Chapter Four

California Dreaming, Dallas Realities

How many times in your life have you found yourself wondering about what might have been? I’m sure that those 1967 Cowboys did a bit of thinking about how the NFL championship game might have turned out if the playing conditions weren’t so bad. I don’t think that they knew about the malfunction of the heating elements under the turf. I know that we can drive ourselves crazy “what-if-ing” our way through life. I also know that sports fans engage in a special variety of “what-if-ing”—what if (insert team or player name here) had done ______________ back in the ______________, then they would have won. (Note the use of “they” in place of “we” in this losing situation.) Well, let me share a little what-if story that fills in some blanks about my career and how I very nearly missed out on having a Cowboy existence for more than a decade.

Right before the Cowboys’ Super Bowl VI victory in New Orleans, I received a phone call from KNXT television in Los Angeles. They wanted to know if I was interested in coming out to the West Coast to become the sports director for that CBS affiliate. At the time, Los Angeles was the second-largest market in the United States. I told them, well, yes of course I would. This was shortly after the New Year, and by the time we finalized arrangements for me to go to Los Angeles to audition, I was in a bit of a scheduling jam. I was going to cover the game on radio for KRLD, and I was going to do my remotes for TV. The game was scheduled for January 16, 1972. My audition was the day before the Cowboys’ charter flight would take the team and all other personnel to New Orleans. I was scheduled to return to Dallas in time to make that flight the following day. Obviously, any delays or cancellations and I’d be in a tough spot.

I decided it was worth the risk. The folks at KNXT did their best to woo me. They put me up at the Beverly Hills Hotel for two days. They took me to lunch at the Bel-Air Country Club, where I was sitting and eating my cheeseburger when I saw Jack Benny and George Burns dining together in the corner. I thought, Boy, this is something. Two of my early radio-days favorites sitting in the same restaurant as me. Boy, I could get used to this!

I did the audition and felt it went well. I figured I’d get the usual “we’ll let you know” response, but to my surprise, before I left I had in hand a five-year contract at twice my WFAA salary. I agreed to accept those terms. Though I took the commercial jet back to Dallas, I barely needed it I was flying so high. I’d miss Dallas, and the opportunity to do the radio work for the Cowboys, but this was Los Angeles, the home of swimming pools and movie stars! Step aside, Uncle Jed; Uncle Verne is coming through!

It’s funny the things you remember, but I recall touching down at Love Field and hustling from my arrival gate to B3, where the Cowboys’ charter was loading. I made it just in time and settled into my seat. Once we were in the air, it hit me: this was going to be my last Cowboys game. I knew that I had to let them know. I found Tex Schramm seated a few rows in front of me. He’d been instrumental in my first working for the Cowboys five years earlier. Since then, I’d grown to appreciate his ways even more. I also knew that like certain gunslingers, he took verbal shots first and asked questions later. He spoke his mind and sometimes what was on his mind was not the most gracious sentiment in the world. Nonetheless, I had to let him know and I preferred to tell him face-to-face. After I’d let him know that I’d agreed to the Los Angeles deal, he pursed his lips and asked if I’d signed a contract. When I told him I hadn’t, he asked me not to, or at least not until we got back to Dallas after the game. He wanted to have lunch with me; he had an idea, some plan, and he couldn’t share that with me now.

A week or so after we got back to Dallas, Al Ward and Tex took me out to lunch and what turned out to be a four-hour business meeting. They offered me the Cowboys’ play-by-play job. I was hesitant at first, mostly wondering what that meant for Bill Mercer, my partner in the booth. His lifelong dream had been to be a baseball play-by-play man. The Washington Senators had decided to relocate to Arlington, Texas, and, unbeknownst to me, Bill had accepted that radio job. They wanted to slide me over one seat and have me assume his responsibilities. From the time Tex asked me to wait before signing until this meeting, I’d only vaguely entertained the notion of sticking around. I’d verbally committed and considered myself a man of my word. Mostly out of respect for Tex and the rest of the Cowboys, I’d gone to lunch to hear them out. I told him as much.

Tex’s middle name was Earnest and he embodied that word when he eyed me when he led me down the well-trod interview path by asking where I wanted to be in my career in ten years. I told him: network play-by-play announcer. He asked me what it was that KNXT had offered me. A six-and-eleven sportscast. Well, if any play-by-play jobs came up in LA, I’d be forty-seventh on the list of those considered for it. His blunt assessment of my chances of gaining traction in Los Angeles wasn’t a ploy just to keep me in Dallas. His argument had some merit, especially when he backed it up with the following questions:

Have you heard of Chick Hearn?

Have you heard of Dick Enberg?

Have you heard of Vin Scully?

They’ve all got pretty good jobs and they’re all pretty good at what they do? Where do you think you’re going to fit in?

I don’t recall humble pie and a reality chaser being on the menu, but Tex served them up and I gulped them down. The truth was, the Los Angeles market was populated by Hall of Fame–caliber play-by-play men, guys who were well on their way to becoming legends in the field. I trusted what Tex was saying because he was a football guy and knew what was going on around the league and the media that covered the game. He also was a UT guy, a journalism major, and he’d written for the Austin American-Statesman while at school. From 1947 to 1956 he’d worked for the Los Angeles Rams—he knew that market well.

Being with the Cowboys wasn’t small potatoes, either. They had 119 stations along their radio network. The team was doing well and gaining exposure across the country. I’d never done play-by-play but Tex believed that I could do it. He had that kind of trust in me.

I asked about the compromise position. I go to Los Angeles and take the Cowboys’ offer as well. Tex was smart. He wanted me in Dallas and on Channel 8 all week. He wanted me on his radio network on Sundays. He wanted me to be known as a Cowboy guy. In a sense, I was like free advertising for the team. I saw the wisdom of that approach for him and for me. I asked for four or five days to think about it. I faced a tough choice. I hate to make this about the money, but the fact was that I was earning $10,000 a year for my TV job. KNXT had offered me $35,000! Sense won out over dollars and cents. If I truly aspired to be a Big Three network play-by-play man, then I needed the Big Double-E—experience and exposure. I could get that in the Big D. I sent my regrets to Los Angeles and signed with the Cowboys. I never looked back. What if I hadn’t listened to Tex’s advice? I’ve had a few men in my life who I consider mentors and Tex is one of them. A more colorful guy I have not met.

Tex was passionate about the Cowboys, to put it mildly. He understood that he could occasionally pop off and say things an executive of a major sports franchise probably shouldn’t say. Once, in the mid-1970s, Tex assumed his usual position in the second row of the writers’ press box. Joe Bailey, executive vice president, or Doug Todd, head of the public relations staff, usually sat alongside him to keep the boss steady and his excitability level below overload. Tex had invited NFL commissioner Pete Rozelle to attend the game. Tex had hired Pete to work for the Rams back in the day and remained friends. Rozelle sat in Tex’s suite, adjacent to the writers’ box.

As the game went on, Tex believed the referees were blowing calls all over the field. He’d jump and shout and curse and turn red-faced. Doug was with him on this occasion and was doing his best to keep Tex from banging on the glass and whatnot. Tex’s voice was booming and the writers were used to his antics, so no one paid him too much mind—that is, until at one point when the referees were huddling on the field discussing some call against the Cowboys. Tex was close to apoplectic. He jumped out of his seat and walked over to the soundproof glass partition separating the writers’ box from his. The pounding got Rozelle’s attention. Startled, he looked over at this loon of a man waving his arms and gesticulating wildly. Pete laughed. Tex wrapped his hands around his own throat in the universal choking gesture and Pete kept on laughing. That didn’t quiet Tex for long. He stomped back to his seat and unleashed a tirade of trash talk that lasted until halftime.

Tex left the press box. While the writers sat there relaxing, Doug Todd commandeered the PA system that only went into the press boxes to announce in his most formally modulated voice, “According to General Manager Tex Schramm, the C———ers are leading the M————ers eight to seven.”

I think I stopped my laughter and tears by the second-half kickoff. Barely.

No, sir, you can keep your LA dollars, my money is on Tex.

Speaking of gambling, after the last preseason game of the year, a group of us would get together and engage in a betting pool on who would make the final squad for the regular season. Tex and his wife, Marty, my wife, Nancy, broadcast partner Brad Sham and his current date, and Joe Bailey and Doug Todd and their wives would all enter. We jokingly accused Tex of having an insider’s advantage. He swore he didn’t and the proof is in the pudding. Tex never won the pot.

Before that, of course, I had to begin my rookie season as the Cowboys’ play-by-play guy. As the defending Super Bowl champions, the Cowboys had the honor of playing the College All-Star squad at Soldier Field in Chicago to open the preseason in August 1972. I’d done some play-by-play for basketball and baseball when I was in Austin, but not a single minute of football. I was as nervous as heck, and what I mostly remember of that experience was when I wandered through Chicago’s Grant Park and along Michigan Avenue well past midnight on the eve of the game, trying to walk off some of my anxiety. I was splitting the play-by-play duties with Frank Glieber. We flipped a coin to see which of us would do which part of the game. I wanted to listen to how Frank handled things. I was glad that I did. Frank was a real pro and I learned a lot in that first half.

I’d developed a love of classical music along the way, and later in life I would watch the movie Amadeus. When Mozart, a recognized genius, finished conducting one of his symphonies for Emperor Joseph II, Wolfgang asked for input from the ruler. Joseph II replied, “Too many notes.” That was what I learned from Frank and what I tried to put in practice as much as possible in my career: the human ear can only take in so many notes. I wanted to keep to the facts—down, distance, time, and, periodically, score—mixed with concise descriptions of the action. That served me well in Chicago and from then on. I would learn when to add the occasional flourish to the formula but not that first night.

The 1972 season was a tough one for the Cowboys. Roger Staubach went down with a shoulder injury in the preseason. Duane Thomas was traded when management tired of his antics. The offense would have been expected to struggle a bit with Roger’s absence, but thanks to Tom Landry’s shuffling of quarterbacks Craig Morton was accustomed to starting and performed well. In fact, he set the Cowboys’ passing yardage record that year. The Doomsday Defense was starting to feel Father Time catching up to them. Age and injuries are always a part of the game and it’s tough to let go of the past. I felt privileged to see the great Bob Lilly have an All-Pro season despite a back injury and assorted leg injuries that hobbled him.

For the seventh straight season, the Cowboys reached the postseason, albeit as a wild card entrant. They faced the San Francisco 49ers in the first round of the playoffs. Earlier that year, back in November, the Dick Nolan–coached 49ers beat the Cowboys 31–10 on a blustery Thanksgiving Day in Dallas. At that point, the 49ers had former Heisman Trophy winner Steve Spurrier at quarterback. Their veteran signal caller, John Brodie, had gone down with an injury and Spurrier had stepped in. In the regular season, Spurrier had gone 6-2. leading the team to the Western Division crown. I’d get to know Steve later on, when he was the head coach at Florida and later at South Carolina.

Steve was highly regarded as a coach in many circles but not all. Some didn’t like his approach to the game. He was as competitive as they come and didn’t always take other folks’ feelings into account. In 2000, I was covering the Kentucky–Florida game. Florida had a great football tradition, and, well, let’s say that Kentucky had a great basketball program. UK had never beaten the Gators during Steve’s time at the helm. As I recall, the Gators were putting a whipping on the Wildcats, 45–7, with less than a minute to play. Florida had the ball just their side of midfield. Most coaches would have just let the clock run out. Not Steve. He called in the play and Jesse Palmer (who later went on to become TV’s Bachelor) dropped back and threw a perfect strike for a touchdown.

Final score, 52–7.

After the game, Steve was asked in a peevish tone by one of the writers why he’d called that last play. In so many words, Steve said that nobody had scored half a hundred on Kentucky and he wanted to be the first to do so. His grin was a lot louder than the silence that followed his utterance.

For years I traveled with my personal statistician Chuck Gardner. After the game, Chuck and I were standing waiting for the elevator to take us down from the press box to the stadium exits. Unbeknownst to Chuck, the Florida athletic director, Jeremy Foley, got on it with us. Speaking to me, Chuck asked why in the world would Spurrier have not just run out the clock.

Before I could answer or indicate that Chuck should pursue another line of questioning, Jeremy Foley spoke up and said that we had to admit that Steve was a perfectionist.

Without skipping a beat, Chuck said, “So was Hitler.”

The elevator seemed to me to have slowed to a crawl; I scanned it for an escape hatch.

Truth is, Steve was a perfectionist and as I’ve said, anyone who achieves success has to have a strong sense of self. I know that Steve was humbled a bit by his brief excursion into the swamp that is Washington, D.C., and NFL football. His tenure with the Redskins wasn’t anything like he’d hoped it would be. I saw him after he’d signed on to undertake the challenge of resuscitating South Carolina’s program after it was put in a choke Holtz. We were at the National Football Foundation’s banquet. I gave him a quick hug and whispered that I was glad to have him back home where he belonged.

I meant it.

I was fond of Steve because I was able to glimpse the other side of him. I liked how he kept things in perspective. As driven and perfectionistic as he was, he stuck to his Friday-before-game-day ritual—a haircut and nine holes of golf. One year, my partner Todd Blackledge and our sideline reporter Jill Arrington were in Gainesville before a game. We went to Steve’s office. It was a virtual museum with memorabilia covering nearly every square inch of the place. Jill was relatively new to the team. Steve welcomed us all in and could see Jill scanning his office. He showed her a photo of one of his Duke University teams. This was obviously before he took over at Florida and attained so much success. That he was proud of the job he’d done at that school spoke volumes about him. He wasn’t going to brag about himself or his better-known squads. He pointed out some of the players and what they’d gone on to do in other things besides playing in the NFL. His evident pride in them impressed me.

Even though the Cowboys had a better regular season record, that 1972 playoff game was held in Candlestick Park. I was grateful that it wasn’t frigid up there on our rooftop perch overlooking the bay. Candlestick was a tough venue. The park was designed for baseball, so we had to deal with being at an odd angle to the field of play. With the cutouts for the infield diamond still there, yardage markers frequently got obscured, adding to the difficulties of perspective. The Cowboys had beaten the 49ers in the previous two NFC championship games, and the old third time’s a charm was once again in play. It seemed as if the magic was in the home team’s corner. Vic Washington fumbled but returned the opening kickoff for a 97-yard touchdown, and the nearly 60,000 in attendance were making enough noise to register on the Richter scale—not a good thing considering the city’s seismic history. The Cowboys got a field goal from Toni Fritsch, but a pair of San Francisco touchdowns had them up 21–3 and things looked bleak for the Cowboys despite the bright Northern California sunshine. Two Craig Morton turnovers—a fumble and an interception—led to those scores. Fortunately, he threw a touchdown pass and then led the team on another drive that resulted in a field goal. At halftime the Niners were up 21–13.

It pains me to relive some of these Cowboy memories—particularly as it applies to Morton and other Cowboy quarterbacks. Seems as though all I’m recalling is Craig’s failings on the field. That hurts me, not because the facts aren’t accurate, but because I really like Craig Morton. I also really like and have built a lifelong friendship with Roger Staubach. Don Meredith was a great and lovable guy who left the game and earth far too soon at age seventy-two in 2010. Quarterback is never an easy position to play, and each of these three men provided Dallas fans with a lot of thrills and not a little anxiety in their careers.

Of the three, I think that Dandy Don, a nickname Meredith tried to disassociate himself from, was most sensitive to the criticism that he took from passionate Cowboys supporters. For all the ups and downs in his pro career and his remarkable run as a broadcaster on Monday Night Football, many people likely don’t know how great an athlete he was. Don Meredith, before I got to Dallas, played at Mount Vernon High School in East Texas. He was a basketball and football player and his scoring record of 52 points in a Dr Pepper high school basketball tournament in Dallas stood for many years. I didn’t witness that feat, but when I came to Dallas, folks were still talking about it.

What’s interesting about Don’s emotional response to his perceived (and often real) poor treatment by the fans was that he remained the loosest man I’ve ever known. He had a great sense of humor and seemed on the surface to be as carefree as could be. He’d remind his teammates to remember their ABCs—Always Be Cool—sang in the huddle, and called out names of fruits from behind center. He was also saddled with the burden of being a quarterback on an expansion franchise. The two years before he became the starter the club went 4-20-2. They won five games his first season as the starter in 1963. It wasn’t until 1966 that the team had its first winning season, going 10-3. He bore the brunt of a less-than-stellar offensive line and the wrath of some fans.

As carefree as Don was, maybe he cared too much. He worried a lot about the success of the team and, like it or not, he played a position with more than a fair share of glory and blame. Don suffered the agonies of those defeats. One of my most vivid memories of him took place in Cleveland, at old Municipal Stadium, hard on the shore of Lake Erie. This was in 1968, and our radio booth was on top of the roof of that old monstrosity. We all shivered. Near the end of the game, Al Ward escorted me to the sidelines. Even if I had still been at that more distant locale, Don’s pain would have been palpable. It was as hard as the pellet-like snow spitting down on all assembled.

As the game staggered on, the fog rolled in and the Browns were handing the Cowboys their collective ass as the saying goes. Down by a lot, Tom Landry pulled Don out of the game and inserted Craig Morton. Didn’t matter who was in there because the Cowboys eventually lost, 42–10. For the day, his last on the playing field it would turn out, Don was 3 for 9, with three interceptions. One of those was a pick six, and the two others resulted in 10 points for the underdog Browns. The glorious 12-2 regular season came to an ignominious end. In 1966 and 1967 the Cowboys had ended their season with a loss to the Packers in the NFL Championship Game. This time, they fell short of that lousy mark. Don was only thirty years old. Though he was often injured and beaten up, he was still relatively young for a quarterback in the league.

I can see now that what I witnessed toward the end of the game had greater significance than just another frustrating playoff loss. With about five minutes left to be played, Don was stoically standing on the bench, a low-slung plank that ran from the 30 to 30 on one side of the field for use by both teams. He had a hooded cape on and was staring straight ahead. In the gloom he was a vision of forlorn failure. I was on the field making my way toward the locker room to do my postgame show. Tex Schramm passed me going the other way. I turned and watched as Tex approached Don. He wrapped his arms around his disconsolate quarterback. Don reached down and patted Tex on the back. That’s the kind of guy Tex was. Later, we boarded the charter and Don took his customary seat in the last row. That season, his row mate was Pete Gent. Pete was a wide receiver and later the author of a bestselling tell-all novel, North Dallas Forty.

We took off and I didn’t think much about it until we got to Dallas and everyone was wondering where Don was. The aircraft had two exits, and before we left Cleveland he and Pete had slipped out the rear one without anyone noticing. Later we learned that Don and Pete had booked another flight to New York City and were holed up in Frank Gifford’s place. He contacted Tex and said that he was done; he was going to retire. Nineteen sixty-eight was going to be his last season. And what a season it was for him. He passed for exactly 2,500 yards and threw 21 touchdowns, earning All-Pro honors. Too many fans focused on his 12 interceptions.

My other vivid memory of Don is of him being nearly in tears following a Cowboy loss in the Cotton Bowl. I worked my way down to the locker room and his hangdog look and tone after the game was painful to witness. He’d been removed from the action and was lustily booed by a sellout crowd. He told me that he couldn’t understand these people. Why were they booing him? Did they think he wasn’t trying? He said that he was out there trying to do his best on every play. Did they think he wasn’t out there putting in the effort? In fact, he was more than putting in the effort. He was laying it on the line. He famously threw a touchdown pass to future Denver head coach Dan Reeves one play after he’d had his ribs broken. His buddy Pete Gent recalled on Don’s passing how he’d visited him in the hospital after that game. Don was in intensive care (and intense pain) having his collapsed lung reinflated.

Don’s fun-loving side clearly rubbed the all-business, all-the-time Tom Landry the wrong way. That was a huge reason why Don walked away from the game at such a young age and while still being very productive. He enjoyed great success as a broadcaster and did some acting as well. Maybe he had a vision of what his life could be like beyond football, understood that life was meant to be lived larger than what the confines of the gridiron allowed for. No matter the case, he was a real treat to be around. I just wish he could have been around longer.

When Meredith struggled, Morton came on in relief after being drafted fifth overall in 1965. Another gifted athlete—he was pursued by several Major League Baseball teams as a pitcher—Craig enjoyed a standout collegiate career at the University of California, Berkeley. I also really enjoyed getting to know and become friends with Craig. He wasn’t as famous as Don was for his sense of humor, but his laid-back Californian vibe made him a pleasure to be around. You have to keep in mind that I was around these young guys when I was a young man myself. We were contemporaries with the same interests. We were young, single, and pursuing an active social life. Also, back then, the athletes I knew weren’t as guarded with the media as they are today. They didn’t have to be wary of what we might report on social media or to friends who might repeat something told in confidence and have it find its way onto TMZ or some other scandal-mongering outlet.

Like Don, Craig suffered the slings and arrows of Cowboy fans and their high expectations. At this time, the Cowboys were on their way to becoming known as America’s Team. Roger Staubach was Craig’s foil. A graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy, he had to wait until completing his four years of active duty before joining the team at age twenty-seven. Roger’s maturity and discipline stood in contrast to Craig’s slightly more lax approach to life and to the game. Both were very, very talented. Both would have liked to have been Tom Landry’s number one. It took a while, but eventually Roger won out.

And the beginning of the end for Craig was that 1972 divisional round playoff game against the Niners. With the Cowboys down 21–13 at the half, things were made worse by a Calvin Hill fumble inside his own five-yard line, which resulted in a San Francisco touchdown to push the lead to 28–13. Dallas wasn’t moving the ball much on offense, and Craig was having an off day. Near the end of the third quarter, Landry decided to make a change. Craig’s 8 out of 21 completions with an interception and a fumble just wasn’t going to cut it with so much at stake. (I should note that the interception was on a pass that was right on target but went through the hands of the intended receiver.)

Roger’s day began inauspiciously. His interception and fumble stalled the offense but a Bruce Gossett miss on a relatively easy 32-yard field goal kept the score unchanged. Roger and the offense got untracked and a Toni Fritsch field goal brought them within two touchdowns. The problem was the clock. The Cowboys got the ball back with just a little more than two minutes left and a huge hill to climb. A least the first step of that climb wasn’t going to be too arduous.

A poor punt gave them the ball on the Niners’ 45-yard line. I sat there amazed as, 32 seconds and four completions later, the Cowboys were in the end zone. Roger connected on a 20-yard toss to Billy Parks for the score with 1:20 left in the game. Exciting stuff, but we all knew that if the Cowboys had any hope of victory, then something special was going to have to occur. It did in the form of a Toni Fritsch onside kick. Toni was Austrian and had played a lot of European football in his day. Tex, ever the innovator, had his scouts checking out foreign soccer players. Much of that had to do with Tex hating the idea of “wasting” a draft choice on a kicker or punter.

Toni had great footwork and frequently practiced on his own unusual approaches to kicking the ball. That day in San Francisco, he lined up as if he were going to kick the ball to the left, but in a somewhat balletic move, wrapped his kicking leg behind his plant leg and kick-punched the ball to the right. The Cowboys recovered. Roger scrambled for 21 yards on the first play, niftily evading tacklers. He next hit Parks on a perfect sideline route to set up the winning score—a bullet of a pass to Ron Sellers from the 10.

That 15-point fourth-quarter rally got the Cowboys to the NFC Championship Game. It also became the foundation for the legend of Roger “Captain Comeback” Staubach. That nickname, along with “Roger the Dodger” and “Captain America,” formed a wonderful trio. Unfortunately for Roger and the Cowboys, that magic didn’t last. George Allen and his “Over the Hill Gang”—a Washington Redskins team composed of wily veterans—took out the Cowboys, 26–3. The Redskins had a quarterback controversy of their own with Billy Kilmer and Sonny Jurgenson swapping roles as starter and backup. It hardly mattered who was behind center. Allen was as defensive-minded as any head coach and despite having six starters older than thirty on that side of the ball, they had the stingiest defense in the league. The Cowboys managed fewer than 200 yards in total offense and just 8 first downs total. No repeat championship. No fourth-quarter heroics from Captain Nickname.

Another of those long, silent flights ensued. At least everyone on the team boarded and stayed on board.

Despite the loss, I know that I was truly blessed to be with the Cowboys during that amazing stretch in the 1970s when they went to the Super Bowl five times. I wasn’t with the team professionally in the 1990s when they reestablished themselves as a major force in the league and truly became America’s Team. Some people say that all good things must come to an end, but that doesn’t mean they can’t start over later. I don’t want to turn this into a downer, but one of the other vivid memories I have of my time with the Cowboys was just before Super Bowl XIII in Miami.

I was still doing my nightly newscast, and that particular Wednesday, we did a remote from Fort Lauderdale with Jackie Smith as my guest. Jackie had come out of retirement to join the Cowboys after the fourth game of the season when starting tight end Jay Saldi fractured his arm. Jackie was a terrific player for the St. Louis Cardinals in his fifteen years with them. He was lightly regarded coming out of college. He was drafted in the tenth round but eventually became a Hall of Famer. His years with the St. Louis Cardinals were marked by his excellence and the Cardinals’ mediocrity. From 1963 to 1977 the Cardinals only made the playoffs twice, losing both times in the divisional round.

Jackie came back believing that he’d have a shot at what every competitor truly wants—the ring, the championship. Jackie and his wife were on camera with me that night. It was clear that he was giving this one more shot and that, win or lose, this would be his final game. I asked him what he hoped for. He said that his fantasy would be to make a meaningful catch in a Cowboys victory. Jackie was a stand-up guy and I hoped that he’d see that vision brought to life.

Standing in the way were the Pittsburgh Steelers. And, man, those Cowboys–Steelers match-ups were a real hoot given their relative rarity and the consequences adjoined to each one. Not only was this a contest to determine the champion of that season, it was in large measure a test of football dominance. The Steelers had beaten the Cowboys 21–17 in Super Bowl X. Both teams had each won two Super Bowls in their history. The winner of this game would be the first to three victories in the ultimate game. The Cowboys had won in 1977, so they were seeking back-to-back league championships. The Cowboys had dominated Denver the previous year. Craig Morton versus Roger Staubach was one of the main story lines going into that game. The Cowboys’ 27–10 victory capped off an amazing playoff run in which they beat their opponents by an aggregate score of 87 to 23 and humbled the Bears, the Vikings, and the Broncos.

For their part, the Steelers had won back-to-back titles in 1974 and 1975 and their roster was populated with names like Mean Joe Greene, Jack Lambert, Lynn Swann, Terry Bradshaw, Chuck Noll, and others who formed a who’s who of NFL football. Any time two franchises with histories of great success square off, expectations are very high. The Cowboys entered the game with a record of 13-4 while the Steelers were 14-2. Clearly the two best teams in the league would be going at it. To top it off, this was going to be the last Super Bowl held in the historic Orange Bowl. According to many, this was the greatest matchup, on paper, to that point in Super Bowl history. In retrospect, it’s easy to see why that was so. Nineteen participants in that game—players, coaches, owners, management—made it into the Hall of Fame.

One other sidelight. Thomas “Hollywood” Henderson was quite a character, as his nickname suggests. Born and raised in Austin, Thomas moved to Oklahoma to live with his grandmother since his home life in Austin was less than ideal. He wasn’t a particularly good high school football player by NFL standards. He wasn’t heavily recruited by NCAA Division I schools like most pro football players are. Instead he attended a small National Association of Intercollegiate Athletics school. He walked on at Langston University, a historically black college in Oklahoma. He was a standout at that small school and the Cowboys selected him with the eighteenth pick of the first round of the 1975 draft. He was a part of what some referred to as the Cowboys’ Dirty Dozen—one of the twelve rookies who made the team from that draft. As for Thomas, how great of an underdog story is his?

And how is this for a great line? Prior to the Super Bowl, he said of the Steelers’ Terry Bradshaw, “He couldn’t spell ‘cat’ if I spotted him the C and the T.”

The letter that most people expected to be prominent in the game was D. Both teams had the top defenses in their respective conferences. The game didn’t go to plan in that regard for the Doomsday Defense or the Steel Curtain.

In the previous year’s draft, the Cowboys had gambled on Tony Dorsett. They made a big trade in order to move up to the number two spot in the draft to select him out of Pitt. The day of the draft, before the trade was made, I was at my desk at Channel Eight when I got an anonymous tip. This individual reported that someone had been at one of Chuck Howley’s dry cleaning establishments (Chuck was long-time linebacker for the Cowboys). Inside, someone was sewing the last “t” on a number 33 Cowboy jersey. I ignored the possibility and missed a big scoop. Tex laughed at me later when I confirmed the dry-cleaner story and never let me forget how I’d missed out on making a big news splash.

Some regarded Dorsett as too small, but he figured large in the Cowboys’ plans. They also paid him large—he was the first Cowboy to top the $1 million per-season mark. Back-to-back 1,000-yard-plus seasons in his first two regular seasons demonstrated the Cowboys’ scouts knew a thing or two about what it took to succeed in the league. Dorsett was something special, and his 99-yard touchdown run against the Vikings in a 1983 Monday Night Football contest ranks as one of the most memorable. He did it when the Cowboys only had ten men on the field.

Five years earlier, in the opening moments of Super Bowl XIII Dorsett showed why he was worth trading up for, gaining 38 yards on 3 carries. To mix things up a bit, instead of letting the league’s leading passer, Roger Staubach, air one out, the Cowboys elected a bit of trickery. A wide-receiver reverse-pass play resulted in a Drew Pearson fumble. Tight end Billie Joe Dupree, the intended receiver, had broken free but the handoff went awry. The Cowboys had practiced that play for weeks in anticipation of needing it against a stout and aggressive defensive opponent. The moment was right but the execution wasn’t. The Steelers took over near midfield and a few plays later, Terry Bradshaw connected with John Stallworth on a 28-yard touchdown pass. Similarly, the Cowboys capitalized on a Bradshaw fumble late in the first quarter to tie the score on a Staubach–Tony Hill pass. Taking advantage of an all-out blitz, Hill beat his man in single coverage and the Cowboys scored the only first-quarter touchdown the Steelers defense allowed that season. In my mind, that could have possibly been the only touchdown either side would surrender. The game might have come down to a battle of the kickers.

The second quarter opened with the Dallas D doing its thing. Mike Hegman and Hollywood Henderson blitzed. Bradshaw tried to evade them, and did initially, but he ran into his own Franco Harris. He dropped the ball but picked it up. Hegman and Henderson double-teamed him, with the former stripping the ball loose and running it into the end zone. The Cowboys were up 14–7 and the Steelers had turned the ball over on three straight possessions. That lead didn’t last long. Three plays into the following possession John Stallworth turned a 10-yard completion into a 75-yard touchdown with a combination of breaking a tackle and patiently waiting for blockers to join him downfield. Just before halftime, and taking advantage of a Staubach interception, a Bradshaw to Rocky Bleier touchdown strike gave the Steelers the edge at 21–14.

Following the lengthy halftime show, both offenses struggled as the defenses asserted themselves. The most notable play came with about three minutes left in the third quarter. On third down from the Steelers’ ten, Roger went back to pass. Jackie Smith broke free and was wide open in the end zone. From our vantage point, it looked like a sure touchdown. Roger threw the ball softly, Smith seemed to struggle to keep his feet beneath him, and the ball bounced off the veteran’s hands. I flashed back to that earlier interview with him and his wish to contribute with a big play in a Cowboy victory. Instead, that dropped pass has gone down as one of the great gaffes in Super Bowl history. As Roger told me later, he didn’t put a whole lot on the pass. Smith himself said that the ball was low but catchable. What really troubled Roger is that the play as called was designed to go five yards. When the call came in, he tried to get Landry to change the play selection. All Tom said was to run it. They did, and maybe that bit of confusion resulted in the drop. Difficult to say, but 9.9 times out of ten Roger delivers a strike and Smith makes the catch. One of those what-ifs, I guess.

I benefited from that dropped pass. I remember my call: “Bless his heart, he’s got to be the sickest man in America.” NFL Films used that bit of audio in their production, and it got me a fair bit of attention then and down the line. I suppose that it’s true in so many sporting moments that we all treasure—one man’s pleasure is another man’s pain. How many of us remember who it was that Dwight Clark beat in the end zone to catch Joe Montana’s pass against the Cowboys in 1982? Well, I do, but that’s part of my job. It was Everson Walls, a rookie who made the Pro Bowl for an outstanding freshman campaign with 11 interceptions and one fumble recovery. He’s forever immortalized for that year on the countless posters that were sold depicting “the Catch.” Hardly seems fair, but so it goes.

Later on, after learning about the confusion about the play call, I’d wondered a bit about how that figured into a pattern with Tom Landry. A couple of times he was apparently unsure of down and distance and sent in plays that weren’t right for the situation. I don’t mean to speak ill of the man, but a lot of speculation swirled around him and whether or not he had begun to lose command as a head coach. I’m not trying to point fingers or assign blame, and just as that Jackie Smith drop was one of dozens of plays in that Super Bowl, it does take on exaggerated importance due to the circumstances. Jackie had played for so long and played so well. I immediately felt bad for him, but there was still plenty of time left in the game. I hoped that he’d get a chance to redeem himself.

As sometimes happens, a questionable officiating call helped determine the game’s outcome. From his own 44, Bradshaw drifted back to pass and spotted Lynn Swann downfield. Benny Barnes was in coverage and it seemed to me, and to a lot of others, that Swann ran into him. The call should have been no call—incidental contact. Instead, Fred Swearingen—the referee during the Steelers’ Immaculate Reception game—called pass interference on Barnes. Wrong call but it gave the Steelers a first down at the Cowboys’ 23.

Two plays later, Hollywood Henderson got involved in a mix-up. On third-and-four from the 17, the whistle blew just before the snap. Most players stopped, but Hollywood didn’t. He took down Bradshaw. He later claimed that he didn’t hear the whistle. Franco Harris came to his quarterback’s defense, and it looked like things could get ugly, but they didn’t. Pittsburgh was assessed a five-yard penalty for delay of game, nullifying the 12-yard loss resulting from the Henderson nonsack. The weirdness went on. On the very next play, Bradshaw handed off to Harris, who went untouched from the 22 into the end zone. He was ably assisted by a “block” from Umpire Art Demmas, who got in the way of safety Charlie Waters. Things like that happen with the officials being in the middle of the action, but it was certainly frustrating.

A two-touchdown deficit in the fourth quarter was a lot to overcome. Things got even a bit more odd after that. Pittsburgh’s kicker seemed to slip as he approached the ball on the ensuing kickoff. It traveled, bouncing and skidding to the Cowboys’ 24, where lineman Randy White tried to corral it. Playing with a cast on his broken left hand, White failed to secure the ball. Tony Dungy was in on the hit that produced the fumble. The Steelers wasted no time in cashing in. Bradshaw hit Swann in the end zone. Thirty-five to seventeen Pittsburgh with seven minutes left.

My mind was spinning with so much going on in so short a time. That would continue. Down three touchdowns, it would have been easy for the Cowboys and Roger to wave the white flag. They didn’t. With some of the Steelers’ players celebrating on the sidelines, the Cowboys continued to work. Roger scrambled for a huge 18-yard gain on third-and-eleven; Dorsett ripped off a 29-yard run; Roger threw for seven yards to Billy Joe Dupree for a touchdown.

The 89-yard, eight-play drive took up a healthy chunk of time. I can still picture Roger in the backfield standing, waiting, drifting around as he waited for receivers to come open against the Steelers’ prevent defense. One sideline ball to Dupree seemed to hang in the evening sky forever before it parachuted into the tight end’s arms. I bet if the referee checked the ball he would have discovered burn marks from its reentry into the earth’s atmosphere.

With 2:23 left, the Cowboys lined up for an onside kick. Everyone knew what was up. Rafael Septien did his job getting the ball to travel along the ground for the necessary ten yards. But that ball rolled along the ground like a weak grounder off the bat of a jammed hitter. It just didn’t do a thing that you would expect of an oblong object. Number twenty-one of the Steelers bent down to field it like an infielder with plenty of time to spare. While the ball didn’t go through his legs Bill Buckner–style, it did bounce through Tony Dungy’s hands and into the arms of Cowboy rookie defensive back Dennis Thurman. He went down on his own 48-yard line.

A single second wound off the clock. A short time later, facing fourth and 18, Drew Pearson found an opening and Roger found him for a 25-yard gain. Eventually, Roger and Butch Johnson hooked up on a 4-yard touchdown with just 22 seconds left. The extra point cut the Steelers’ lead to 35–31. Could the Cowboys count on another miracle and recover a second onside boot?

Hope springs eternal but it wasn’t to be. Septien’s second attempt was even more of a dribbler and the sure-handed Rocky Bleier—the Vietnam War veteran turned running back—made the easy recovery. A valiant effort, as the saying goes, but it did fall short.

I’ve never been a fan of broadcasters talking about the betting line. I know that millions and millions of dollars are bet on Super Bowls and regular season games. Maybe I’m old-fashioned or naïve, but I never wanted that to be a part of the story line. Same here. The Cowboys fell short and those two late-game touchdowns provided a whole lot of excitement and kept hope alive deep in the heart of Texas and elsewhere.

There were enough what-if incidents to keep fans busy for years. Folks would be able to spin tales of what might have been. As I see it, that’s a kind of victory, too. A lot of folks think that Terry Bradshaw had the last laugh on the Cowboys and Thomas “Hollywood” Henderson. He asked if Henderson knew how to spell MVP. Terry had been awarded that honor for his stellar performance in the game. That would put a neat bow around the story. But I kind of like this one; there’s more to it than that.

Henderson didn’t last long with the Cowboys. Eventually his descent into drug abuse, particularly crack cocaine, led to his arrest and time in prison. He eventually got clean and sober. He won the Texas lottery and used some of the funds to establish an antidrug foundation. Henderson still travels widely, speaking to young people about the perils of illicit drugs. His story illustrates the power of human beings to change and to make an impact in this life. That’s a moral victory worth talking about. He’s someone to cheer for.

And then there was Roger, who’d almost pulled off yet another improbable comeback. By the time he retired in March 1980, Roger had accumulated 15 fourth-quarter comeback victories and had led his team to 23 game-winning drives. (A game-winning drive is the offensive scoring drive in the fourth quarter or overtime that puts the winning team ahead for the last time.) One of my favorites of those fourth-quarter comebacks was his last. On December 16, 1979, the Redskins came to town. Among sports rivalries, for my money the Cowboys and Redskins battles back then were at the top of the list. Subsequent years and exposure to other games have me dropping it down a few pegs, but at the time, there was nothing like ’Skins versus the ’Boys.

That 1979 game was memorable because the stakes were somewhat high. A great comeback is a beauty to behold, but it doesn’t climb to the top of my charts if the results aren’t of any real consequence. The two teams came into the regular season finale with identical 10-5 records. The division title was on the line. That 1979 team got off to a great start, going 8-2 before a three-game November losing streak had everyone on edge and the phone lines buzzing with “What’s-wrong-with-the-Cowboys” calls. The defense had suffered some losses due to retirement, injury, and Ed “Too Tall” Jones ignoring his nickname and deciding he could be a professional boxer.

Perhaps fittingly, that December 16 game in front of a packed and raucous house in Irving, a suburb of Dallas, had the qualities of a championship boxing match. The Cowboys climbed up off the canvas a couple of times. The Redskins were led by future broadcaster and then quarterback Joe Theisman and the punishing running back John Riggins. The Cowboys decided to play Santa Claus in the early going. Rookie running back Ron Springs and the fireplug Robert Newhouse both fumbled. The Redskins converted both turnovers into points and led early, 10–0. A second-quarter Theisman pass had them down 17–0. As we always say in those situations, because it’s true, there was still a lot of time left and no need to panic. A pair of long second-quarter drives pulled the Cowboys within three at halftime. The second of those was culminated by an amazing Preston Pearson sliding catch in the end zone. That drive was vintage Roger and the Cowboys’ offense that year. Taking possession with just 1:48 to go before halftime and 85 yards to the end zone, he ran the two-minute offense to perfection.

The third quarter belonged to the Cowboys. Newhouse punched one in from the two-yard line and the defense punched holes in the Redskins’ offensive line. The Cowboys went into the fourth quarter up 21–17. Seemingly in no time, the Redskins rattled off 17 straight points. The backbreaker seemed to be Riggins rumbling 66 yards with just under seven minutes to play, which had the visitors up 34–21. As usual, turnovers were key. Roger threw an interception that led to the first of those fourth-quarter touchdowns. Turnabout is fair play and Randy White recovered a Redskins fumble.

Roger went to work. From his own 41 and with about four minutes left, he completed a 14-yarder to Butch Johnson, a 19-yarder to Tony Hill, and then a 26-yard scoring pass to Ron Springs. The touchdown had as much to do with tenacity as talent. Springs caught the ball at the five and dragged the defender into the end zone. Not only did he provide points; he saved precious time on the clock.

Despite giving up 34 points, the defense deserves a lot of credit for the win. Larry Cole threw John Riggins to the turf on a third-down run that set the stage for Roger’s heroics. Taking over at their own 25 and with less than two minutes to go, they got big chunks of the 75 yards needed on the first two plays—completions to Hill for 20 and Preston Pearson for 22. With 1:01 left, Roger hit Pearson for another 25-yarder, putting the team in great position at the Washington eight. On second down from there, Washington chose to blitz. The offensive line picked it up and Roger saw it. He lofted a pass to the deep right corner of the end zone for Tony Hill. It climbed and climbed then settled into the veteran wide receiver’s hands after he beat single coverage.

For the day, Roger completed 24 of 42 passes for 336 yards and 3 touchdowns. Not stellar completion numbers but the results were then. When he really needed to be on target and unflappable, he was. That was Roger. As Tom Landry later pointed out, Roger had pulled them out of the fire before and that contributed greatly to his and the team’s confidence he would do it again. Much later, in speaking to an interviewer from NFL Films, Landry characterized Roger’s performance as his best ever. In my estimation, the 1972 and 1979 efforts are equal.

I wish that I could have witnessed the 1979 comeback in person. I was in Japan on assignment with ABC. My body was in Tokyo but my mind was back home. Brad Sham and Charlie Waters took over for me. I relied on my brother Tom, who was also in the booth, to keep me posted. We were on the phone for that final drive, and when the touchdown came, Tom dropped the phone to scream and jump around. He forgot to tell me who caught the pass, a significant detail. He should have been flagged for a delay of game. It took several minutes before I got the details of the victory.

Greatness comes in many forms and what Roger said after the game demonstrates how great his character was: “They deserve a better fate than to be knocked out of the playoffs,” he said, knowing that because the Bears wiped out the Cardinals the ’Skins lost the wild card due to point differential. “They’re a fine team and played well. It’s a shame that someone had to lose. Both teams played with a lot of emotion.” A cynic might say that Roger resorted to tried-and-true clichés in victory. I know him very well and his words of praise were genuine. Many thought that the Cardinals, with no shot at the playoffs, maybe phoned it in against the Bears. The Redskins seemed a sure bet, win or lose that game, but they went home empty-handed. Well, not completely so; there was another turnover. An anonymous fan had sent a funeral wreath to the Cowboys locker room. After that crushing defeat, Harvey Martin paid his respects by taking that floral arrangement to the Redskins’ locker room. He opened the door and tossed it in. Adding injury to insult, the wreath hit Redskins kicker Mark Moseley in the knee, opening up a small cut. Small cut or large gash didn’t matter; the hurt was the same.

I wish I could tell you that the Cowboys went on to play in their sixth Super Bowl of the 1970s following that rousing victory. I wish I could tell you that Roger rallied the team from behind in their divisional round game against the Los Angeles Rams. I am glad I can report that Roger Staubach, despite not producing a fourth-quarter comeback in that 21–19 loss, has continued to live happily ever after. In light of what we know now about the effects of concussions on the brains of athletes and others, I’m not going to speculate on what might have been as it pertains to Roger’s decision to end his playing career following that season. Roger told me that he’d made up his mind to retire.

One of my lasting memories of that loss to Los Angeles is of Roger taking a serious hit and wobbling to the sidelines. Backup quarterback Danny White immediately began throwing. He didn’t enter the game, but it was clear to me that the punishing hit Roger took limited his effectiveness. Like Don Meredith’s last game, Roger’s was anticlimactic. Roger was hit as he threw his final pass of his career. The ball was deflected and hit his own lineman, Herb Scott, in the rear end. So few athletes retire on top with a glorious and unforgettable play enshrined in our memories. As fans or observers it’s hard to let go of our heroes. Imagine how hard it is for the players to let go of the game they love.

Just days after he retired, Roger confided in me. He said that he was concerned about his health and the effect his concussions might have on him down the line. He’d likely suffered as many as seven of them. He played when tape an aspirin to your forehead was the league’s concussion protocol. We’d talked a bit about them, but Roger had never sounded so concerned before.

He told Tex of his decision to hang them up. A few weeks later, Tex called him and said that he understood about Roger’s worries. (Keep in mind that this was decades before the medical evidence about CTE we take for granted today was available.) Tex wanted him to reconsider. Not everyone within the organization believed that Danny would be effective as a starting quarterback in the league. Tex offered Roger a substantial raise if he came back for another go.

Roger considered the offer and eventually told Tex that if Landry wanted him back and called him to tell him as much, he’d return. Roger is still waiting for that call. I’m no mind reader and no psychologist, but it seems to me that Tom was constitutionally incapable of making that kind of request of a player. I’ve also wondered if Roger knew that as well. Tom wasn’t one to kowtow to any player. I’m sure he thought that he was a strong enough coach that he could lead the team back to the playoffs and the team’s accustomed perch atop the league.

In hindsight, I’m glad that Tom didn’t reach out to Roger. I’m sad for the team, for the game, but seeing Roger enjoying his retirement free of any effects of chronic traumatic encephalopathy is a real blessing. I’m sorry that so many players have suffered from pursuing their passion. It pains me to know that some individuals put profit and winning ahead of player safety. Whether that was willful or benign neglect doesn’t really matter as far as treatment, prevention, and restitution go. I was fortunate to make a great living and to enjoy the heck out of covering a great sport. That a shadow has been cast over the sport deeply troubles me. I hope that minds greater than mine are at work on ways to mitigate the problems. I don’t like thinking of a sports world without the game of football in it.