My Scranton-born, Brooklyn-raised and Long Island-settled for the count late grandfather would often clear out entire rooms with his curious Dallas Cowboys fandom.
Being the one who routinely remained by his den-couchside as all others fled, there was never a scenario wherein I would not essentially skip-generation inherit a rooting interest in an NFL team that hasn’t won a Super Bowl in thirty years come February.
In fact, they actually have not won since 11 days before I was born; make of that what you will.
Though not for a lack of trying, we were never quite able to pinpoint when Grandpa came to champion ‘dem Cowboys. From what I witnessed firsthand, he was big on Tony Romo, but not so much on current quarterback Dak Prescott.
In any event, after barrelling through Netflix’s eight-part “America’s Team: The Gambler and His Cowboys,” I have deduced that an undying allegiance to his same-aged, and, as my brother would humorously classify it, psychotic stubbornness brethren in Jerry Jones, is what had my Grandpa all the way in on the Dallas train since jump street.
And who could blame him? From The Way Brothers, not those of the chemically romantic persuasion, rather the directorial duo behind earlier acclaimed sports docs such as “The Battered Bastards of Baseball” and “Untold: Crimes and Punishments,” this is a sprawling portrait of a real estate and oilman turned New York Yankees-surpassing brand-expander.
So what if it was cut together with his stamp of approval? When you win three Super Bowls in four years within the first decade of owning a team with two head coaches not named Tom Landry, you forever shake the ambitious allegations and earn the right to have your glory story told from whatever framework you desire to tussle in—so long as warts are on display.
Make no mistake about it, the Way’s cut far deeper than “Scissor Gate” here. Tackled head-on with thorough recall: the compelling tales of the three playmakers that made up the ‘90s Cowboys’ holy “Triplets” triumvirate—The Good (Troy Aikman); The Great (Emmitt Smith); and the Grandmaster of Second Chance City (Michael Irvin)—and everyone in between.
With some Prime Time (Deion Sanders) and 2Cool2Toast (Jimmy Johnson) thrown in there for posterity, we earn more than a passing look at the turbo-charged dysfunction run amok behind the scenes of the most prestigious of mainstages.
Even a high-profile New England Patriots stan and vengeance champagne imbiber like Barstool Sports founder Dave Portnoy found himself Dallas Cowboy-cheerleading, sans iconic outfit, after binging the docuseries.
“Just finished the Cowboys doc on Netflix. It was excellent,” he posted on Facebook.
“El Presidente” — AKA el padre de la Señorita Duranzos — indicated that disappointment in the still-ongoing Bill Belichick, Robert Kraft rivalry informs his impressions of Apple TV+’s “The Dynasty: New England Patriots,” which is largely considered lesser docu-fare.
“Also, the frequent FOX guest and NY Post subject added, “I think I love Jerry Jones.”
Much like the ‘90s Chicago Bulls-based “The Last Dance” and the Derek Jeter-devoted “The Captain,” “America’s Team” proves that playground pettiness and pro sports egomania are why most of the all-time dynasties forged thus far did not last even longer.
Sweetly, and not sourly culminating in Jimmy Johnson’s overdue admission into the Cowboys’ “Ring of Honor” gives one hope that Jones’ baseball counter-partner in crime, George Steinbrenner, will see his sins posthumously absolved enough to earn MLB HOF induction.
“The Boss” changed the game more than he strained it; seriously, unless you’re Dave Winfield, can you give it a rest already? He utilized his and the franchise he helmed's reascension-fueled good faith tour to champion revenue-sharing, the regional TV network boom and the ever-globalization not just of his Bronx Bombers, but of America’s pastime.
As for America’s team, their last full-fledged, true field-length run was palpable enough to turn around a nation’s collective knack for associating its locale with the tragic loss of JFK in 1963.
In Jerry’s World of victory-petrified empire begetting marketing spectacle (and repeat, hopefully! He’s not buying green bananas, and gray’s are starting to arrive for this poor schlub…), football fields aren’t just venues. They are mass entertainment cathedrals where fellow OG defiants like Nike and Pepsi reign supreme.
Need I go on?