Jerry was seething.
There he sat, in his Emperor’s Chair, family in tow, while the enemy danced a happy jig in his self-aggrandizing Cathedral of Monstrosity, laughing in his face all the while. He was the star attraction in a football freak show.
It was humiliating in a way money and booze can’t soothe.
Don’t be fooled. Yes, Jerry does care more about green than red or blue, but the Occupation he witnessed Sunday didn’t render a single extra dollar his way. In fact, it cost him because Niners fans don’t buy jerseys, regalia, and nighties from Victoria Secret if they’re littered with Cowboy stars. Beer cashes the same no matter which jerseys are lined up at the men’s room, but not in greater quantity.
And Jerry didn’t see an extra dime from the triple-price bailout his season-ticket holders opted for either. It certainly didn’t entice the outside Cowboy fandom to dig deep for its loose change, and it hasn’t in a while. It only seems to inspire the antagonists to arise in well-adorned unity and great numbers.
Tim McMahon of ESPN rightly questioned our football man about the overwhelming 49er presence, and Jerry responded like a petulant child. “Did you count them?” Jerry countered sharply. “I know you didn’t.” Again, embarrassing. Right up there with “I’m rubber and you’re glue…..”
Jerry’s rebuttal showed his butthurt. Jerry’s not in denial, he just refuses to admit what is painfully obvious, and he won’t give McMahon, or anyone, the satisfaction of his admission. This is after all the same empty suit clinging to his General Manager title in the face of mass ineptitude. He remains his only supporter in that regard, including kin most likely.
He saw it Sunday. I was there, not far from Jerry’s perch, and he couldn’t help but see it, no matter how much Johnny Walker Blue was coursing through his dilated veins.
This isn’t supposed to be a trait of home games. It’s what Cowboy fans famously do elsewhere in foreign stadia. (Jerry oddly seems to think this started in the early 90s, oblivious to how the “America’s Team” moniker originated.) The frequency here at home, unfortunately, is increasing at an alarming rate and at higher percentages. The Steelers took over, as did the Packers. The Saints, Texans, Eagles, and perhaps the Colts may have momentum to do the same, thanks to the 49er showing.
AT&T Stadium is now a renowned haven for other team’s fans, and the undeniable truth is, it’s entirely Jerry’s fault. Loyalty has a price, and he’s exceeded it with his superficial palace of mediocrity, false promises, stubborn incompetence, and endless drunken gaffes. It’s embarrassing to us all, but what do you do about Uncle Jerry when he won’t stop drinking and feeling up the bridesmaids? He paid for the dadgum wedding.
It could be so different. There’s much still to like about Jerry, and he could so easily be our beloved owner with a business mind akin to the original visionaries of the NFL. Instead, he’s that other guy, pretzel bent over Jimmy Johnson to this day, arguing that the world is still flat and the moon is made of cheese.
So, stuck here in neutral, allow me to offer a silver lining to this ominous thunderhead.
Jerry is growingly bothered and humiliated, you can tell. Sunday’s crowd and performance cherry-topped a summer of strippers in bathrooms, party buses, and published introspectives dripping in high-dollar moonshine. The walls of reality are closing in, even if the day of change remains a view from the wrong end of the binoculars.
You can see Jerry sweating. That’s a start. To what, I’m not exactly sure.
