Damn you, Tony Romo! Damn you straight to hell! Do you have any idea what kind of damage you’ve done? Do you?
Everything was going according to plan, you know. The implosion of the NFL’s version of the New York Yankees was imminent and Drew Bledsoe was seeing to it personally. Veins were popping on the three most despicable faces of America’s (Most Hated) Team with every interception, incompletion and immobilization. And the simultaneous eruption of egos in Texas Stadium was going to leave a mushroom cloud over Dallas to be seen for miles.
You see, every Bledsoe mistake moved the clinically insane Terrell Owens one step closer to giving him the "Garcia-McNabb" treatment, which Amnesty International ranks just above water-boarding on the scale of torture for NFL quarterbacks.
And with every sign of Owens’ impending explosion, Cowboys coach Bill Parcells moved ever closer to physically assaulting some poor Dallas beat reporter who asked about No. 81 one too many times — on live television.
And with every indication that the Tuna was growing more and more agitated about having to be the master of Jerry Jones’ three-ring circus, the Dallas owner’s plastic face began to melt like a box of crayons in the hot Texas sun.
The stars were all aligned, you see. The three-way collision that awaited Owens, Parcells, and Jones would have decimated the hated Cowboys franchise, leaving Skeletor Jones stuck with an untradable, overpriced, nap-taking, pill-popping wide receiver and a detestable, egomaniacal head coach who wants nothing to do with him.
And then along came Romo.
Yes, along came Tony Romo, with his sparkling resume written in invisible ink and his barbecue-restaurant-sounding name, suddenly playing the role of Roger Staubach meets Troy Aikman on steroids.
The Division I-AA product from mighty Eastern Illinois has ruined the party for all of us who were watching the Dallas soap opera as if we were waiting for the thermometer to pop on Thursday’s Thanksgiving turkey. Five starts, four wins, nearly 1,400 yards with 10 touchdowns and two interceptions.
The kid doesn’t miss. He’s finding the mark with 71 percent of his passes and he’s showing the same poise under pressure that once made Roger the artful Dodger. He’s got the respect of his teammates and the support of his coach, and suddenly there will be no eruption in Texas.
Suddenly T.O.’s happy. That makes me sad. You know, sometimes you actually root for miserable human beings to remain miserable — just to bring a little justice to the world.
Suddenly the Tuna’s at ease. That makes me upset. Because sometimes you root for ornery, obnoxious human beings to remain ornery and obnoxious — just to make sure they’re not sleeping well at night.
And suddenly, Skeletor’s face is holding firm and that makes me nervous. Yes, sometimes you root for vain billionaires to melt in the sun, rather than basking in the glow of peace in their worlds — just because they deserve it.
America’s (Most Hated) team is rolling again, looking more and more like the only true challengers to the Bears’ supremacy in the NFC.
Damn you, Tony Romo. Damn you to hell.
Sports personality Bob Frantz is a regular contributor to The Examiner. E-mail him at firstname.lastname@example.org.