Texans 19

Cowgirls 10

It was around the middle of the fourth quarter that I noticed a definite change in the sound effects over my right shoulder.
During the whole game, I didn’t want to turn around and make eye contact with the guy sitting behind me. I could heard him loud and clear. I didn’t need to look. He was a Cowboy fan, one of the millions who populate the land, probably not much different than all the other Cowboy fans I’ve come across over the years in every place I’ve ever lived.
Probably in a Troy Aikman jersey with some Deion Sanders wrist bands on for good measure. Maybe he had a Dallas star painted on his mug, but I didn’t want to look. I could hear him just fine.
But when I no longer heard him bellowing for his Boys, oh somewhere around the 8 minute mark in the last quarter, I went ahead and took a peek behind me. The chair was empty. He was gone.
I turned to the burly bearded guy seated to my right.
“Can you believe we’re ahead?” I asked.
He paused and thought a moment.
“No, I really can’t.”

Earlier in the week, I tried to prepare Scooter, my wife and assistant, for what was to come.
“We have three starters on the offensive line who aren’t going to play. I just hope it’s not a blowout.”
“So we’re not supposed to win?”
“No.”
In my Fantasy Football League, I picked Dallas as my defense. They’ll shut down the Texans’ offense. But maybe it’ll be a decent game.
The outcome demonstrates why it’s crazy to bet on the NFL. Anything can happen. And it did.


We were the first through the doors at the East Club entrance of Reliant Stadium yesterday.
We’re Number One! We’re Number One!
We got there at 4 o’clock, fearful of traffic jams, and walked in about 4:30.
Time to kill?
No problem.
You want sushi?
They’ve got sushi.
A piece of meat from Outback Steakhouse?
No problem.
California rolls?
Sure.
Imported beer?
Belly up.
David Carr bobblehead doll?
A must-have for the true fan.
The Club Level carpet has little outlines of the State of Texas and there are plenty of urinals for all.

Some players were warming up on the field a full two hours before kickoff.
A couple of the Cowboys were attached by what appeared to be a bungee cord-type device. One would run down the field, stretching the cord, while the other provided resistance.
Damn that Cowboy innovation!
Why don’t we have one of those?
But our eyes were drawn to someone else on the field. Cowboys Owner Jerry Jones, newly retooled with a facelift and what must be a rigorous workout regimen, was on the field, dressed in a dark suit. He looked awfully thin. He appeared to be talking into a small microphone at times. Dictating his memoirs?
He was followed everywhere by a photographer. These are, after all, moments to remember.
He walked across the field to greet Texans quarterback David Carr. Pictures were taken.
He confided with some his players. Click-click.
He schmoozed with a video crew, probably from NFL Films, who followed him around.
He walked along the edge of the field and shook hands with fans.
Never far away was his son Steven, a Cowboys executive, who followed his pop everywhere, because, after all, the owner of America’s Team may need a Gatorade at any moment.
What a guy.
“What a pinhead,” said the burly bearded guy seated beside me.

Signs in the crowd:
“The Cowboys Need A Facelift.”
“Mamas Don’t Let Your Texans Grow Up To Be Cowboys.”
“Thanks Bob.”

We can’t invoke the time-honored journalistic phrase “when the smoke cleared,” since the residue from the half-time fireworks never really did thanks to the closed stadium roof. But when the game was over thousands of happy people trooped out of Reliant Stadium chanting, waving their free Texans towels, deliriously happy, secure in the knowledge that their team had won “the Texas Super Bowl,” as Gov. Rick Perry dubbed it during pregame ceremonies.
Yet, amid the chorus, there was an offkey note.
“Two Thousand Thirty, first playoff game. Two thousand thirty, first playoff game.”
He was a Cowboy fan, a little drunk, telling all within earshot that Houston’s new team wouldn’t make the playoffs until the year 2030.
He was from Fort Worth, explained his brother, a Houston resident. He was upset, he said.
We don’t think he was the guy seated behind us, but we can’t be sure.