Thursday, January 8, 2015

Cowboys vs Lions Wild Card Recap



I am alone. I sit on the couch with the lights off, the blackout curtains drawn, and the ceiling fan rhythmically whirring above me. I have a cold beer nearby, and alcohol slightly further out of reach. You know, just in case this game goes the way I think it will. My soulless eyes, which normally serve as a window to my broken spirit, reflect the FOX pregame show. My eyes glaze over as they build the narratives around the game. It is the first time in history one of the leading stories in a playoff matchup began with the sentence “Barry Church had this to say.” It’s finally over. They’ve given their picks. Rob Riggle has wiped whatever was left of a smile off my face. Footage of Romo bobbling the snap is shown. I clutch my beer tightly. 

It’s time. 

Dallas starts with the ball. I am beginning to sweat. I don’t know if it’s a result of my nerves or the protective blanket cocoon I’ve enclosed myself in. The team I’ve cheered for my entire life, the team I’ve watched fail me time and time again has a chance to prove all the doubters wrong and make a statement. They can go out there on a national stage and oh they went 3 and out. Well. Ok. 

Maybe things will get a bit better on the defensive side of the ball. And maybe I’ll find a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Before we get ahead of ourselves, we get a punt return by Golden Tate and OOOOOH BITCH JUST CALL IT NOW THIS SHIT IS A WRAP


The player responsible for this hit is CJ Spillman. Not to be confused with CJ Spiller, he is human garbage who has been accused of rape. I want nothing to do with him on my team and the fact that he wasn’t released the second the charges were filed sickens me to my core, especially since he’s nothing more than a special teams player, but did you guys SEE that hit? Innocent until proven guilty, am I right guys? The only thing he’s forcing himself into is Golden Tate’s stupid face. Up top hahahahaha charges pending

Dallas' offense sputtered and punted but I have my beer in my hand and am hypocritically cheering loudly for the years that have been taken from Tate’s life. Detroit's offense takes the field. I nervously look around the room at nothing in particular and take a long drink. Ok guys, the offense laid an egg. Let’s make a stand. Barack Hussein Church, you said you were going to get back at Golden Tate. Put up or shut up, now’s your chance to sh-

God
Dammit

Well. That went poorly. What a coincidence, this bottle that was half full minutes ago is suddenly empty. The offense is just taking the field and I should probably wait or pause the TV, but this is a small apartment. I’ll just run in the kitchen, grab a cold bottle, take a piss, and get right back before I miss anything big.  

I’m back and why is our punter on the field? Guys. Guys please. Holy shit the punt is downed at the half yard line. I’m not saying I want special teams to be our best unit on the field, but if we compare Dallas’ to Detroit’s then I think I like my odds. 

Third down. Punting from their own endzone. We’ve shit the bed twice on offense but maybe some good field position will change our fa- why is there a flag. I don’t care that the defender literally fell into the punter and it would be a penalty in any game for any team in any year, this is a bullshit call and the refs are obviously out to get us. 

Please let me die here
 
I drink half of the bottle while staring at him laying on the ground. It is the sight of a man who wants nothing more than to die right there on the spot. A man wearing a Cowboys jersey who just wants it all to be mercifully over. I look down at my Chinese knockoff Dez Bryant jersey and silently nod in acknowledgement. 

The much maligned defense holds up. It’s 3rd and long and Stafford scrambles. I’m on the edge of my seat until I see Patmon make contact well before the first down marker and I recline backwards waiting for the punt team to take the field - only to immediately jerk right back up and scream a garbled mess of words and whimpers. 



Hey dipshit, try Digivolving into something that can take down a frat bro. 

99 and a half yards. That’s how long the scoring drive is. On a drive that should have ended with a punt out of their own endzone, they march down the length of the field, eat up clock, wear out our defense, and punch me square in my big fat gut. On the Reggie Bush touchdown run I quietly put down the now empty bottle, walk into the kitchen again, return with a glass, and pour myself a glass of rum with just a pinch of Dr. Pepper. I let it happen again. I talked myself into how unimpressive Detroit’s offense has been all season and how vulnerable their secondary was. I let myself have hope only for that fucking gargoyle of a GM to rip it away from me. This god damned happiness vampire took the one bit of joy in my heart and stomped it out to feed himself. I will lay in bed for the next 3 days and he will live to be 107. 

Dallas’ offense finally begins to put a drive together. Jason Witten converts a third down - but there’s a flag on the play. Because of course there is. Offensive pass interference on number 83, Terrence Williams. The stadium, which 30 minutes ago was louder than I’ve ever heard it before, is as silent as my room when I stare at the ceiling at night. 
No sooner do the words “You know, other than that play in Seattle, Williams hasn’t done jack shit” leave my mouth before the first signs of life happen.

Fun fact: him streaking into the endzone was the first and only time Dallas’s offense was in Detroit territory for the entire first half. 

My grip on the glass loosens, but I will not be fooled again. 

Halftime comes and goes. I shove greasy food into my stupid face while the FOX crew tries to convince me that Andy Dalton isn’t really that bad. I don’t hear a word of it. The combination of alcohol and panic have turned me into a ticking time bomb. The only question is if I will explode in anger or burst into tears and call up imaginary ex-girlfriends. 

The first play of the second half is a Matthew Stafford tipped interception. My eyes widen in the kind of excitement that can only be attained by the numbing embrace of alcohol or Taco Bell. A smile creeps on my face. “Finally” creeps out of my lips to no one in particular. 

What follows is a sack on third down and a field goal attempt. The one thing I’ve been able to rely on about the Cowboys - more so even than the inevitable heartbreak and existential crises of why I even follow a sport that makes me so miserable - is Dan Bailey. The graphic is right there on the screen. 

Hello darkness my old friend

Wide.

Right.

These are the times I am positive there is a God, because I can’t imagine that a mass of cosmic nothingness enjoys watching me be this miserable. An interception comes away with no points. The only solution is to drink until I’m cross eyed. If I can’t feel things, it can’t hurt me anymore. It’s basic math. 

Turns out my math was right and the numbers added up. I’m not going to lie, up until Dez’s big catch and run, most of the game is a blur. It's 20-7 Detroit and I slow down the drinking because I'm ready to embrace death without knowing the outcome of the game. The Cowboys score and make it 20-14 by, and I shit you not, going for it on 4th down. 

I don’t remember particular plays, only yelling out loud like a deranged man. Joe Buck mentions that Brandon Carr has become a better tackler and I Gronk spike an empty can of Mountain Dew and yell “GEE I CAN’T IMAGINE WHY.” I watch a Romo who has been hit 10 times try to evade the rush only to get destroyed. In my drunken haze all I see is the Thanksgiving game. 

Most of it is a blur until The Penalty. He announces pass interference and I watch the replay and mutter to myself “Pettigrew sure does have a big ole handful of facemask.” It’s the typical coping mechanism when a penalty doesn’t go your way and you’re convinced that the other team is to blame. But then the flag is picked up. Joe sounds confused. Troy sounds confused. I look confused. I smack myself in the face a couple of times to get the cobwebs out and turn the volume up. They picked up the flag. I look at the corner of the screen. It says 4th down. I look around the room nervously like I just looked off the test of the person next to me and the teacher didn’t notice. I don’t dodged a bullet and I’ll live to see another day. Even in my half-sober, too full on frozen pizza fog, I nervously ask no one in particular “…shouldn’t Dez get flagged?” I realize what I said and cover my mouth, terrified that the officials will hear me and make the correct call. 

A call like that is a significant call for any coach. It can either break your mentally or you can show some resolve and march forward and ice the game. It’s 4th and 1. Run that shit right up the gut and march down the field and score a touchdown. It'll be a 3 touchdown lead and essentially end the game.

OR

You can try to draw the defense offsides, take a delay of game penalty, and shank the ball out of bounds. If you’re a punter playing an away game and 2 seconds after making contact with the ball the entire stadium erupts in cheers, it’s probably best to walk straight past the sidelines and wait on the team bus that way they can’t leave you behind. 

I am nearly sober. I watch my team take their first lead. After the picked up flag, Dallas’ offfense gets bailed out by 2 penalties and Tyron Smith gets away with the most egregious hold imaginable on the touchdown throw to Terrence Williams. Sure it looked like a penalty, and it looked like Tyron had his arm around the defensive end’s neck, but if it was a penalty it would have been called. Perfectly valid touchdown to me, god bless. With Dallas taking the lead I give a half hearted fist pump and half-heartedly mumble “fuck yeah.” I have been fooled too many times, ESPECIALLY by Detroit. I will not so much as crack a smile until the clock is all zeros. 

Detroit needs a touchdown with a whole lot of time left. Too much time. My heart is racing uncontrollably and my only hope is that if Detroit scores that it will explode in my chest and I won’t have to live with another offseason of Tony Romo not being clutch enough to win the big game. 

DeMarcus Lawrence, a player we traded up for, hasn’t made a single notable play all year. Until right now. He recovers the fumble and thinks “scoop and score.” He takes a step and

BAZINGA. YAHTZEE. KILL ME.

My body is frozen in existential terror. My eyes widen. My mouth hangs agape. My soul hurts. The Lions recover the ball and with it a fresh set of downs. I whimper. What was once a man (not much of one but still) is now a puppy who has been left in the cold all day. I whimper and whine, desperately hoping for mommy and daddy to make it all better. This can’t be how it ends. I refuse. I knew it would hurt, but it can’t end like this. 


And then the camera cuts to the sidelines.


It sinks in. It was always going to be like this. It always had to be like this. This was inevitable. 

But then…redemption. Lawrence sacks Stafford on fourth down, forces a fumble, recovers it, and the Cowboys…win…a playoff game. Tony Romo hasn’t thrown an interception in December or January. DeMarco Murray hasn’t broken. Dez Bryant hasn’t punched his mother. Jason Garrett is a playoff winning head coach. All these days later and I still can’t believe it. I didn’t give them much of a chance before the season, and even less so after week 1, but after that rally against Detroit all I can say is

 
THE COWBOYS HAVE WON THE SUPER BOWL. THE COWBOYS HAVE WON THE SUPER BOWL. TONY ROMO BEAT THE LIONS AND THE COWBOYS HAVE WON THE SPUER BOWL THERES A PARADE IN DALLAS ALREADY AND TONY'S ON HIS WAY TO DISNEYWORLD

THE COWBOYS HAVE WON THE SUPER BOWL


This was the type of game the Cowboys of the last 5 years lose. They come out flat, give up quick scores, and roll over and die. Romo throws the ball 50 times and inevitebly throws an interception or two. But not his year. The defense played better the longer the game wore on, Romo never lost his poise, and they stuck with the run. You could almost say the game winning touchdown was…clutch. And not a single bit of this will be remembered because this will forever be the game Detroit got screwed out of because of the flag being picked up. All I know is if I’m Matt Stafford I’m thrilled that everyone in Detroit is talking about the refs screwing the Lions and not about fumbling twice on the game winning drive. 

I’m going to savor this win for the next couple of days. I’ve spent all season waiting for the wheels to fall off, but I’m going to enjoy something for once. Romo cemented his legacy and proved everyone wrong, yet all of that will be forgotten on Sunday when the Packers dust the Cowboys by 5 touchdowns. I’ll take it while I can get it because next year Linehan and Marinelli will be coaching somewhere else and Romo will be another year closer to 40. 

Fuck the Eagles.

God bless.





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