Draw your own conclusions.
As founder of The Warren Report, Warren Etheredge hosts over 250 events every year,
a podcast and television series. The Warren Report promotes "slow culture" through commentary, outreach,
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Jerry Jones must love FIELD OF DREAMS
Last night, 105, 121 ticket-buyers (and presumably, fans) engorged Cowboys Stadium — the team’s brand-new $1.2 billion office park — to witness the team’s grudge match against divisional rivals, the New York Giants. The crowd smashed a record for attendance at a regular-season NFL game. Even folks typically inured to football mania (and indifferent to the Emmys) were, likely, exposed to the televised hype surrounding the opening of this gargantuan arena, teasingly referred to as the Jones Mahal. It may be a wiser comparison than the wags realized. Yes, the joke may be that the intent of the stadium, born of Jones’ ego, is to stand as one of the modern, man-made Wonders of the World. Surely, its size, scope and sheer audacity compels one to consider it’s the first American sporting venue designed by Albert Speer. However, there may be a greater irony in the comparison to the Indian tourist attraction and that is in the original structure’s raison d’etre. Let’s remember, the Taj Mahal isn’t just a photo op in Agra, it’s a mausoleum. (Shah Jahan built it, mourning the loss of his third wife, Mumtaz Mahal, who died delivering their fourteenth child.) And despite the grandeur of Cowboys Stadium, given today’s troubling economic free-fall — or, from a robber-baron’s perspective, free-for-all — it may also represent the final resting place for corporate capitalism and Texas-style consumerism. (You can wash down that $10 dish of Truffled Macaroni & Cheese with a $14 Cowboyrita!) Hard to imagine public and private financing pairing again to break-ground for such a mammoth, limited-use structure.
But Jerry Jones built it. The fans came. They saw (the action on the field and the world’s largest video screen). Only, the Cowboys forgot to conquer. They lost, 33-31, on the literal last-second, a Giants’ field goal spoiling the home-team’s inaugural party. Of course, the defeat was not in the game plan. The oil-baron-turned-owner-and-general manager had essentially promised that his ‘Boys would rise to the level of the edifice. (This is as ridiculous a notion as raising an idiot’s test scores by letting him take the SATs at Harvard.) Just before the game, Dallas’ Pro Bowl linebacker, DeMarcus Ware, repeated what so many others had claimed, that the team would win buoyed by the raucous support of the apocryphal “12th Man.” And herein, lies today’s lesson.
Every team trumpets The 12th Man, the notion that the presence and volume of their fans at home games gives them a distinct advantage. The crowd will generate so much noise that visiting offenses will be penalized for false-starts and delays-of-game overwhelmed by chants of “D-Fence” or “Suck it!” or whatever it is beer-barreled, booze-fueled supporters scream. And, on occasion, it appears the crowd can make a difference. (The Seahawks honor their un-drafted “teammates” with their very own flag!) But I’d argue the impact of The 12th Man is about as great as the Prophet Elijah‘s. Jews save him a seat at every seder and every circumcision, but I don’t think he’s drinking the wine or taking tips. (As Gentiles might protest: ignorance is bris.) The 12th Man is a brilliant, psychological strategy, co-opted by marketers to maintain the interest and attendance of followers. And, in my own way, I have fallen for it since I was five. I have believed that my behavior actually influences the games. If I just complete certain rituals in prescribed orders, the Cowboys will win. If I don’t, they will lose. Over the years, my superstitions have evolved from rhythmic chants to abstinence before games to positive visualization. And as absurd as they all must sound, even to me — and I’m leaving out some of the doozies — I still find it difficult to fully debunk the probability of their effect in writing. I am devoted to my team and need to believe there is a causal connection between my spectatorship and the team’s fortunes. But there simply isn’t. And while my fandom is quixotic, at best, any football player’s belief in the 12th Man ought be certifiable. For whether we are on the turf or in the stands, we must recognize that our victories and defeats come by our own hands. The Dallas Cowboys did not lose last night because the Giants got lucky. They did not lose because neither I nor the hundred thousand plus in attendance didn’t draw the opponents offsides. They lost on their own terms. They did not play well when they absolutely had to. Tony Romo threw three interceptions. Yes, one was fluky, but the others surely were not. Felix Jones fumbled a kick-off having felt less contact than a frotteur in a straight-jacket. Orlando Scandrick approached tackles as if reaching for a figurative brass ring. If the Cowboys are to achieve post-season success for the first time in over a dozen years, they must not depend on the 12th Man. They must hold themselves accountable for their miscues as diligently as they celebrate their touchdowns. If I wish to reach the next level of success professionally, I must stop counting on the sudden, divine appearance and intervention of my own, imagined 12th Man, a producer, speaking agent or publisher who will recognize my potential and champion it to the world. I must make the most of opportunities presented, create more on my own and not bungle those I don’t comprehend, certain others might bail me out.
I will always appreciate the support of the faithful but will not presume my fortunes are dependent on them. And, I will continue to struggle to accept that all my superstitious, game-time rites don’t inform the outcome of the games. Last night, I wished the Cowboys had won, but wishing didn’t make it so or Romo throw… more accurately. By embracing accountability, we can triumph.
As James Earl Jones assured Kevin Costner: “This field, this game: it’s a part of our past… It reminds of us of all that once was good and… could be again.”