now that i have a daughter, i often think of my formative years. rarely, however, do i have visceral moments where time truly seems to bend and place melts away from the here and now in favor of somewhere almost forgotten. but last night as i sat in at the north endzone, shooting pool and drinking cold coors and watching the dallas cowboys, one of those moments happened. i don’t really want this blog entry to be about what feels like just the beginnings of the legend of tony romo story. but the cowboys of the aikman era were so dominant that there was rarely a moment when hope of what might be possible factored into my emotional spectrum. last night, though, as the game against buffalo wore on, and romo seemed to implode with every passing moment, my vision began to narrow. the hard edges of the pool tables began to become part of a dali-esque painting. the barstool’s ridiculously tall, rigid frame began to feel more and more like a black-vinyl sofa my folks owned in the 1970’s. the patrons blurred from sight. the 52 inch television broadcast in all its hi-def of glory, morphed into a 13 inch black and white with no remote control. with 20 seconds left and the cowboys trailing 24-22, for just an instant, i was a kid again. and for a moment, a single fleeting moment, reality bent, and i turned to say to my father, “we can still win this game.” for a brief second, i was back at my parent's house watching football with my dad, rooting for one of captain comeback’s 23 come-from-behind fourth quarter wins (incredibly, 17 of those came within the last two minutes of the game). of course, when i turned to dad, he was not there because he was back in dallas watching the game with a neighbor while i was in a mississippi sports bar re-entering reality. regardless of how the season ends up, it was a priceless moment for me. and i just want to say thanks to my dad for loving football. and for loving the cowboys. and for loving me.
