys like men and stayed in the stands to the bitter end.

I doubt a single Eagles fan will ever admit anything good can come out of Dallas, but at least when they wear their team colors, there is honesty in that.

You know they have to be green with envy.

Jamaal Charles Is Real Fun

Two weeks running, the Texas Longhorns have won in dramatic fashion with unlikely back-to-back comebacks. A week ago against Nebraska, the comeback was made possible by a 216-yard, three touchdown fourth quarter performance by tailback Jamaal Charles. Yesterday, against the Oklahoma State Cowboys, Charles went off for over a hundred yards and two touchdowns in the fourth quarter, fueling a 21-point come-from-behind win.

Twice in yesterday's game, the 'Horns fell behind by 21 points. They started the contest by digging themselves a 21-0 hole, managing to close the gap to 28-14 by half. In the third quarter, the porous Texas D gave up another big touchdown to make it 35-14, and that is where the score stood going into the final stanza. That's when the Texas defense woke up and began to get some stops and the Texas offense unleashed Hell's fury on the poor Cowboys (Hell's fury being, of course, Jamaal Charles.)

One could argue that if Texas were the elite team many thought they would be at the beginning of the year, they wouldn't have to keep pulling rabbits out of hats and wins out of their butts to defeat pedestrian programs like OK State and lowly Nebraska. But maybe it is time for the Longhorn Nation to realize that they are what the are: not quite as good as last year, and not remotely as good as two years ago, when they hoisted the National Championship trophy.

This Texas team had to replace nine players who last year wore burnt orange and white and this year populate NFL rosters. Filling the holes they left is no small order. It stands to reason, doesn't it, that this might be a rebuilding year? And if you can win, say, ten games and get a nice bowl victory in a down year, what's wrong with that?

Whatever the outcome of the final weeks, it has been some fun watching the rise of the most electric Texas tailback since Ricky "Bag O' Weed" Williams. It's been real, and it's been fun. Might even say, if Charles keeps this up, it's been real fun.

Dear Dave, All Athletes Are Not Created Equal

Someone please check Dave Tippett for fever. Surely, he is delirious. How else do you explain demoting the man who is not just your best player, but your only true superstar, and the face of your franchise to the fourth line? That ought to be a fireable (is that a word?) offense!

Lookit. This notion that all athletes are created equal is just poppycock. We all know better. There are the worker bees, the stars, the superstars, and the transcendent athletes. Mike Modano, arguably the greatest American-born offensive player in NHL history, is, for the Dallas Stars at least, a transcendent player.

Whenever the Stars do a radio spot or a TV spot or a billboard, who do you think they feature? When they take a prospective free agent to dinner, which player do you think they assign to schmooze with him? When they are trying to pump up season ticket sales, who do you think they promote? Mighty Mo is more than a nice player. He is the heart and soul of that team.

It was insulting enough a couple years ago when they ripped the "C" off his chest. Now, they decide to send him a "message" by demoting him? Moronic. And that excuse about putting him down there to work on his game is just as lame. How does a scorer improve his scoring by skating with a couple guys who are barely good enough to make the ice at that level?

You don't put Joe Montana on the scout team. You don't make Walter Payton or Michael Jordan come off the bench. And you don't friggin' send Mike Modano to the fourth line. And if you do...you should be a) fired, b) closely examined, and c) committed to the loony bin.

Good thing no one in Dallas really gives a damn about hockey anyway.