It took less than 30 minutes of football-watching to ruin my Sunday … and the rest of my whole damn week. I didn’t make it to the second quarter of that Cowboys/Saints debacle before I was on the verge of splintering my flatscreen with an expert boomerang remote fling, crying into one of the too-many pillows my wife keeps on the couch, and draining the liquid gold contents of a whiskey bottle all before your Nanna was even home from church. It was a particularly difficult challenge for someone trying (to varying degrees of success) to live that N/A life. To my credit, despite my despair at the catastrophic events transpiring on my television — made all the worse by the robotic head-voice broadcast analysis from an insufferable NFL legend (seems we finally found something football-related that Tom Brady sucks at) — I persevered. Another such effort from the Cowboys, and my liver might not be so lucky.
In the midst of that mayhem, just seven days removed from the euphoria of a decisive road win over the Browns, an all-too-familiar feeling suddenly crept over me. On the first play of their second drive, Saints quarterback Derek Carr hit a streaking Rashid Shaheed for a 70-yard bomb resulting in their second touchdown in as many drives, and I just knew. Here we go again. New Orleans would eventually score six consecutive touchdowns en route to a 44-19 drumming in Dallas’ first home game of the year. It was a near-exact replay of the Wild Card game against the Packers just eight months ago. Or the Bills game in Week 15 of last year. Or the 49ers game in Week 5. Or the Cardinals game in Week 3 before that. The script is the same: Their opponent runs the ball down their throats, their wide receivers run free into blue whale bite-sized chunk plays/touchdowns, the defense offers no resistance whatsoever, then Dak Prescott makes an error or two in a failed too-late comeback attempt, shoulders all the blame, and further denigrates himself in the eyes of the Cowboys faithful. Rinse and Repeat.
That sudden feeling that came over me? It can best be defined as simply that of being a Cowboys fan. That baseline sense of frustration, hopelessness, and embarrassment that clings to every facet of this organization like the stench of mildew on your skin after drying with a towel that didn’t make it into the dryer in time.
Can’t say exactly why, but the feeling snuck up on me. Normally, it’s an ever-present drone like the buzz of halogen gas in office lighting or that nagging voice in your head that gives you daily affirmations like, “Put the donut down, fat ass,” “She’s too young for you,” and “All of your creative efforts are banal, childish, and a waste of the world’s time.” But leading up to this season, it had been suspiciously silent. Perhaps my sports bandwidth has been too preoccupied with other area teams’ successes. A Rangers World Series Championship, a Mavs NBA Finals appearance, and the Stars’ second consecutive Western Conference Finals appearance over the last year might have gone a long way toward dulling that din. Maybe it was the lackluster offseason that saw Jerry Jones’ focused-on-anything-but-football front office address exactly zero of the issues that led to Dallas’ doors being blown off time and again. Perhaps I’d just grown numb to it. Like the sound of a passing train when you live near the tracks, you eventually learn to sleep through it.
Whatever the reason, it took me by surprise. It’s here now, and, apparently, it’s here to stay. Just as every superhero needs a villain for them to exist, I apparently need the constant aggravation of Cowboys fandom to make it through the fall.
As has been the case, it’s not the loss that stings but rather the manner in which it happened. There’s seemingly no such thing as a horseshoes-and-hand grenades game with this club, which is to say, close but no stogie. Jerruh’s boys are masters of the bait and switch. They’ll absolutely laugh one team off the field one week, only to get equally demolished by their opponent the week following. When the Silver and Blue suit up, you can almost guarantee it’ll be a blowout. But which way? That’s the fun, I guess. My sanity, and my blood pressure, would appreciate a good old-fashioned loss on a last-minute field goal. Such is not the Cowboy way. Your emotions must be careened up and down and back and forth with the callous ferocity of a mid-’70s Six Flags roller coaster. Because I am conditioned no other way, I’m always on the ride.
So, come along, Cowboys faithful. The Ravens come to town next week and are followed by a tilt with the hapless Giants. Let’s see just how much whiplash your spinal column can take.
