By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Eric Nicholson
"We done!" Irvin scream-laughed to any media within a three-mile radius that afternoon. "Let's go baptize this baby!"
On the way to Cowboys Sports Café in Valley Ranch, we made the necessary arrangements to go swervin' with Irvin. Sucked dry an ATM. Called in a pre-emptive sick day. Updated the life insurance policy. The man with the 17-member family, the 24-karat charisma and the 300SL Mercedes Convertible with the "PLY MKR" plates was about to direct the next episode of Michael Mania.
"Everything's on me!" Irvin announced, dishing out bottles--not glasses, mind you--of Dom Perignon champagne. Owner Jerry Jones gave a toast. Michael gave a toast. And then, poof, we spewed bubbly through our nostrils in disbelief.
"Y'all do it up right, you hear?" Irvin shouted as he bolted for the door. "I've got a football season to get ready for."
Suburban legend has it that Irvin soon thereafter rekindled his nightlife zest. But that night, like you, we didn't believe he was poopin' his own party. Until we spotted Irvin well after midnight--working out in the Cowboys' weight room.
Now: Ring of Honor. Later: Hall of Fame. Forever: Three Kings.
You'd have to be crazier than Ray to think we'll ever be treated to three more productive, provocative Cowboys in the same huddle than Troy, Emmitt and Michael.
Even if they aren't triplets.
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