Boys Will Be Boys

by Jeff Pearlman

  Though he was recruited strenuously by Syracuse, Louisiana State, and Michigan State, Irvin chose to attend the University of Miami and stay near his family. After redshirting his freshman season, he pieced together the best three-year run in school history, setting career receiving records for catches (143), yards (2,423), and touchdowns (26). To many, what stood out most was his brashness. Irvin accented big plays with spikes and dances and taunts. In his final regular-season collegiate game, a 20–16 win over South Carolina, he caught a 46-yard touchdown pass from Steve Walsh and spent the final 15 yards brandishing the ball in front of the defender. “Mike’s enthusiasm and flash was very real,” says Walsh. “It wasn’t an act or done for show. It’s exactly who he was—a guy who loved playing football.”

  On the day of the 1988 draft, shortly after NFL commissioner Pete Roselle announced that the Cowboys had selected “Marcia Irvin,” Irvin looked into the TV cameras and said, “Go tell [Cowboys quarterback] Danny White I’m going to put him in the Pro Bowl!” Upon entering Valley Ranch for the first time, Irvin spotted a life-sized cardboard cutout of Landry—arms folded, fedora tilted to shade his eyes. Without flinching, Irvin draped his arm around the cardboard coach and loudly excalimed, “He’s my new daddy!”

  Dallas players and officials used to the hangdog status of the franchise were immediately taken aback. Who did this kid think he was? How dare he speak in such a boatsful manner. Yet the Michael Irvin who took the field was (if possible) even brasher than the one who barked his way through press conferences and interview sessions.

  In one of his first training camp scrimmages, Irvin wrestled with a veteran San Diego defensive back named Elvis Patterson and nearly tossed the Charger over a fence—old-school, don’t-fuck-with-a-’Cane style. In his first preseason game as a professional, Irvin burst past Raiders cornerback Terry McDaniel while shouting, “Gotcha, bitch!” Shortly thereafter he was lined up against Mike Haynes, the future Hall of Famer. “I’m in awe,” recalls Irvin, “so I decide I’ve gotta smack him across the helmet real hard, just to establish myself.” SMACK! Haynes’s head snapped back. “Rookie,” he screamed, “do that again and I will fuckin’ kill you.” Irvin was unmoved. He was bold, loud, and obnoxious. Wrote Bernie Miklasz in the Sporting News: “He arrived with a diamond earring, a gold rope chain, indefatigable vocal cords, great hands and the kind of charisma the comatose Cowboys had been missing for years.”

  But Irvin didn’t back it up. As a rookie he caught a pedestrian 32 passes for 654 yards and 5 touchdowns. “When Michael first came to the league he dropped a ton of passes,” says Kelvin Edwards, a Dallas receiver from 1987 to ’89. “I wasn’t impressed.”

  Though his sophomore season, now under Johnson, began with great promise (Irvin caught 26 passes through his first six games), the good times came to a halt on October 15, 1989, when he tore the anterior cruciate ligament in his right knee in a loss to the 49ers at Texas Stadium. While the injury clichés of “He’s a fighter” and “If anyone can beat this, it’s Michael” were immediately invoked, Johnson wasn’t so sure. Why, back in 1988 Johnson had been dumbfounded when the Cowboys took Irvin in the first round. To visiting scouts, he would halfheartedly brag of a “big horse who makes plays and loves to win.” Translation: Irvin was slow and in need of work.

  Now, with a bum knee, Johnson knew Irvin would be even slower. Wasn’t the name of the NFL speed? Weren’t the new Cowboys being built on burst? “Even I was scared,” said Irvin. “For the first time in my life I wasn’t sure of my knee, I wasn’t sure of my ability, I wasn’t sure I could do the things I used to do.” When Irvin finally came back for the fifth game of the 1990 season, he was apprehensive and inconsistent. Raiders owner Al Davis called with a trade offer, and Jones and Johnson listened. There were better options out there—collegiate speedsters waiting to be plucked…free agents…anyone.

  Johnson resisted, and Irvin’s twelve-game totals (20 catches, 413 yards, 5 touchdowns) dazzled nobody.

  Michael Irvin? Who needed Michael Irvin?

  Fortunately for the long-term success of the Cowboys, the answer to that question came in one four-letter word: Norv.

  Not that people were jumping for joy on February 1, 1991, when the Cowboys announced that thirty-eight-year-old Norval “Norv” Turner would be taking over as the team’s offensive coordinator. A former quarterback at the University of Oregon who had never played in the NFL, Turner’s name elicited all the excitement of a T.J. Maxx clearance rack. Turner had spent more than half a decade as an assistant with the Los Angeles Rams, which meant he was a key decision-maker for a franchise that had gone 32–31 over the last four seasons. Whoopee!

  If anything, Turner’s arrival was greeted skeptically. Yes, David Shula was a bland thinker who for the good of the franchise had to be minimized (he was demoted to receivers coach and resigned three weeks later to take a similar position with the Cincinnati Bengals). But why rip one man’s lack of hands-on experience and find a substitute with even less?

  What Irvin, Troy Aikman, Emmitt Smith, and the rest of Dallas’s offensive players quickly learned, however, was that in Turner, the Cowboys had unearthed a visionary. Unlike Johnson, who too often measured worth in 40-yard dashes and 350-pound bench presses, Turner viewed the football field as a chessboard. How can I best attack your defense, and what are the pieces I need to do so? If I send two receivers and a tight end here, what are you going to do there? His entire system was based on speed—not foot speed, but the amount of time it took for a play to unfold. Quick quarterback drops, five-step slants, throwing to spots—that was Turner’s modus operandi. “It was obvious as soon as he got there that Norv was already the best offensive coach in the league,” says Lorenzo Graham, a Dallas running back. “I had never seen a coach like him. He only had about six basic plays he’d run, but he always called them at the perfect time.”

  In Turner’s early days, the media focused on his fantastic relationship with Aikman, a welcome departure from the strained Shula partnership. But what really set him apart—and Dallas on a new course—was his instant appreciation of Irvin. Where Johnson and Shula saw slow, Turner saw precise. Where Johnson and Shula saw injury-prone, Turner saw untapped potential. “Norv loved the way Mike used his body to catch the ball,” says Tim Daniel, a Cowboys receiver. “His body was the shield between the pigskin and defensive backs.” Turner was blown away by Irvin’s belief that he would, without fail, catch every ball thrown his way. “Other guys have better numbers and skill, and people in the league like to evaluate a player on numbers,” said Turner. “But Michael believes he is a great football player, so that’s what he makes himself.”

  Trade Michael Irvin? Hell no. Turner was determined to make him a star.

  The optimism over Turner’s fresh approach manifested itself on September 1, when the Cowboys traveled to hostile Cleveland Stadium for opening day and were—for one of the rare times in Johnson’s three seasons—expected to win.

  Dallas, in the words of Morning News writer Rick Gosselin, “ran and passed the ball at will, silencing the Browns and leaving their notorious Dawg Pound (and first-year coach Bill Belichick) in a whimper.” Smith was elated, rushing for 112 yards on a career-high 32 carries. Aikman was thrilled, throwing for 274 yards and 2 touchdowns. And Irvin…well, Irvin was euphoric, exceeding 100 receiving yards for just the third time in his career. The Cowboys won 26–14, totaling more yards (395) and first downs (25) against the Browns than in any game the previous two seasons. “That was the one game where I remember all of us saying, ‘You know what? We’re gonna make a run at this thing,’” says Dave Wannstedt, the defensive coordinator. “Cleveland had a good team, and we beat them up on their home field.”

  The triumph was as much an ode to Johnson’s roster construction as it was to Turner’s game planning. The Cowboys were loaded with fast, hungry, intense, hard-hitting youngsters anxious to make their marks. Though Jones and Johnson were ridiculed when they drafted Aikman and Walsh, traded Walker, and draf
ted collegiate nobodies from schools like Emporia State (defensive tackle Leon Lett), Texas–El Paso (defensive end Tony Tolbert), and Central (Ohio) State (offensive tackle Erik Williams), rivals no longer found humor in a franchise ready to tear apart the league.

  In his first three years, Johnson accumulated a whopping thirty-eight draft picks, then used them masterfully. From the ’89 draft, Aikman, Johnston, Stepnoski, and Tolbert emerged as franchise cornerstones. A year later Dallas uncovered Smith, receiver Alexander “Ace” Wright, defensive tackle Jimmie Jones, and defensive back Kenny Gant. The Cowboys traded up with New England for the top pick in 1991, hoping to land Notre Dame receiver/kick returner Raghib “Rocket” Ismail. When the Heisman Trophy winner demanded a five-year, $15.5 million deal (and threatened to jump to the Toronto Argonauts of the Canadian Football League), the Cowboys were again mocked in league offices. Dallas “settled” for defensive tackle Russell Maryland of Miami—then landed six more draftees who would become key additions, including Alvin Harper in the first round and little-known defensive back Larry Brown of Texas Christian in the twelfth. “We had a very good system,” says Bob Ackles, the team’s director of player personnel from 1986 to ’91. “Sure, we had excellent scouts. But our success was all about Jimmy. If he thought the guy who cut the grass could give him information on a player, he’d listen. He absorbed scouting information amazingly fast. A scout would be talking about this one player and Jimmy would just shout, ‘Next!’ Then, ‘Next!’ Then ‘Next!’ again. He knew exactly what he was looking for, and if a player had one deficiency—no matter how small—Jimmy would lose interest. He wanted the perfect fit.”

  Two days after the win over Cleveland, the Cowboys gathered at Valley Ranch to begin preparing for a Monday night home clash with the Redskins. Having just thrashed Detroit 45–0, the Redskins were the NFL’s top team. Their offensive and defensive lines were bigger and stronger than the Cowboys’, their wide receivers were faster and more established than Irvin, Harper, and Wright, their coach—Joe Gibbs—was a legend. Mismatch alert! warned the Washington Times. But what the media failed to grasp was the newfound confidence and optimism that had permeated Dallas.

  If the Cleveland victory shouted, ‘We’re coming!’ the performance against Washington screamed, “We’re here!” In front of 63,025 fans, the Cowboys put together touchdown drives of 80, 80, and 84 yards in their first three possessions, building a 21–10 lead with 5:44 remaining in the half. It was pure domination of a defense unaccustomed to such treatment, and the success of the offense was 100 percent Norv Turner—run, run, run, short pass, slant, run. BAM, Smith burst through the line for a dashing, twirling, spinning 75-yard touchdown run; Aikman completed 13 of his first 17 passes; the Dallas linemen talked nonstop trash to an exhausted Redskins defensive line.

  It didn’t last.

  Dallas entered halftime with a 21–20 lead, as the two teams combined for 22 first downs and 441 yards. They swapped long field goals in the third quarter, but the Redskins took over early in the fourth, when Gerald Riggs’s 1-yard touchdown scamper gave his club a 30–24 advantage. Washington upped the lead to 33–24, providing the needed cushion to absorb a last-second 6-yard touchdown pass from Aikman to Irvin. At the end of the day, the Redskins had simply worn their opponent down.

  Following the game, the Dallas locker room was silent. “I’m disappointed,” said Johnson. “But as disappointed as we are, everybody is encouraged with what we can do. I think we will win a lot of games.”

  Though the Cowboys lost to the Eagles 24–0 the ensuing Sunday, they captured five of their next eight games, including an emotional 21–16 victory over the Giants in Week 5 that Aikman called “the biggest win since I’ve been here.” Through eleven games, Aikman was leading the league with a 65.3 completion rate, Smith needed 25 yards to crack 1,000, and Irvin’s 56 catches for 874 yards topped the NFL. The Cowboy offense was an increasingly unsolvable puzzle for opposing defenses—focus on shutting down the passing game, Smith burns you; stuff the line to thwart the run, Aikman hits Irvin for one long completion after another; blitz Aikman with linebackers and safeties, and risk being picked apart with screens and slants. “We were lethal,” says Irvin. “Absolutely lethal.”

  Defensive backs who once mocked Irvin’s deficiencies were now overwhelmed by a quarterback-receiver combination that could not be stopped. In their first twenty games together, Aikman and Irvin combined for 10 touchdowns—more than Terry Bradshaw-Lynn Swann (8), Joe Montana-Jerry Rice (6), or Dan Marino-Mark Clayton (5). Away from the football field, the two Dallas players had as much in common as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Axl Rose. Aikman was quiet and contemplative, Irvin brash and scattered. Aikman embraced country music and cold beer, Irvin hip-hop and blunts. Aikman preferred the company of a close friend or two, Irvin surrounded himself with an ever-growing posse of childhood pals and hangers-on. Aikman kept his emotions in check, opting for a stiff upper lip over a good cry; Irvin never held back. Yet despite so many differences, the two shared a genuine affection for one another, based on a singular approach to the game. Though they were raised in completely different households in completely different parts of the country, Aikman and Irvin were taught from young ages that on the field winning—more than a good effort; more than sportsmanship; more than fun—was what truly mattered. The two men didn’t merely want to win—they had to win. Needed to win. A Sunday ending in defeat was literally treated as a funeral. In the aftermath, neither man ate; neither man drank; neither man had much to say. “We’re like Paula Abdul’s song ‘Opposites Attract,’” said Irvin, who posted a sign reading 8 + 88 = TOUCHDOWN above his locker. “But [Troy and I] get along so well because we both want it so bad.”

  On November 24, the 6–5 Cowboys traveled to Washington for a rematch against the Redskins.

  Their season hung in the balance.

  Over the previous two weeks, Johnson’s team had lost a pair of heartbreakers to the Oilers and Giants that left their playoff hopes dangling from a tattered thread. So here were the Cowboys—down, battered (four starters were out with injuries), humbled (its defense was ranked twenty-fifth in the league), and forced to face the 11–0 Redskins. What had once appeared to be a year of promise was now a mounting disaster. The Cowboys trailed Detroit and were tied with the Giants, Philadelphia, and Atlanta for the two NFC wild-card spots.

  Talk in Washington wasn’t about defeating the Cowboys (who were 121/2-point underdogs), but whether the Redskins would join the 1972 Miami Dolphins as football’s only undefeated team. “How do you beat a gorilla?” Johnson preached to his players five days before the game. “You just can’t hit him lightly. You’ve gotta hit him with all you’ve got.”

  For Dallas, the motivation was high.

  The reality was bad.

  With the Cowboys leading 14–7 early in the second half, Aikman dropped back to pass and was grabbed around the waist and slammed to the ground by Redskins defensive tackle Jumpy Geathers. Though the pain was not excruciating, the diagnosis—strained ligaments in his right knee—would sideline him for much of the rest of the year.

  The last time Dallas had lost its starting quarterback, Babe Laufenberg entered the game and blew the season. The Cowboys had learned their lesson.

  The new guy wearing No. 7 was no Babe.

  As Steve Beuerlein began warming up along the Dallas sideline, he was not thinking about Troy Aikman’s bum knee. He was not thinking about the Redskins’ ferocious defensive line, or the fact that he had thrown but five passes in a year and a half. He was not even thinking about the rowdy fans leaning along the railing, screaming at the top of their lungs.

  No, Steve Beuerlein was thinking about love.

  Boy, did he love being here. The atmosphere. The intensity. The football spiraling out of his hand, crackling through the crisp D.C. air.

  For too long, Steve Beuerlein had been a gridiron prisoner. Selected by the Los Angeles Raiders in the fourth round of the 1987 NFL Draft, the former Notre Dame star quickly lear
ned that to survive with the silver and black, one had to kneel at the altar of team owner Al Davis.

  Beuerlein was not one to kneel. Following a 1989 season during which he threw for 1,677 yards and 13 touchdowns in ten games, Beuerlein missed training camp in a contract holdout. When he returned for the 1990 regular-season opener, he was placed on the inactive list and kept there the entire year. It was Davis saying, “Don’t fuck with the chief,” and it was as blatant as a Big Mac at Le Bernardin. “I became Al Davis’s whipping boy,” says Beuerlein. “It was miserable. I’m in street clothes, watching my career slip away.”

  When the Cowboys acquired Beuerlein for a fourth-round draft choice on August 25, 1991, he had no expectations of wining the starting job. Beuerlein and Aikman first met when the former was with the Raiders and the latter at UCLA, and they quickly hit it off. Unlike Steve Walsh, Beuerlein knew his place. “Troy is the number-one quarterback,” he said on his first day. “I’m aware of that, and I’m comfortable in that at least I know my role here.”

  Before jogging onto the field to replace Aikman against the Redskins, Beuerlein conferred with Turner, who insisted he relax and simply find the open receivers. On his third series, Beuerlein completed a pair of passes to Irvin, the second a 23-yard juggling, one-handed touchdown snare that gave Dallas a 21–7 lead early in the fourth quarter. “I just remember the feeling of euphoria on that touchdown,” Beuerlein says. “From that point I was able to say, ‘OK, let’s have some fun.’”