On my way home from work this morning I stopped at the grocery store and pushed the cart up and down the aisles, picking up items for this evening’s dinner. This is one of the local stores that has a promotional deal with the Dallas Cowboys and I slowed down a bit on my way from the produce department to the meat cases to check out the jerseys, hats, cups and other stuff stamped with the big silver and blue star.
When I caught myself being a bit disappointed to find no shirts or jerseys in my size it hit me:
I’m a Dallas Cowboys fan.
I hail from Northern California where the NFL is represented in 49ers red and gold. I was a fan during the Bill Walsh – Joe Montana – Jerry Rice days but that was a long time ago and by the late 1980s my attentions had drifted from sports to country music, home, hearth and career.
I arrived in Dallas nearly four years ago. From the beginning I was very happy to be a Texan but sports is a passion of youth and you don’t just shrug off those early years of your life easily. Still, living and working in Dallas radio it became a job necessity to learn what I could about the Cowboys so that I could speak halfway intelligently about Jerry, Jason, Tony, Dez and the rest of the Boys.
While doing my homework I caught the fever.
I’m a Dallas Cowboys fan and the 2015-2016 season starts Sunday night.
Suddenly I am wrapped up again in the angst I shook off years ago when things started to go south for “my” 49ers. I vowed I would never care so much again. The excitement of a win is too short, a loss is painful too long. That was fine when I was a kid and in my twenties but now I’m 64 and in most matters I have graduated from the emotional roller coaster of my youth to a steady, consistent age of clear-headed wisdom and patience.
Damn you, Cowboys. Don’t break my heart.
