hitting in full pads beneath a frigid rainstorm. Says center Mark Stepnoski: “I was sitting there thinking, There’s a lot I don’t know about pro football. But I know this is fuckin’ stupid. Right now Philly is on a plane—they’re on a nice, warm, dry plane and they’re taking the whole day off except for meetings. And we’re sitting out here in freezing-cold rain hitting in full pads. You know what? We’re gonna get our asses kicked.” The Eagles not only won, 27–0, but left the Cowboys looking foolish. In his postgame press conference, a red-faced Johnson insisted that Philadelphia coach Buddy Ryan had placed a bounty on the heads of Aikman and kicker Luis Zendejas.
Was the charge correct? Sort of. Ryan had indeed offered money to any Eagle able to knock out either of the two Cowboys. But it was little more than a cheesy motivational tool—hardly different from Johnson’s having his players soak in the cold rain for two hours. In the end, Johnson appeared whiny and unprofessional. Two weeks later, as the Cowboys exited Veterans Stadium after another loss to the Eagles, he was pelted by an onslaught of snowballs and batteries. “If you’re going to have snow in the stands,” Ryan said with a dismissive shrug, “they’ll throw snowballs.”
It was that kind of year.
In the final contest of the regular season, Johnson’s Cowboys fell to the Packers, 20–10, for their fifteenth loss. Wrote Randy Galloway of the Dallas Morning News: “Sunday’s futile finish for the Cowboys was an appropriate ending to a season that set back a 30-year-old franchise 30 years.” Some fifteen hundred miles away, Tom Landry, a guestof Giants owner Wellington Mara at the New York–Los Angeles Raiders game, was asked to assess his old team. “Well, I wouldn’t start a rookie quarterback right off—you take a chance on ruining him,” said Landry. “And I’d never have traded Herschel.”
The contrast was remarkable.
In New York, Landry was relaxing comfortably in Mara’s luxury suite.
In Dallas, the Texas Stadium toilets had frozen.
Chapter 7
WELCOME TO THE EMMITT ZONE
Emmitt was a football messiah, delivered to Dallas by the gods of the game.
—Dennis McKinnon, Cowboys wide receiver
A S HIS CAREER progressed and Emmitt Smith went on to become one of the great running backs in the history of the National Football League, different people recall different things.
For opposing tacklers, it is Smith’s crowbar stiff-arms and incomparable resiliency.
For coaches, it is Smith’s churning legs that refused to stop, refused to slow down.
For marketers, it is his fluorescent smile.
For buddies, it is his obsession with dominoes.
For teammates, it is the outfit.
The world’s ugliest outfit.
All these years later, the memory sticks like batter to a sizzling pan. Though Smith now owns a closet stuffed with some of the trendiest threads this side of Santo Versace, it makes little difference. The outfit is Emmitt Smith. Emmitt Smith is the outfit.
“I saw what he was wearing,” recalls Richard Howell, Smith’s agent at the time, “and I just thought, Emmitt, what in the world…”
Keep in mind, the year was 1990, when big, colorful Cosby Show sweaters were still en vogue and larger-than-life men like Rob Van Winkle (Vanilla Ice) and Stanley Burrell (MC Hammer) were sporting pants the size of jumbo tents.
But, really, what in God’s name was Emmitt Smith thinking?
As he walked toward the podium in a Valley Ranch conference room, reporters and photographers looked at Smith and snickered. His bright purple shorts and matching vest were sprinkled with gold polka dots. His T-shirt was the hue of a box of Sun-Maid Golden Raisins. He wore black loafers on his feet, minus socks. A white Cowboys cap adorned his head.
The date was April 22, 1990, and this was Emmitt Smith’s introductory NFL press conference.
“You don’t walk up in no professional organization in no polka-dotted two-piece short set
Was the charge correct? Sort of. Ryan had indeed offered money to any Eagle able to knock out either of the two Cowboys. But it was little more than a cheesy motivational tool—hardly different from Johnson’s having his players soak in the cold rain for two hours. In the end, Johnson appeared whiny and unprofessional. Two weeks later, as the Cowboys exited Veterans Stadium after another loss to the Eagles, he was pelted by an onslaught of snowballs and batteries. “If you’re going to have snow in the stands,” Ryan said with a dismissive shrug, “they’ll throw snowballs.”
It was that kind of year.
In the final contest of the regular season, Johnson’s Cowboys fell to the Packers, 20–10, for their fifteenth loss. Wrote Randy Galloway of the Dallas Morning News: “Sunday’s futile finish for the Cowboys was an appropriate ending to a season that set back a 30-year-old franchise 30 years.” Some fifteen hundred miles away, Tom Landry, a guestof Giants owner Wellington Mara at the New York–Los Angeles Raiders game, was asked to assess his old team. “Well, I wouldn’t start a rookie quarterback right off—you take a chance on ruining him,” said Landry. “And I’d never have traded Herschel.”
The contrast was remarkable.
In New York, Landry was relaxing comfortably in Mara’s luxury suite.
In Dallas, the Texas Stadium toilets had frozen.
Chapter 7
WELCOME TO THE EMMITT ZONE
Emmitt was a football messiah, delivered to Dallas by the gods of the game.
—Dennis McKinnon, Cowboys wide receiver
A S HIS CAREER progressed and Emmitt Smith went on to become one of the great running backs in the history of the National Football League, different people recall different things.
For opposing tacklers, it is Smith’s crowbar stiff-arms and incomparable resiliency.
For coaches, it is Smith’s churning legs that refused to stop, refused to slow down.
For marketers, it is his fluorescent smile.
For buddies, it is his obsession with dominoes.
For teammates, it is the outfit.
The world’s ugliest outfit.
All these years later, the memory sticks like batter to a sizzling pan. Though Smith now owns a closet stuffed with some of the trendiest threads this side of Santo Versace, it makes little difference. The outfit is Emmitt Smith. Emmitt Smith is the outfit.
“I saw what he was wearing,” recalls Richard Howell, Smith’s agent at the time, “and I just thought, Emmitt, what in the world…”
Keep in mind, the year was 1990, when big, colorful Cosby Show sweaters were still en vogue and larger-than-life men like Rob Van Winkle (Vanilla Ice) and Stanley Burrell (MC Hammer) were sporting pants the size of jumbo tents.
But, really, what in God’s name was Emmitt Smith thinking?
As he walked toward the podium in a Valley Ranch conference room, reporters and photographers looked at Smith and snickered. His bright purple shorts and matching vest were sprinkled with gold polka dots. His T-shirt was the hue of a box of Sun-Maid Golden Raisins. He wore black loafers on his feet, minus socks. A white Cowboys cap adorned his head.
The date was April 22, 1990, and this was Emmitt Smith’s introductory NFL press conference.
“You don’t walk up in no professional organization in no polka-dotted two-piece short set