One small head start for woman. One giant step backward for women. You know something’s screwy when the first runner to cross the Dallas White Rock Marathon finish line isn’t the winner. And when, in an era of monumental gains by female athletes on the cusp of competing against males…
I was wrong. There, I said it. Wasn’t so bad. Humbling but not horrible. Therapeutic even. Won’t you join me, Bill Parcells? Because you, too, are wrong about Drew Bledsoe. After the Giant debacle two weeks ago I prematurely kick-started the annual Cowboys mystery, “Who’s Next?” As in, the next…
Where are your old baseball cards? I know, silly question. In this interactive era of Madden on your Xbox and madmen chewing buffalo bladders on your TiVo, spreading out sedentary sports cards on your bedroom floor sounds about as entertaining as playing Marco Polo with Helen Keller. Marco!… Marco!… Marco?!…
The PlayFaker: Don’t look now, but a dog just ate Michael Irvin’s homework–again. Buzz tends to be naturally skeptical. And when it comes to high-profile, lowlife athletes blaming anybody but themselves, we turn downright stubborn. In other words: Bullshit. Is Irvin’s excuse technically possible? Yes. But is it even remotely…
There’s a boy buried in your old stack of newspapers. There’s a family in Frisco struggling to give thanks on a holiday muted by tears. Still, they are determined to keep his legacy alive and well. Given the hectic daze of your days, you’ve forgotten Chandler Jackson. Since his midsummer…
You want a tearjerker tale of remorse, rehabilitation and repentance behind bars? Not from Nate Newton. “I didn’t find God in prison,” he says. “All I found was hatred and the devil and dudes scheming up better ways to break the law.” You expect a sappy apology for cutting off…
All I ever needed to know about life, I learned in diapers: Share. Take naps. Burp after every meal. Sports is God. And all I ever needed to know about NASCAR, I learned in Daytona. When a woman walked by. Totally nude. On her hands. Inviting guys to play ring…
Let’s see, Yao Ming is overrated, Shaquille O’Neal is jealous and Erick Dampier is an All-Star. Damn. And you thought the Mavericks center wouldn’t be ready for the NBA season. A billion Chinese usually aren’t wrong. But Dampier, despite last season’s inconsistent and frustrating performance, inexplicably maintains that he’s better…
Bring back Chan Gailey! There, I said it. Now it’s official: I have a severe case of Mad Cowboy Disease. If you’ve suffered through Dallas’ three excruciating losses, you, too, have likely been infected. The symptoms? General grouchiness. Specific sinning. My black lab is in a body cast. Replaced our…
Sitting at his locker following the Cowboys’ overtime escape from the Giants, he put on a gaudy cross necklace that would make P. Diddy blush, then put in perspective a tardiness to a team meeting that evaporated his running back role from 20 carries in last week’s second half to…
Extend your pointer and pinkie for “Hook ’em Horns.” Turn it upside down for “Boomer Sooner.” Retract those two and proudly display your middle finger for a reminder to snobby, greedy officials from both Texas and Oklahoma that “Playing in the Cotton Bowl during the State Fair of Texas is…
Ties were created for Troy Dungan, calf ropin’ and Anna Kournikova’s brother. So by replacing overtime draws with sudden-death shootouts, the NHL got one right. One down, infinity to go. In case you’re one of the oblivious millions, the Dallas Stars are back in business and desperately searching for fans…
Pass the milk and dab your doilies; the Cowboys media is suddenly softer than Tony Siragusa’s third chin. Coach Bill Parcells exhibited all the killer instinct of the Dalai Lama in the catastrophic collapse against the Redskins. His Cowboys ran when they should’ve passed, passed when they should’ve run and…
C’mon, they deserve better than that. Three of the greatest all-time Cowboys treat us to Super Bowl trophies, a gazillion goose bumps and eternal smiles. In appreciation, we bestow upon them a moniker conjured from an implausible genetic connection and the cunning craftiness of counting to one, two, three. Troy…
Who dat? Back in 1987 it was the catchy Cajun battle cry of the NFL’s New Orleans Saints. But last week outside Reunion Arena it was just one of the hundreds of questions from the thousands of evacuees. Is my family alive? How do I get food? Where am I…
Blame the dude in the blue tutu carrying a pink purse. It was Texas Rangers relief pitcher Frankie Francisco, after all, who got all dolled up and hurled this snowball downhill. With his team in the thick of a surprising September pennant race last season, Francisco donned his rookie initiation…
