Let’s talk about the Dallas Cowboys. And sports. And hope. And fighting the “long defeat.”
My son got his heart broken by sports for the first time. It happened last Sunday, in the final minute of the Divisional Round game between the Dallas Cowboys and the San Francisco 49ers. The realization that all hope was finally and totally gone hit silently at first, a slow envelopment of doom. Then the fissure opened up in a sudden explosion of tears and grief and disappointment.
It’s my fault. I raised him this way. I knowingly brought up my own son as fan and follower of the Dallas Cowboys. I did not tell him there would be days (years?) like this.
When the Cowboys lost to the 49ers in last year’s Wild Card game, there were no tears. We were too consumed with incredulity, frustration, and vexation at quarterback Dak Prescott’s untimely slide to let pain and sadness in. The boneheadedness of the situation elicited cynicism.
If I had to choose, I’d much rather my son weep after his favorite team loses. For my part, I have chosen cynicism. When it comes to the Cowboys, I don’t give hope much oxygen. The letdown doesn’t hurt as much. And there have been letdowns over the last *checks notes* 28 years. Starting with Tony Romo’s botched field goal in 2006 against the Seattle Seahawks, the organization has repeatedly found ingenious ways to break the heart and spirit of their fanbase. It’s as if the Cowboys have taken a semester’s worth of Stanford Design School classes in mismanagement, mediocrity, and missed opportunities. (Jerry Jones is the dean of this college.)
Even after they thrashed Tom Brady and the Buccaneers in the Wild Card round of this year’s playoffs, the most cynically seasoned of their fans looked at the 49ers game and thought, “Well, I’m sure they’ll find a way to screw this up.”
And we were right. You can’t stop what’s coming.
My son did not know what was coming. He met the inevitable with tears and cries of defiance that he would never take his Cowboys jersey off.
At breakfast the following morning, he said, “Dad, I hope the Cowboys win next year… but they probably won’t.”
I could have said many things in this moment. I ended up saying something about not giving up hope but also not concerning ourselves with outcomes so much as being present with the now.
And that’s fine, I suppose. Maybe a bit trite. I wish I would have quoted Galadriel, from The Lord of the Rings, when she told the Fellowship how she and Celeborn “together through ages of the world … have fought the long defeat.” That’s a sentence fans of certain sports franchises can sink their teeth into.
I also wished I would have talked about real hope. Because I don’t want my son to hope in the Dallas Cowboys. And not because they’re the Cowboys (but also because, yeah, they’re the Cowboys). No, I don’t want my children hoping in the Cowboys because they are a professional sports franchise, and a professional sports franchise will eventually (or usually) let you down. The more you hope and invest, the more they’ll break your heart.
This could mean, eventually, we stop investing. We decide that sports are a waste of time and energy. But as humans, we’ll find something or someone else in which we invest our hope. This is what we do. We attach ourselves to some external entity in order to find meaning and significance in our lives. We all live vicariously. We all hope vicariously. To borrow from David Foster Wallace, it’s not a question of if we’ll hope in something; it’s a question of what.
Galadriel’s thought about the “long defeat” my sound like cynicism—the opposite of hopefulness. But to be cynical is to stop fighting. Fighting the long defeat is about pursuing faithfulness despite hardship and failure and botched trick plays. Fighting the long defeat is a way of embodying “There’s always next season.” Fighting the long defeat is only possible if the object of your hope is not tied to the disappointments and disasters experienced in this life. Fighting the long defeat is about knowing that a final and full victory has already been secured.
Cheering for a sports team, as well as playing organized sports, is a way to practice this kind of virtue. (Yes, I’m talking about practice.) I want my son’s heartbreak to cultivate a sense of longing for an eternal hope. Even though I expect the Cowboys to crash and burn out of next year’s playoffs, I do want him to hope, to fight the long defeat that, by God’s grace, is preparing him for an eternal weight of glory (2 Corinthians 4:17).
Hmm. When I put it like that, there’s only one thing left to say…
How ’bout them Cowboys!?!
Love this, Trevor.
But, As for me and mine, KC Chiefs.
We, mostly me, was devastated at what happened last year. And dreadfully fear repeat this weekend.
Great piece!
And, more importantly, Great Peace!