The dreadlocks are gone. So is the dread.
Not that we’re surprised, but Pacman Jones getting out of NFL commish Roger Goodell’s dog house on parole means – barring a flood at The Men’s Club – the Cowboys can count on him being a part of their 2008. A major part.
Pacman, like Terrell Owens, will not eff up in Dallas. Because he can’t afford it. His status in Goodell’s personal conduct program is basically one and done. He’s survived “making it rain” at a Las Vegas topless club, a dozen incidents involving law enforcement and even walking a $20,000 gambling tab at a casino. If he’s spotless for 90 days Goodell will reinstate him for the regular season.
It’ll happen, right?
But just in case, do us all a favor. If you see Adam Jones out anywhere other than Chuck E. Cheese’s from now until Sept. 1, tell him to skedaddle. (Then, of course, alert me.) For his own good, he better live cleaner than Jesus. There is no wiggle room.
One oops and he’ll be like the classic Kevin Federline commercial: “Jones, fries!” (By the way, anyone see the coincidence of the Scarecrow Bandits going kaput the same day Jones is reinstated? Nope, me neither.)
Jones’ talent is his Teflon. For the Cowboys, starting at tomorrow’s OTA at Valley Ranch, he’ll play cornerback, kick returner and possibly even some receiver. With him as a contributor, the Cowboys are not just contenders for the Super Bowl, but rather clear-cut favorites.
I’m all for second (even third) chances. And when I met Jones at a Mavs game in March he was all “Mr. Whitt” this and “sir” that. In case you haven’t seen him recently, he’s even shorn the dreadlocks.
Pacman’s back on the bike. When tempted, let’s just hope his training wheels don’t allow him to go anywhere riskier than this place.
