The world is held hostage by old rich guys. Whether in government, at the pulpit, or at the head of giant corporations, human progress seems to be paralyzed by the hubris of powerful and aging men infatuated with their self-inflated genius continuing to bend the world to arcane worldviews — visions of the way things should be done that were dubious decades ago but are certainly inapplicable to the present day, progress stalled by insatiable egos, inexhaustible means, and rapid cognitive decline.
There are areas under these wealthy octogenarians’ control with much higher stakes, of course — one need look no further than the houses of Congress for this sobering reality — but the obstinance of the degenerating well-monied extends into the running of professional sports franchises as well. When it comes to misguided egoists in pro sports, the Dallas Cowboys organization is caught firmly under the thumb of the most intransigent fat cat of them all.
Jerral Wayne Jones turned 82 years old on Sunday. To celebrate, after yukking it up with fellow white-haired good ol’ boys Terry Bradshaw and Jimmy Johnson on the Fox pregame show (never avoiding a camera), the king took his throne in his suite high atop the cellular citadel of AT&T Stadium to survey his empire as his team hosted the Detroit Lions. In fitting tribute to their mighty monarch’s name day, the Cowboys presented their liege with the franchise’s worst home loss since Jones bought the team in 1989, a 47-9 curb-stomping, the worst of now four consecutive blowout losses at home for the ’Boys.
Detroit head coach and sentient protein shake Dan Campbell, obviously bent on revenge for the controversial final series that gave the Lions the L in the previous matchup between these two clubs last December, absolutely punked Jerry’s boys on the national stage, trolling Dallas with multiple trick plays, relentless physicality, and a seemingly madman determination to have an o-lineman score. In what has become a rinse/repeat game script, Dallas was bullied all over the field on both sides of the ball. An anemic and error-prone offensive output was only outdone by an even more futile defensive effort. Undisciplined. Impotent. Gutless. Soft. The Cowboys are the laughingstock of the NFL.
Jones has only himself to thank for the bloody B-Day Massacre. One or two such disasters could be considered outliers, but at this point, it’s no longer even a pattern. It is now the norm. It’s indicative of the general state of the team. There is no aspect of the current product on the field that isn’t a complete shambles. Head Coach Mike McCarthy’s offense is an ineffective Stone Age relic. The offensive line possesses the fortitude of wet single-ply toilet paper, making former MVP runner-up Dak Prescott see ghosts in the backfield and regress to a 2017-era performance, and the practice squad-level running back corps gets tackled behind the line of scrimmage as often as they manage to carry the ball beyond it. This gummy bear-soft defense couldn’t stop a wingless gnat from gaining 15 yards per play and hasn’t shown any indication of a desire to do so. It’s as ugly as it’s ever been, and responsibility for the entire quagmire lays solely at Jerry’s $17,000 ostrich skins.
Jones possesses an Ahab-like obsession, and his white whale is the dream of being seen as a “football guy.” He wants desperately to be seen as a great team-building mind, an architect of football greatness. Yet his stubbornness, intractability, and Trump-ian inability to admit failure continues to be the thing that dooms the Cowboys’ Pequod to being perennially pulled under the waves.
The irony is that to find the adulation he craves, he need simply turn talent acquisition over to a dedicated general manager, one who might be more motivated by his own job security than the latest sponsorship deal or red state-appeasing Thanksgiving halftime show performer, one who would be held to account for their misses as well as lauded for their hits, a structure that, at present, is woefully absent in this organization. This week has seen an increasingly media-combative Jones not only shrug off fair criticisms for his mishandling of this year’s roster but defiantly demand credit for “the rights” he feels he’s achieved in the same breath.
It’s this that is the main problem. The Cowboys are always so close to being really good without actually being very good that Jones and his nepotistic band of cohorts have just enough reassurance to make them believe they’re doing everything right. They’re never bad enough for them to question their approach. That is, until now.
This current iteration looks like it could be the worst Cowboys team in a decade. I have little faith, however, that the front office will see it the same. The defense is decimated by injury, which will give Jerry et al. a misguided pass for their poor play. The O-line is young (and, in Zack Martin’s case, old). Surely, they will improve as the season goes. Then the running game will open up. Dak will resume Superman status, and all will be well. Hell, they’re only one game out of first place in their division …
So, Ahab will keep chasing Moby Dick, and we’ll all continue to go down with the ship.
