“Truthfully, we weren’t that excited about Herschel Walker,” says Johnson. “I wanted a nifty back and he didn’t have that.”
One morning during a meeting of offensive coaches at Valley Ranch, Johnson charged into the conference room and made an announcement. “I’ve got a solution for the problem!” he said.
“What problem?” asked Hubbard Alexander, the team’s receivers coach.
“Our team,” said Johnson. “We have to make a big trade, and I know who we’re gonna put out there.”
The coaches started throwing out names.
“Michael Irvin.” Nope.
“Steve Walsh.” Nope.
“Jim Jeffcoat.” Nope.
“We’re gonna put big ol’ No. 34 on the board,” said Johnson. “We’re gonna trade Herschel Walker for picks and players, and we’re gonna make a killing.”
David Shula, the team’s offensive coordinator, was aghast. “But Jimmy,” he said, “he’s the only thing we’ve got.”
Johnson was unmoved. “Well,” he said, “we’re terrible with Herschel, we’ll be terrible without Herschel.”
Before long, Cleveland and Minnesota were battling one another for Walker’s services. The first nibble came from Browns GM Ernie Accorsi, who called Johnson and offered a package of draft picks. “I told Jerry that we had a deal on the table, but let’s see if we can do better,” says Johnson. He telephoned Mike Lynn, the Vikings’ GM, and informed him Walker was off the market—almost.
“We might have an interest,” Lynn said, playing coy.
“You might?” Johnson snickered. “Well, here’s the deal. We’ve got to respond to the offer we have by the end of the day. So if you’re interested, you’ll have to get back to us before then.”
Within forty minutes, Lynn faxed Johnson a proposal. “It’s good,” Johnson said. “But you’ve gotta do better.” When Lynn called back, he presented the Cowboys with a package that made Johnson’s extremities go numb. In exchange for Walker, the Cowboys’ third-and tenth-round draft picks in 1990, and their third-round draft pick in 1991, Minnesota would send Dallas its first-and second-round picks in 1990, ’91, and ’92, a third-round choice in 1992, and five players—running back Darrin Nelson, linebackers Jesse Solomon and David Howard, cornerback Issiac Holt, and defensive end Alex Stewart.
Bingo!
Before the trade was officially announced, Johnson approached Shula and said, “I’ve got good news and bad news.”
“Well,” said Shula, “what’s the good news?”
“The good news,” said Johnson, “is that we’re gonna be awesome.”
“What’s the bad news?” Shula asked.
Johnson squealed like a sorority girl: “I just traded Herschel Walker to make us awesome!”
Shula immediately searched for the nearest ledge.
“Herschel was all we had,” he says. “Everyone else was a bunch of nobodies.”
Like Shula and the majority of Cowboy fans (who tied up the organization’s phone lines for hours with blistering calls), the media was less than enamored. Wrote Mike Rabun of United Press International:
Let’s go over this one more time to make sure we’ve got it right. He was the most gifted athlete in the franchise’s 30-year history and other than Roger Staubach he was probably the most valuable. He was revered in the community, a popular link between the team and its fans during a time when most such links had already been severed. And yet the Dallas Cowboys paid Herschel Walker more than $1 million to pack his bags and leave town. They wanted him gone so bad they paid him to go away. And why on earth would they do that? The reason is cloaked in veils of fog and smoke—it is difficult to identify positively but enough teasing glimpses exist to cause the curious to seek the truth. Is Walker a Minnesota Viking simply because the Cowboys received so much for him they couldn’t turn down the deal? It just doesn’t wash.
Though Johnson (and, to a lesser extent, Jerry Jones) would eventually be hailed with pulling off the most lopsided trade in NFL history, 99 percent of the (dis) credit must go to Lynn, a nice man, a good dresser, and a lousy football executive. While the Cowboys viewed Walker as productive-yet-flawed, a wide-eyed Lynn envisioned the Herschel of Johnson County High barreling over hapless defenders. “Mike Lynn was a businessman, not a football guy,” says Ackles. “He didn’t talk to any of the Vikings’ personnel guys before making the trade, he didn’t consult [head coach] Jerry Burns. When those guys found out, they were livid.”
Had he sought the input of Burns, Vikings personnel administrators Jerry Reichow and Frank Gilliam, or any of the team’s players, Lynn would have been warned about selling the farm for a battered mule. “Herschel wasn’t a thousand-yard guy,” explains Lynn. “He was a fifteen-hundred-yard guy and he took magnificent care of himself. It just didn’t work out.”
Because of the uncommon complexity of the deal, media outlets initially reported that Dallas received five veterans and a couple of picks for Walker. In fact, each veteran player was assigned a draft value—Solomon a No. 1 in 1990; Howard a No. 1 in 1991; Nelson a No. 2 in 1991; Holt a No. 2 and 3 in 1992; Stewart a No. 2 in 1990. If any of the players were not on the Cowboys’ roster as of February 1, 1990, Johnson and Co. would receive the assigned conditional picks. Lynn, being—what’s the kind way to say this?—unwise, assumed Dallas would choose to hold on to the veterans. That fantasy vanished when Dallas immediately cut Stewart (“Looked like Tarzan, played like Jane,” says Ackles). “They outsmarted themselves,” says Johnson. “They sent us a bunch of guys they thought they could live without, thinking they were better than anything we had. Which they were. But it didn’t matter.”
Nelson greeted the deal apprehensively. Then he attended his first Dallas practice. “They ran a trap play,” Nelson says, “and two offensive linemen trapped each other and fell over. After eight years in the league, I didn’t need that.” Nelson asked Johnson for a trade, and the coach barely flinched. “Fine,” he said. “No problem.”
Upon arriving at Valley Ranch, Howard and Solomon were pulled aside by an apologetic Jones. “I hate to say this,” the owner said, “but your time here is probably short. So just sit down, play special teams, don’t complain to the media, and we’ll take care of you.”
The two men nodded. What could they say?
Meanwhile, Walker was greeted in Minnesota with Beatles-like fervor. The Cowboys had paid him a $1.25 million “exit bonus” to accept the deal (as well as ten first-class airline tickets), and the Vikings threw in the free use of a house and a Mercedes-Benz. “Herschel,” Burns said at the introductory press conference, “I want to welcome you to the Minnesota Vikings. I’d like to see [the football] going across that end zone about ten times a game.”
Though the trade was difficult to analyze at the time, its impact was monumental. This wasn’t Lou Brock for Ernie Broglio. This was Lou Brock, Ernie Banks, Ron Santo, and Billy Williams for Ernie Broglio. Over time Johnson, always eager to trade a high draft pick for a bushel of lower ones, turned the Vikings’ package into nineteen players—including running back Emmitt Smith, cornerback Kevin Smith, safety Darren Woodson, cornerback Clayton Holmes, and defensive lineman Russell Maryland.
And what of Herschel Walker?
In his debut with the Vikings, Walker first touched the pigskin on a kickoff and returned the ball 51 yards. Minutes later, he took his initial handoff from quarterback Tommy Kramer and ran 47 yards up-field. “Not bad,” a beaming Lynn said in the Metrodome press box. “Two plays, a hundred yards.”
Walker produced the best rushing effort by a Viking in six years, compiling 148 yards on 18 carries in a 26–14 victory over the Packers. Wrote Michael Wilbon of the Washington Post: “Maybe the Minnesota Vikings didn’t give up enough for Herschel Walker. What a bargain.”
The euphoria lasted for a week. Walker was the wrong back for the Vikings, whose offensive line relied on stunts and traps, not straight-ahead physicality. Minnesota finished the season 10–6 and lost its opening postseason
game. Walker ended with 669 rushing yards in eleven games. A hot T-shirt in town read THE H-BOMB HAS LANDED ON MINNESOTA.
“When we brought him here, there went our Super Bowl hopes,” said Vikings safety Joey Browner. “There went our future.”
Months after the deal was completed, Jones and Lynn met in a conference room at the NFL owners meeting in New Orleans. Ackles had prepared a letter to NFL commissioner Paul Tagliabue stating that the Cowboys were going to release all the players acquired in the trade. A copy was presented to Lynn.
“Mike Lynn always had this nice suntan,” said Ackles. “But when I gave that letter to him, the guy turned absolutely pale. He knew he had just made the biggest screwup in NFL history.”
Frustrated, angry, and humiliated, Lynn told Jones to keep the damn picks and the players.
Then he flew back to Minnesota. Alone.
Even though The Trade (as the Walker deal came to be known throughout Texas) would eventually help the Cowboys win multiple Super Bowls, for Dallas players it was a Roberto Duran hook to the gut.
Au revoir, season.
With Walker, Dallas was terrible. Without Walker, Dallas was a joke. The team was already missing Aikman to a broken finger, and second-year receiver Michael Irvin would suffer a season-ending knee injury in the sixth game. In its first contest without Walker, Dallas actually ended the third quarter tied with San Francisco at 14 before allowing 17 unanswered points in a 31–14 defeat. Daryl Clack, the fill-in halfback, ran for 32 yards.
“We are making progress,” Johnson said afterward. “I hate to lose, as anybody who spends any time around me knows, but I can see now that we are starting to become a football team.”
An 0–6 football team. But a football team nonetheless.
The Cowboys dropped their next two games and traveled to Washington on November 5 as the NFL’s only 0–8 operation.
By now, life at Valley Ranch was unbearable. Prior to the previous week’s loss to the Phoenix Cardinals, Jones introduced former Cowboy Lee Roy Jordan into the Ring of Honor and was all but booed off the field. There were a season-high 2,461 no-shows, and one fan wore a sack over his head reading GEE, I MISS TOM LANDRY.
Ed Werder of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram summed up the bleakness with his mid-season report card, giving the quarterbacks a B, the running backs and offensive linemen Ds, and the wide receivers Fs. Wrote Werder: “The Dallas Cowboys, a team with stars on its helmets but few on the field, have spent the first half of the National Football League season losing games, fans and self-respect.”
Entering the Redskin contest, there were few reasons for optimism. The Aikman-less, Walker-less, Irvin-less Cowboys were now dependent on Paul Palmer, the halfback they had recently acquired from Detroit for what amounted to three Pepsis and a jar of B&G Pickles. A former first-round pick by the Chiefs out of Temple University, Palmer possessed two professional claims to fame. First, he was a monumental bust. Second, while playing for Kansas City he once threatened to fumble intentionally.
Palmer, though, was the best the Cowboys had. And for one day, it was good enough. Dallas came out flat. The Redskins came out flatter. The Cowboys entered halftime leading 3–0, and Johnson stormed into the locker room and gave one of the most impassioned talks of his life. “We can pull this out!” he bellowed, beads of sweat trickling from his forehead. “This is something we need to do, and the opportunity is right there!” The Cowboys stormed back onto the field and, well, stunk. Walsh completed 10 of 30 passes for 142 yards. But the Redskins—141/2-point favorites—were even worse. They scored only 3 points in the second half, and Johnson and Co. had its first win, 13–3. The star was Palmer, who—while wearing a wristband listing his team’s plays—carried 18 times for 110 yards.
“The stress of losing those first eight games was building,” says Walsh. “Nobody wants to be known as a chronic loser. We didn’t want to win—we needed to win.”
Afterward, Johnson spoke of more triumphs to come, and Jones distributed hugs as if they were Peeps on Easter Sunday. Safety Bill Bates went so far as to sneak behind his coach, place his hand in his (perfectly coiffed) hair, and muss it into a poodle cut. It was a great moment. A brilliant moment.
A fleeting moment.
The 1989 Cowboys never won again. Not once. Palmer’s magic vanished, the defense was porous, and Aikman returned to take a hellish beating. He started the following Sunday against the Cardinals, threw for an NFL rookie record 379 yards, and was knocked cold for nearly five minutes before being helped off the field. “Troy earned all of our respect,” says Garry Cobb, the Dallas linebacker. “He got killed and refused to cry. I’ve been on the field when quarterbacks cry, and it ain’t pretty. Dan Marino was a crier—‘Whose man was that! Where’s the blocking! Whah! ’ But Aikman—never. Aikman was a man.”
“Troy gave all the linemen boots as a present at the end of the season,” adds offensive tackle Dave Widell. “With the job we did, we all should have given them back.”
As the glow from victory number one faded, the Cowboys returned to their ornery, agitated ways. Johnson was spending seventeen-hour days in his office, suffocating beneath the dual weights of humiliation and strife. By now nearly all of the veterans had had it with their coach’s collegiate stylings. The players had assigned seats on flights and were required to wear suits and ties for all travel. “He even made us take the bus together to the stadium,” says Folsom, the tight end. “It seemed weird, walking onto the bus and seeing Ed Jones and Tom Rafferty sitting there like little kids going off to elementary school.”
The two weeks following the Washington win evoked new lows in player-coach relations. There was a shouting match between Johnson and Everson Walls, when the coach spotted his veteran cornerback laughing it up with opposing players immediately after the Cardinals loss. There was a nightmarish practice the day before the Thanksgiving matchup with the Eagles, when Johnson had his team 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 guest of 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
AS 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.
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