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.

Is He Really All That? We'll See...

Somewhere there is a thin, nearly-invisible, not always discernible line between confident and cocky. The new Rangers' skipper dances all over it. To hear him talk, he is a baseball man par excellence, a players' manager, a winner, and just what the doctor ordered for an anemic club that has spent the past four years being brow-beaten by the Buckaroo.

This is the time when expectations are set. It is certainly necessary to set the bar high. We want the team manager to be positive, upbeat, demanding, and expectant. Ron Washington has certainly been all of those things...and more. In his radio and TV interviews he has not been one bit hesitant to tout his abilities as a baseball man. He has done everything but say he "floats like a butterfly and stings like a bee."

I like what I hear from him...with slight reservations. I keep remembering how my daddy taught me the concept of "under-sell and over-deliver." It's a solid philosophy, too. No one (with the possible exception of Jimmy Johnson) ever got run out of town for exceeding expectations. Plenty have seen their careers end prematurely or had to take their show on the road because they couldn't deliver.

The Rangers' organization has chronically under-delivered. Only one manager in their history ever took this team to the playoffs. Now we have this rookie manager selling himself pretty hard. But the proof will be in the pudding. The product he puts on the field will ultimately confirm or disprove his genius.

I am tired. I am tired of the promise of Spring fading into the harsh reality of Fall. I am tired of giving up on baseball as soon as Cowboys' training camp starts. I am tired of ho-hum teams and so-so seasons. And I am ready to believe. I am ready to buy into the swagger of a man who believes in himself.

Washington wowed Hicks and Daniels. They put all their baseballs in this guy's basket.
Here's hoping they didn't lay an egg. Here's hoping he really is all that...and a bag of chips.

Spags Fawns Over Woody

When your check is cut by Jerry Jones, you don't have to be a homer, but you have to enjoy home cooking. Mickey Spagnola certainly does. His Cowboys-tinted glasses makes the football field all silver and blue. Anyone who has read his columns or listened to his "Ranch Reports" on the Ticket knows that.

That's ok with us. We're homers too. We know it. We admit. We love it.

We also love the love the Mick gives Darren Woodson in his recent dallascowboys.com column. Without specifically calling Roy Williams out or overtly pointing the finger at the Parcells regime and yelling, "Dumbass!", Spags remembers the halcyon days when free safeties were interchangeable around here...all because of the versatility and football prowess of the great Darren Woodson.

You know the old adage about not knowing what you have until you don't anymore? Truth be told, we are all guilty of falling into that trap. These past couple of years, we have all known there was something missing in that Cowboys' secondary.

Mickey reminds us...it's not a what, it's a who.

Galloway is Right? The End Must Be Near

In a recent column, Galloway pointed out just how inept Dallas' so-called city leadership has been when it comes to dealing with just about everything sports-related. We could just say everything, period.

Galloway points out:

"The politicians over there (in Dallas) spent two years haggling with Jerry
about a stadium deal that never got off the table.
Arlington city leaders
got it done in two weeks."

Galloway admitted to having made a living by blaming everything Cowboys on Jerry Jones, but he lays the blame for the Cowboys slipping through Dallas' fingers on the right doorstep. He also accurately points out that it isn't the first time Dallas has lost the battle to keep the 'Boys. They lost them to Irving the first time. Says Randy,

In Dallas, they blame Jones for their failure. Lord knows, I understand the
sentiment. I've made a decent living over the years by blaming Jones for all
things Cowboy.
But four decades ago, different city leaders in Dallas and a
different owner of the Cowboys also disagreed over a new stadium issue. The late
Clint Murchison heard laughs when he said he'd move the team out of the city.
There was no laughing in 1971. That's when Texas Stadium opened in Irving.
But now it's a CYB mentality in Dallas. Cover Your Butt. Blame Jones. And
blame Arlington city leaders for caving in to Jones. Right, Laura Miller.

So, Randy got it right. I guess if you throw enough crap against the wall, something has to stick, right? Check out his full article here.