By FRANCISCO E. JIMENEZ
Staff Writer
reporter@sbnewspaper.com
Francisco E. Jimenez
The plan was to go to McAllen with some friends and watch a show. A friend of a friend was scheduled to perform with his band at some establishment, but nothing ever goes according to plan.
We decided to stop for a bite to eat before heading to the show, but before we even had a chance to order, a friend of mine started complaining about a pain in his chest. Not a heart attack, his symptoms seemed more akin to a panic attack. Not wanting to take any chances, we left the restaurant and immediately drove my friend to the emergency room.
Upon arrival, a nurse took my buddy and his wife into a room to have blood work done, and I sat in a corner of the empty lobby, being that they were my only source of transportation and I did not wish to burden them. Aside from a nurse walking into the room every now and then to buy something from a vending machine, and the two receptionists sitting behind that always intimidating wall of glass, as I like to call it, I was alone.
In my solitude, I began to feel my eyes grow heavy. Like a soft blanket slowly descending over me, enveloping me, I felt myself disappear into a dreamlike state. I tried to fight it initially, but I eventually gave in.
Then I was awakened.
Still in the waiting room, it was the sound of the automatic sliding doors that had awakened me. In walked a police officer escorting a man in handcuffs wearing a Dallas Cowboys jersey. The man did not appear to be injured, but for a split second we made eye contact, and suddenly, even in my disoriented state, I had an epiphany: being a Cowboys fan is a lot like being in prison.
And Jerry Jones is the warden.
The more devoted of a fan you are, the harsher the punishment. It seems like I’m a lifer without parole, and there is nothing I or anyone else can do about it. It doesn’t matter how upset I get, how many times I’ve taken off my Tony Romo jersey and flung it across a room in a fit of rage, there is no escaping Alcatraz. The fact that I am even writing about the Cowboys on the eve of the NBA playoffs only validates my point.
Rob Ryan was the Major who took his job seriously, did his job the right way, and still got the ax while Jason Garrett is the incompetent guy who sleeps on the job and is instead rewarded with a promotion. Tony Romo is the prison guard who goes out of his way to keep the prison safe but still gets chastised and scapegoated when things, which are often out of his hands, go wrong.
But we, the fans, are all prisoners. Sure, every now and then we get to go outside and enjoy some sunshine, but in hindsight, we aren’t going anywhere. I’m not going anywhere, for better or worse (more likely worse).
Oh yeah, my friend is fine, by the way. Turns out he just had gas.
Read this story in the March 17 edition of the San Benito News, or subscribe to our E-Edition by clicking here.
2 comments
That’s why I don’t follow sports. I release too many stress hormones that get me constipated and I pee a lot.
What the Dallas Cowboys neeed is players and country boys like Bill Bates who was a walk on and only earned a min of $275,000.00 a year . He played with heart. I don’nt think much of team but rather the players who made up the cowboys . Tom Landary had a good eye for players with character who played the game the way it should be played.