With their new leader completing 7 of 12 passes for 109 yards and Smith rushing for 132 yards on 34 carries, the Cowboys shocked the Redskins, 24–21, spoiling their dreams of a perfect season. How big was this one? A day after the triumph Dick Armey, a Republican representative from Texas’s 26th district, took time away from less important stuff like, say, governing to recite a poem on the House floor:
Oh, how the mighty have fallen
Irvin and Smith left Redskins sprawlin’
Roused from the undefeated dream
By that oh-so-hated Dallas team!
The ’Skins saw Johnson’s bag of tricks
Hail Mary passes, onside kicks!
And wasn’t it a sight to see,
That heroic, second-string Q.B.?
The loss took place at R.F.K.
But evokes the words of J.F.K.
Cowboy fans chant this one-liner,
Say it loud: “Ich bin ein Beuerleiner!”
Add to the rivalry one more game,
Besides those of Landry-Allen fame.
It’s a tough loss, but don’t be too sore,
Wait ’til the playoffs, when we beat you once more.
As the Cowboys surged behind Beuerlein, wrapping up the season with five straight victories (including a 25–13 spanking of the nemesis Eagles at Philadelphia to clinch a postseason berth), Johnson decided that, come playoff time, he would stick with what was working. This, despite a verbal promise that starters would not lose their jobs because of injury. This, despite the improved health of Aikman, who by Week 16 was ready to return. This, despite the anger of half the Cowboy roster.
Though Aikman was more reserved than Beuerlein, over the years he had developed a powerful bond with teammates—especially Irvin, fullback Daryl Johnston, tight end Jay Novacek, and the offensive linemen. At the end of each season, Aikman would purchase lavish gifts for everyone, ranging from plane tickets to ostrich boots to personal computers to golf clubs. “I was a backup receiver whom Troy didn’t know from a man on the moon,” says Cory Fleming, a Cowboys receiver in the mid-1990s. “But at Christmas he gave me a really nice pen with my name on it and a bottle of Dom Pérignon. That speaks volumes.”
Each day after practice, Aikman and Beuerlein would return to their lockers and face a firing line of questions. “It was a constant source of discussion—me or Troy?” says Beuerlein. “It was on TV and in the papers and on the radio. People were saying, ‘Is this a permanent thing? Is Steve the quarterback of the future?’ It was insanity.”
The Cowboys wrapped up their season with a 31–27 victory over Atlanta at Texas Stadium. Players thinking of loafing through the finale were rudely smacked in the head when, on the Friday before the game, Johnson held a full-pads practice in a heavy rainstorm. Screaming above the downpour, Johnson ripped his men. “If you guys have been reading the paper and don’t think we’re going to try and win this goddamned game, you’re crazy!” he said. “That’s what we’re here for—to win games!”
It had been a memorable eleven-victory run. Smith led the NFL with 1,563 rushing yards. Irvin ranked first in receiving yards (1,523) and second in catches (93)—both team records. Three Cowboys (Smith, Irvin, and Novacek) were Pro Bowl starters. By season’s end the starting lineup included three rookies on a roster that averaged 25.9 years of age.
With the completion of their 11–5 regular season, the Cowboys were scheduled to fly to Chicago to face the Bears for a December 29 first-round playoff game—the team’s first postseason appearance in six years.
Coming off a 52–14 drubbing at the hands of the 49ers, the Bears were in an unusually angry mood. Chicago’s players felt San Francisco had deliberately run up the score, and they were livid. “I’ll live to avenge that game,” said Bears quarterback Jim Harbaugh. “I plan to get revenge somehow.”
Avenge? Revenge? The Cowboys were too giddy to care. Two days earlier Smith had donned a Santa Claus outfit and strolled through the locker room with a bag chock-full of expensive bottles of champagne—one for each man. “This present is to the team for the season,” he said in between ho-ho-hos. “I’m spending my playoff money before I get it.”
The Bears were angry and tight. The Cowboys were loose and laid-back.
It showed.
Dallas jumped out to an early 10–0 lead, then used its best defensive performance of the season to frustrate Harbaugh and his mediocre collection of weapons. Three times the Bears had the ball inside the Cowboys’ 10-yard line, and only once did they score.
After Chicago cut the lead to 10–6 midway through the third quarter, the Cowboy offense awoke. Beuerlein and Co. pushed the Bears 75 yards in fourteen plays before scoring on a 3-yard touchdown pass to Novacek. With the defense playing its best game of the year, Chicago never truly threatened.
In a season of firsts, Johnson had his first playoff victory.
Cowboys 17.
Bears 13.
In his postgame speech, Johnson talked about steps: how beating the Bears was step one en route to a greater pursuit. Though the coach knew his team was at least a year away from being Super Bowl–worthy, he was a strong believer in the power of positive thought. Who knows? Maybe if the Cowboys played at a supreme level they could upend the Detroit Lions, their next opponent, and somehow sneak into the NFC Championship Game.
Or, maybe not.
At the precise moment the clock reached 0:00 at Chicago’s Soldier Field, the majority of Dallas’s players were satisfied. They had defied expectations by winning a play-off game, and they were worn out. Johnson could have that effect on his players—there came a point when the nonstop barking sounded less inspirational and more like Charlie Brown’s teacher: Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah. “Jimmy will kill me for saying this,” says Craig Kupp, the third-string quarterback, “but during practice the week leading up to the Lions my sense was that it was good enough to beat the Bears, and anything else was just extra. We were content.”
Complicating preparations for Detroit was Aikman’s mounting resentment. By now he was 95 percent healthy and itching to play. He would arrive at practice each day hoping Johnson had changed his mind, and inevitably leave disappointed. “Troy was putting pressure on the team that wasn’t really fair,” says Larry Brown, the rookie defensive back. “He kept reminding Jimmy that he was ready, and Jimmy had made it clear Steve was the guy.”
The distraction hardly helped the Cowboys’ near-insurmountable task. Blessed with Barry Sanders, the NFL’s best running back, it was seemingly logical to assume Detroit would run the ball thirty times. However, when the two teams had met in late October, Lions coach Wayne Fontes threw a wicked curveball, handing off to Sanders just twenty-one times in the Lions’ decisive 34–10 rout. So what did the Dallas defense prepare for this time? Sanders left, Sanders middle, Sanders right. “I don’t think we were better than Dallas,” says Rodney Peete, the Lions’ backup quarterback. “We just outsmarted them.”
All signs pointed to a bad weekend when, upon its final descent into Detroit Metropolitan Airport, the Cowboys’ charter flew directly into a hailstorm. As the plane rocked up and down and players vomited into paper bags, offensive lineman John Gesek thought, “This can’t be good.” The jet touched down, skidded to the side, and returned to the air. “Turns out we almost T-boned another plane,” says Gesek. “Nearly dying the day before a game is never an encouraging sign.”
Motivated by the paralysis suffered by teammate Mike Utley, an offensive guard who had injured his sixth and seventh cervical vertebrae in a November 17 game against the Rams, the Lions stormed the Pontiac Silverdome and overwhelmed their opponents. With seven, eight, and sometimes nine Cowboys stuffing the line in anticipation of a Sanders jaunt, Lions quarterback Erik Kramer completed 29 of 38 for 341 yards and 3 touchdowns. “That may be the only time,” says tight end Rob Awalt, “that I saw Jimmy have the wool pulled over his eyes.”
With the Cowboys trailing 14–3 in the second quarter, Johnson summoned Aikman from the bench. For Beuerle
in, it was a slap in the face—You remove me this early, after I’ve led you to six straight victories? For Aikman, it was a slap in the face—You put me in now, after I’ve been ignored for eons?
It mattered little. The Lions were the smarter, better, more prepared team. They won, 38–6. “We were good,” says Cowboys linebacker Vinson Smith, “but we weren’t ready yet.”
Afterward, Johnson gave what many consider to be the best post-game speech of his career. Before a downtrodden group of players and coaches, Johnson insisted there should be nothing but pride. “We have built the foundation of something that cannot be stopped,” he said. “And will not be stopped. We went into Solider Field and beat the Bears. This is only the beginning. This moment—remember it. It is not an ending. It is not a defeat. It is another step on the road that leads inexorably to the Super Bowl and greatness as a football team. You are on that road.”
Over the next fifty minutes, Johnson sealed two pacts. First, he pulled Aikman aside, embraced his quarterback with a long hug, and said, “This team is yours. Over and out. You are my guy.”
Then, moments later, he met with his coaches. “Next year,” Johnson said, “this shit doesn’t happen. Next year—Super Bowl.”
Chapter 9
THE LAST NAKED WARRIOR
You’re from California? You must be a fucking faggot.
—Charles Haley, upon meeting a new teammate
IN THE AFTERMATH of the 1991 season, Cowboy coaches and executives congregated at Valley Ranch to assess the organization’s greatest needs. In ’91, Dallas defenders compiled 23 sacks, the lowest total in franchise history. Hence, topping the wish list was a disruptive, no-holds-barred defensive lineman—the type of player who put fear in the hearts of rival quarterbacks. Buffalo’s Bruce Smith came to mind, as did Chris Doleman of the Vikings and Reggie White of the Eagles. But such players were the cornerstones of their respective franchises—factually unavailable.
There was, however, one man who could be had for the right price.
Dallas, meet Charles Haley.
And his exceptionally large penis.
Selected by San Francisco in the fourth round of the 1986 NFL Draft, Haley was a little-known pass rusher from Division I-AA James Madison University. Yet with 12 sacks as a rookie, the Gladys, Virginia, native quickly earned high praise as one of the league’s dominant quarterback killers.
And as one of its most imbalanced.
The reputation started with the penis—a fire hose of an organ that brought Haley more pride than any game-winning tackle. As he grew comfortable in the 49ers locker room, Haley would stroll up to an unsuspecting teammate, whip out his phallus, and repeatedly stroke it in his face. Players initially laughed it off. But Haley refused to stop. He would jerk off in the locker room, in the trainer’s room. He’d wrap his hand around his penis, turn toward a Joe Montana or John Taylor, and bellow, “You know you wanna suck this!” or “You only wish you had this, baby!”
“Charles used to beat off in meetings while talking graphically about players’ wives,” says Michael Silver, who covered the 49ers for the Santa Rosa Press Democrat. “It got to the point of ejaculation.”
Haley was socially awkward and unflinchingly vicious. He’d been prescribed medication to treat manic depression, but would take the pills one day, then skip them the next two or three. Haley once exposed himself to reporter Ann Killion of the San Jose Mercury News, a pathetic attempt at gender intimidation. He rarely passed up the opportunity to verbally pounce on a teammate’s shortcoming—an ugly child, a protruding mole, a lisp. “Charles was a great player,” says Dexter Carter, the former 49er running back. “But there’s only so much a man can tolerate.” Once he got going, the words flew from Haley’s mouth as if they were shot from a Browning .50-caliber machine gun. Anyone effeminate was a “faggot.” African-American players who became close with the coaching staff were “house niggers” and “Uncle Toms.” Whites were “honkies” and Hispanics “spics.” (A joke Haley told with particular brio: What do a Mexican and a hotel have in common? A mop.) Twice, his racial barbs resulted in fights with 49er teammate Jim Burt, a white defensive lineman who decked Haley both times.
Haley’s supporters (and there are two or three) insist the talk was silly banter from an unstable man. His detractors, however, point to 1991, the sixth and final year of his initial tenure with San Francisco.
The beginning of the end for Haley the 49er came in the fifth week of the season, when his team traveled to the Los Angeles Coliseum and fell 12–6 to the Raiders, who were led by ex–San Francisco greats Ronnie Lott and Roger Craig. To Haley, both men were more than mere gridiron peers. They had been mentors, father figures, role models, heroes. Hence, the emotions ran deep. As he entered the locker room after the defeat, a dehydrated Haley was immediately connected to an IV. With tears streaming down his cheeks, Haley yanked the needle from his arm, punched a hole in the wall, took a swing at coach George Seifert, and began screaming at quarterback Steve Young, who had played poorly. “I could have fucking won that game in my sleep!” he yelled. “You’re a motherfucking pussy faggot quarterback! A motherfucking pussy faggot with no balls!” As the blood gushed from his arm, Haley charged toward Young, arms flailing, legs kicking. With the media waiting outside the locker room for postgame access, a 49ers official burst through the door, down the hallway, and into the Raiders’ clubhouse. Seconds later he returned with Lott, a towel wrapped around his waist. When Haley spotted his former teammate stepping into the 49ers locker room, he wept uncontrollably.
Haley apologized to Young, but the truce was short-lived. In the course of the season, Haley complained that the team needed to dump all its white linebackers and “replace ’em with a Soul Patrol.” He regularly ripped Seifert—to teammates, to opponents, to anyone—and once tried to strangle him during a film session. Haley’s biggest enemy was Tim Harris, the Pro Bowl pass rusher in his first year with the team. “We were,” said Harris, “two roosters in a henhouse.” Like Haley, Harris was fast, strong, and intimidating. Unlike Haley, Harris was a decent man who got along famously with the other 49ers. Haley’s resentment toward his teammate festered throughout the season until, near year’s end, he cut a hole in the roof of Harris’s $50,000 BMW 733i convertible, stood on the top of the car, pulled down his pants, and urinated onto the steering wheel and floor. “There are some things you just don’t do,” says Carter. “And that tops the list.”
Shortly after the incident, Haley entered a meeting and sat backward on his chair. Defensive line coach John Marshall instructed him to turn around and show some respect. “Fuck you!” Haley screamed.
“Charles,” said Marshall, “turn your damn body around now. I mean it.”
“No—fuck you!” yelped Haley. “I’ve gotta go to the bathroom anyhow. I’ve gotta go take a shit.”
With that Haley—clad in a gray T-shirt and shorts—rose and left the room. When he returned he was holding a small piece of scrunched toilet paper in his right hand. Before the entire defense, Haley pulled down his shorts, wiped his rear end, and threw the soiled paper at Marshall.
Upon learning of the incident, Seifert marched into the office of John McVay, the team’s general manager. “OK,” he said, “I’ve had enough. Haley’s gotta go.”
Like everyone else in the NFL, the Cowboys had heard about Haley’s antics, just as they had been well versed in the backgrounds of other “troubled” players they’d wound up signing. Before the 1990 season Dallas had jumped at the chance to sign former Rams safety James Washington, who admittedly hit teammates during practices with an intent to injure. “Yeah, I would smash Jim Everett when I wasn’t supposed to,” he says of the Rams’ onetime signal caller. “But I thought the bitch was a punk.” A year later the Cowboys traded for Tony Casillas, an Atlanta Falcon defensive lineman who infuriated coworkers by taking off three weeks of training camp for “occupational stress.” There was also the time Casillas simply decided not to show up for Atlanta’s charter flight
to Los Angeles. “After thirty minutes someone finally called Tony’s home,” recalls teammate Scott Case. “Tony’s wife answers and says, ‘Yeah, well, Tony doesn’t feel like playing this week.’” Both Washington and Casillas came to Dallas, behaved well, and played spectacularly.
Now, in debating the pros and cons of adding a pass-rushing Tasmanian Devil who occasionally urinated in luxury automobiles, Jones and Johnson could not get beyond one undeniable fact: Without Haley, the Cowboys’ defense was solid. With him, the Cowboys’ defense was potentially spectacular.
On August 26, twelve days before the opener of the 1992 season, Dallas sent two draft choices to San Francisco for Haley. Those covering the Cowboys were at a loss—why would a team surrender a twenty-eight-year-old three-time Pro Bowler for so little? Johnson played along. “We can’t speak for the 49ers as to why he’s available and we didn’t really get deeply into that,” Johnson said. “Nothing we heard from San Francisco was in any way a negative.”
If the Cowboys were truly unconcerned by Haley’s volatility, however, why did Jones take his limousine to Dallas–Fort Worth International Airport to pick up his new star personally?
“I guess the drive back was about forty minutes,” Jones said. “In that span, we covered a lot of ground. This was my main question: ‘Charles, I know you’re in Dallas now, but are you leaving your heart in San Francisco?’”
Haley glared menacingly at Jones. A what-sort-of-stupid-fucking-question-is-that? look crossed his face.
End of conversation.
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