Boys Will Be Boys

by Jeff Pearlman

  Dale Hansen, the Cowboy radio announcer, still recalls a night during the 1990 season when he, Aikman, and Kevin Gogan went to Borrowed Money, a popular country-and-western bar. As soon as Aikman walked through the door, a tidal wave of humanity surged his way. “Troy agreed to sign autographs for thirty minutes,” says Hansen. “I mean, girls were on all fours, crawling under a rope to get a piece of him. He could have slept with any number of drop-dead gorgeous women there that night. But that generally wasn’t Troy’s way. He wasn’t looking for that.”

  No, he was looking for love. And here it was—here she was.

  Throughout much of the season, there were ever-intensifying reports of Aikman’s involvement with Lorrie Morgan, the sexy blond country music star whose hits included “Five Minutes” and “What Part of No.” Though modestly accepted in Nashville for her passable vocal skills, Morgan was best known as a pre–Shania Twain sex symbol—one who made form-fitting outfits and low-cut shirts a prime component of her image. In August, Morgan even wrote a guest review for the Morning News of Aikman’s song, “Oklahoma Nights.” (“We all know Troy’s not a professional singer…but I think he did a real good job. It’s possibly a very sexy voice over candlelight.”) Never was Aikman’s attachment to Morgan more visible than before the Cowboys-Cardinals game, when Morgan sang the national anthem, walked toward the injured quarterback, and embraced him in a kiss. A day later, Aikman and Morgan walked arm-in-arm to a sports memorabilia auction benefiting the Troy Aikman Foundation. To male fans, the news of Aikman’s attachment was greeted with a sort of “Way to go, bro” collegiality. Morgan, after all, was a blond bombshell. Women, though, were devastated. Troy Aikman was the ultimate fantasy, and as long as he was single, there was always a chance.

  “They only wound up dating about a year, but it was a huge deal in Dallas and Nashville,” says Susan Nadler, Morgan’s former spokesperson. “Every day there seemed to be a different sighting in the newspaper. There’d be Troy and Lorrie eating, Troy and Lorrie walking, Troy and Lorrie kissing. But you know how football fans get. When Troy got hurt or didn’t play well or the Cowboys lost, Lorrie would get blamed.”

  As Aikman became moderately comfortable with the celebrity of his romance, he was more willing to be spotted with Morgan (who was in the process of divorcing her third husband and would later date Fred Thompson, the 2008 presidential candidate). Yet over time, with her music career calling her to Nashville and his football career keeping him to Dallas, the relationship frayed. By the end of the season Aikman would be single once again.

  Women across the state of Texas let out a cheer.

  In the months that followed his fumble near the end of Super Bowl XXVII, Leon Lett received enough venomous letters to fill the combined mailboxes of Howard Stern and David Duke. Gamblers enraged over his flub’s impact on their bets would track down Lett’s home phone number and threaten to lodge a bullet through his temple. Fans would see him in the grocery store or a movie theater and crack jokes. Kids would point his way and snicker, “He’s the guy who blew it.”

  Lett tried to brush it off; to pretend the words didn’t wound. But they did. Dating back to his youth in Fairhope, Alabama, Lett was the athletic star who preferred invisibility to the limelight. “I think everyone has met a guy like Leon,” says Darren Woodson. “A big guy, a huge guy, tough as nails and nice enough, but he could not talk to people. It probably took me three years to have a conversation with him. He just wanted to be left alone.”

  If the Super Bowl gaffe was hell to Lett, what next transpired was an endless loop of Joanie Loves Chachi. Aikman returned from his two weeks off to lead the 7–3 Cowboys into a Thanksgiving Day matchup with Miami at Texas Stadium. At 8–2, the Dolphins were the class of the AFC. Prognosticators hyped the game as a potential Super Bowl XXVIII matchup—Jimmy Johnson versus Don Shula; Michael Irvin versus Irving Fryar; Troy Aikman versus um, well, thirty-nine-year-old Steve DeBerg (Dan Marino was injured).

  To the surprise of few, the Cowboys jumped out to a 14–7 lead on two big plays courtesy of rookie Kevin Williams—a 4-yard touchdown reception and a 64-yard punt return, also for a score. Unfortunately, the Dolphins’ defense, ranked twenty-fourth in the league, held the Cowboys scoreless in the second half. The biggest factor was the fierce sleet that pelted the field. “Sunshine is nice,” said Miami fullback Keith Byars, “but when the elements come into play, that’s when we find out which players can step up.”

  With two minutes, sixteen seconds remaining in the game and Dallas leading 14–13, the Dolphins took over on their own 20-yard line. Dismissed throughout the years as someone who would break a coach’s heart with boneheaded decisions, DeBerg coolly guided his team into Dallas territory, completing 8 of 11 passes, including a clutch 16-yard connection with Byars. With fifteen seconds remaining and Miami out of time-outs, kicker Pete Stoyanovich lined up for a 41-yard field goal attempt. Under normal circumstances, Stoyanovich ranked as one of the league’s best. He’d converted 81 percent of his attempts in 1992, and 84 percent in both ’90 and ’91.

  But with the sleet and the snow and the cold and the wind, a kicker’s odds (especially a Miami-based kicker) dropped precipitously. When the ball was snapped, Stoyanovich leaned forward, whipped his leg back, kicked the ball, and—THUD! From the middle of the defensive line, Jimmie Jones had raised his arm into the air and knocked the ball to the ground. It rolled and rolled and rolled toward the 7-yard line. “Peter!” yelled Dallas safety Darren Woodson, shouting the code for Don’t touch the damn football! Others joined in. “Peter! Peter! Peter!” (Explained Joe Avezzano, the special teams coach: “That term ‘Peter’ originated years before because it means, uh, don’t play with it.”)

  Out of nowhere came Lett, barreling into the football like a moose on Rollerblades. Well aware that with Lett’s contact the ball was now live, Dolphins center Jeff Dellenbach slid through the ice and snow and recovered the ball in the end zone. Miami players screamed, “Touchdown! Touchdown!” while Dallas’s defenders looked on in befuddlement.

  Officials initially placed the ball at the 7-yard line, then moved it to the 1, the spot where Dellenbach made the recovery. Given the second chance, Stoyanovich nailed the kick.

  Dolphins win, 16–14. Texas Stadium, alive with snowy pleasure seconds earlier, falls silent.

  “If you’re a professional, [the rule] is something you’re supposed to know,” said an agitated Kevin Smith. “I know the rule. Ten other guys out there knew the rule. We get paid a lot of money. Leon is supposed to know the rule.”

  Lett bolted into the locker room and straight to the trainer’s quarters. He refused to come out—not for teammates, not for friends, certainly not for the media. Stripped down to his thermal underwear, he cradled his head in his hands and sobbed. It was one thing to botch a meaningless play at the end of the Super Bowl. It was another to blow an entire game.

  “I never held that against Leon,” says Johnson. “I was shocked, but that was our fault. Leon hadn’t worked on special teams all season, and because of the snow and his height we put Leon on field goal block team. If anything, I felt bad for him.”

  In a rare moment of empathy, Johnson approached Lett and engulfed him in a hug. “Don’t get down over this,” he said. “It’s just one game. We need you.”

  Lett was shocked. The same coach who had cut Curvin Richards and John Roper; who had chewed out Robert Jones on the airplane; who had exercised unparalleled ruthlessness…was human.

  It was a kindness the player would never forget.

  Chapter 16

  COURAGE

  Emmitt was the most instinctive runner I’ve ever seen. Now combine that with all the guts a human being can possess and you’re talking all-time great.

  —Alan Veingrad, Cowboys offensive tackle

  FOR MANY TEAMS, a nightmarish loss like the one to Miami changes everything. Confidence wanes. Doubts creep in. The shadows of conference rivals—in this case, the New York Giants—loom even larger. Through Week 13
the 7–4 Cowboys actually trailed 8–3 New York in the NFC East standings. Could the franchise preordained by Sports Illustrated as “the team of the ’90s” fail to capture its own division? Could a team led by Troy Aikman, Emmitt Smith, and Michael Irvin fall to the anonymous, uninspiring Giants?

  Maybe.

  To their credit, the Cowboys rebounded from the Miami debacle to win their next four contests. They clinched a playoff birth, but entered the final week of the regular season tied with New York for first place in the NFC East.

  Their last game was a visit to the Meadowlands with not only a division title on the line, but a first-round bye and home-field advantage throughout the playoffs.

  Leading up to the clash, Jones signed Aikman to an eight-year, $50 million contract. It was the most lucrative deal in NFL history, and while few could argue with the quarterback’s worthiness, the news served as a slap in the face to Smith. How was it, he and other African-American players wondered, that Aikman barely had to sweat for a new deal while Smith bled a kidney? “Arguably, Troy Aikman is considered…maybe the star of the NFL,” raved a giddy Jones. “Certainly, the Dallas Cowboys have had our success and have our future based upon the way Troy Aikman is as a player and as an individual.” The giddiness was a a stark contrast to the pained expression Jones wore upon re-signing his star halfback (with an invisible gun pointed to his head) following the 0–2 start.

  This just wasn’t right—and Smith was about to prove it.

  Entering the showdown with New York, Smith had regained his status as one of the league’s top running backs. With 1,318 yards, he led Rams rookie Jerome Bettis by a mere 35 yards in the race for the league rushing title. Yet despite the numbers, there was an increasing sense that Smith was more image than substance. He wanted to be a star—a huge star. He craved endorsements and fame and a showbiz résumé, and if that meant ripping off his helmet so the camera could catch his glowing portrait, so be it.

  “Emmitt,” says Kenny Gant, “was different. Just different.”

  Teammates were torn. Some loved Smith for his toughness. Others resented him for his selfishness and arrogance. He often refused to sign autographs. He would walk past fellow Cowboys without saying a word. When players opened their Christmas gift from Smith the following season, they were less than shocked to uncover a copy of his own autobiography. Aikman gave golf clubs, Irvin gave bubbly, Smith gave…The Emmitt Zone? “Emmitt would score a touchdown from the two-yard line, keep the football, and sell it at his souvenir shop back home in Pensacola,” says Dale Hansen, the Cowboys radio announcer. “I thought that was both odd and selfish.” Cornerback Clayton Holmes never forgot an incident that took place during the Super Bowl XXVII after-party, when he approached Smith about signing an autograph for his mother, Claudia. “Man, I ain’t signing shit!” Smith barked. “If I sign that, I have to to sign for everybody else in here.” Holmes’s mother was standing nearby, mortified and embarrassed. “Emmitt has those moments,” says Holmes. “And you just think, ‘Why be like that? Why?’”

  Now, on January 2, 1994, Smith and the Cowboys were trying to win in the most hostile of environments. Save for Philadelphia, no American city had tougher fans than New York—especially when it came to the Cowboys. With the mere mention of Aikman or Irvin or Smith from the public address announcer, Giants Stadium turned into an avalance of boos and hisses. On this day, the hostility was louder and more passionate than usual. “Man,” says Kevin Smith, “those fans just detested us.”

  Nonetheless, Dallas jumped out to a 13–0 halftime lead, gaining 238 yards on 41 plays while limiting the Giants to 15 offensive snaps (and silencing the masses). As they walked off the field for intermission, Dallas’s players could be heard laughing. It was a beautiful 41-degree day in northern New Jersey, with the sun shinning and a soft northeastern breeze, and the Texans were living it up. Meanwhile, in the Giants’ locker room linebacker Lawrence Taylor, who was playing the final regular-season game of his spectacular thirteen-year career, was incredulous. He stood up and, with tears streaming down his cheeks, delivered a message of empowerment. “This is it!” he said. “The last game, and these guys are giving you no respect! Let’s go out there and be the bullies! Let’s smash their mouths in! This ain’t Dallas! This is New-fuckin’-York!”

  Perhaps it was Taylor’s words. Perhaps it was the crowd. Perhaps it was good old pride. Whatever the case, New York charged the field and played magnificently. Giants fullback Jarrod Bunch scored on a 1-yard touchdown run to cut the lead to 13–7 early in the third quarter, and a pair of David Treadwell field goals—the second coming with ten seconds remaining in regulation—turned a potential blowout into an evolving classic.

  For Dallas, the worst blow had been delivered well before Treadwell’s kicks. On his nineteenth carry late in the second quarter, Emmitt Smith broke free on a 46-yard run when he was slammed by Greg Jackson, New York’s hard-hitting fifth-year safety. As he fell Smith protected the ball with the left side of his body and landed on his right. He literally felt his right arm detach from his shoulder, and the pain reverberated through his body. (For those who have never experienced such an injury, close your eyes and imagine your arm being ripped in half, set aflame, and placed in a wood chipper.)

  Smith walked to the sidelines grasping his shoulder and grimacing in anguish. The immediate fear was that Smith was done and Derrick Lassic would have to carry the team into the playoffs.

  Two snaps after departing, however, Smith walked back onto the field. He had already exceeded 100 yards, and he wanted more. “I was faster than Emmitt and I was quicker than Emmitt,” says Lassic. “But you’re talking about a man who refused to be stopped. That was his greatest strength—he would not be denied.”

  Come halftime, Smith entered the training room, popped a couple of Vicodins, and had the shoulder X-rayed. He was diagnosed with a grade-two separation, a dislocation severe enough for most players to take an afternoon off. “The trainers asked me what we could do,” says Buck Buchanan, the team’s longtime equipment manager. “So I grabbed a redundant pad, which looks like a big donut, and attached it under his shoulder pad but above the shoulder. I did it with string, so it wasn’t especially sturdy. I just hoped it could reduce the pain.”

  Though Smith ran for 168 yards, each hit felt like a hot coal to the flesh. When Treadwell’s kick forced overtime, Smith sighed deeply. Would this game ever end? “Emmitt knew we needed him,” says Johnson. “And he wasn’t about to pass up the challenge.”

  In one of the most courageous displays in NFL history, Smith dominated the overtime, carrying 5 times for 16 yards, catching 3 passes for 24 yards, and setting up Eddie Murray’s game-winning kick for a 16–13 victory. Throughout the period Smith calmed himself by repeatedly muttering, “It’s nothing but pain—just block out the pain.” But it wasn’t just pain. Cowboy linemen still recall Smith’s horrifying screams from the bottom of piles as he absorbed shots that would have landed others in the ER. Afterward columnist Skip Bayless, who published his own Cowboys newsletter, The Insider, would accuse Smith of faking the severity of the injury—a ludicrous claim considering Smith had literally bitten through his mouthpiece. Following the game John Madden, the CBS announcer and former Oakland Raider coach, visited Smith in the training room. The Cowboy star had just won his third straight NFL rushing title with 1,486 yards and—despite the anguish—was beaming with pride. “My entire career I’ve never come down to the locker room,” Madden said. “I came down today to shake your hand. I’ve never seen a better performance than that.”

  Smith spent the next fifteen hours at Baylor University Medical Center, connected to an IV and pumped full of pain medication. It was the most uncomfortable night of his life.

  And one of the happiest.

  The Cowboys were back in the playoffs, yet Jerry Jones was far from euphoric.

  Three days before the Giants game, Johnson was asked by ESPN whether he would be interested in becoming the head coach of the expansion Jacksonville Jag
uars, who were to begin play in 1994. Considering the fact that the Cowboys were fighting for the division title; that Johnson was only midway through a ten-year contract; that Johnson had routinely preached loyalty and togetherness, the wise answer—the only answer—should have been “No.”

  Instead, Johnson said he was “intrigued.”

  Later, when pressed by Ed Werder of the Dallas Morning News, Johnson elaborated. Sort of. “I was asked about Jacksonville and what I said instead of the standard line was that anytime you have a job, you’re willing to listen to other opportunities.”

  Jones was indignant. Sure, he and Johnson had had their difficulties. But hadn’t he provided Johnson with everything he’d wanted? Money, players, the Super Bowl. To Jones, Johnson’s words were treasonous. In a New Year’s Eve telephone interview from a hotel room in New York, Jones—about to head out for a bash at the famed 21 Club—brushed aside Johnson’s comments, noting to a reporter, “It’s up to me. I have no intention of making a coaching change. To have this as an issue is a joke.”

  But it wasn’t a joke. The Cowboy coach had already met twice with Jacksonville owner Wayne Weaver, and while the initial topic of conversation was Johnson’s endorsement of Norv Turner to lead the Jaguars, talk soon turned to Johnson himself taking the job.

  “Jimmy’s giving speeches to his players about how everyone’s in this together and the value of teamwork, then [Jaguars owner] Wayne Weaver calls to get a recommendation for Norv and Jimmy sells himself,” says Mike Fisher, the veteran Cowboy beat writer for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. “Jimmy fucked Jerry, he fucked Norv. While he’s telling his team, ‘One for all, all for one,’ he’s lifting his skirt toward the Jaguars.”