My Dearest Wade,
I have noticed how giddy you have been during our alone time lately. It warms my heart to see you so happy…especially at Christmas.
I know you had hoped to find a contract extension in your stocking. Please don’t think I am a Grinch for not putting it there. Besides, everybody loves an Applebee’s gift card. Take your lovely family out to dinner there on me and have a nice fat, juicy steak for yourself. You deserve it.
I cannot express how much it means to me to have beaten the previously undefeated Saints. They were just way too full of themselves. It was especially sweet because that coach, whats-his-name, the one who used to languish anonymously on our staff when Purcells (I know it is PAR·cells, but I always said it pur·CELLS, just to tick off the overrated Tuna) was making me and everybody else around here miserable as heck.
Isn’t it just wonderful how that smug SOB has his team under .500 and set to miss the playoffs and that little Tuna Helper up there in the Big Easy—and it was easy, wasn’t it? Like taking candy from a baby—getting knocked off his “I’m a football genius” pedestal?
But, anyways. I digress. Back to your giddiness. I know you heard my interview with the Sunday Night Football bunch and got all excited. I know you think it means that an extension of your contract is inevitable. But did you really listen to what I said? Did you hear what I didn’t say?
Let me remind you of my words:
“When I look at our team and I look where our needs are and where our input needs to be, I like Wade Phillips’ skills there. I just want for him and for our Cowboys fans to culminate in a Super Bowl run.
“There’s nothing in me right now that wants to make a coaching change, that thinks we need to make a coaching change. I want that feeling ratified by some success and we’re at the cusp, maybe, of being able to have it.”
So, yes, my dear Wade, I did confess my love for you.
Of course I like having you for my coach. You don’t suck like Chan Gailey or Dave Campo. You aren’t disinterested like Barry Switzer. You know football, but you don’t insist on actually being the coach the way Jimmy Johnson and Bill Parcells did. You are perfect for me. You let me be the coach when I want to be, but never call attention to the fact I am doing it. You…complete me.
I love you, Wade. But even love has its limits.
You will note in my words that I said I wanted this thing to “culminate (get your mind out of the gutter) in a Super Bowl run,” and I mean it. I say it is for the fans, but you know it is really for me. My legacy is in danger. Those three Super Bowls in the nineties, and all the goodwill they bought me, are no longer enough currency to stave off a mutiny if we don’t win a playoff game soon. You hear me, Wade? A Playoff game, damn you!
No more of this “well, we finished in the top eight” crap, either. You make yourself look like a loser and an idiot and that hurts me, because it makes me look like a fool for loving you.
Am I a fool, Wade? I don’t think so. I want this feeling ratified. Justify my love, Wade. Gratify my ego, Wade. Satisfy our fans, Wade.
Or, we are through.
Happy New Year.
Your Biggest (and sometimes only) Fan,