I was six years old when my Uncle Daryle began drilling me on Dallas Cowboys’ names and numbers. Whenever our families would get together, usually on holidays or random summer trips to visit them in San Antonio, the Dallas Cowboys would ultimately become a topic of discussion. The tales of gridiron heroics had me dreaming of one day wearing a star on my helmet, of playing the world’s greatest game for the world’s greatest team.
If it wasn’t Uncle Daryle, it was Uncle Gary, both of them uncles by marriage, and neither of them around anymore. They were better Cowboys fans than they were husbands, so they got themselves kicked to the curb, but before they did, they helped burn the storied Dallas Cowboys’ star into my medulla.
I have rarely missed a game since. From the Hail Mary heroics of Roger Staubach and Drew Pearson to the unbelievable Thanksgiving Day play of the one-hit wonder, the Mad Bomber, Clint Longley, to the Tony Dorsett Monday night 99-yard dash into the history books to the three Super Bowl wins of the Triplets and their compadres, I have been there, cheering my lungs out, sweating bullets, bleeding silver and blue.