Boys Will Be Boys (13 page)

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 Beuerlein, 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.”

I
N 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.

In contrast to the early portion of his career, when Haley largely kept to himself, as soon as he joined the Cowboys he felt comfortable. On his first day at Valley Ranch, Haley arrived in the conference room for a defensive film session dressed only in a towel. “The next thing you know, Charles is lying naked on the floor in front of the screen, entertaining himself,” says Casillas. “Hand on his penis, back and forth.”

When Butch Davis, the defensive line coach, saw what was transpiring, he stopped the tape. “Haley!” he yelled. “Get your fuckin’ clothes on and don’t come back in until you’re dressed.” The room erupted in laughter.

On his second day at Valley Ranch, Haley wrapped an Ace bandage around his penis and strolled through the locker room naked, screaming, “I’m the last naked warrior! I’m the last naked warrior!”

On his third day at Valley Ranch, Haley walked past a large hot tub in which offensive linemen Mark Stepnoski, Kevin Gogan, and John Gesek were sitting. “You know what the problem here is?” Haley yelled. “It’s another example of the white man keeping the black man down. Look at the three of you, relaxing as…”

He went on. And on. And on.

At this moment, in the infancy of the Haley Era, Gesek unlocked the key to surviving life with Charles. Instead of bowing to the barbs, instead of slinking into a mound of bubbles or turning the other cheek, the 6-foot-5, 275-pound Gesek looked Haley in the eyes and said, “Who the hell are you?

“You and I are gonna have to fight,” Gesek continued. “I mean, what right do you have to talk to us that way? What do you know about us? About this team? How ’bout being here for more than a week before you open your mouth?”

With that, Haley shuffled off.

“Charles liked to push buttons and test the waters,” says Kenny Gant, a Dallas safety. “He would kiss you on the mouth and say, ‘Man, I love you.’ He’d just put a big ol’ kiss on your face, waiting to see your response. I’d be like, ‘Uh, Charles, didn’t you just tell me to go fuck myself two hours ago?’”

Though Haley brought a dizzy insanity to Valley Ranch (he’s likely the only Cowboy in team history to refuse to wear a jockstrap during games), he was an undeniable winner who’d earned two Super Bowl championships in six seasons with San Francisco. “He knew the game better than any of us,” says Antonio Goss, a 49er linebacker. “He could pick up little patterns and cues that nobody else would see. Charles might have been odd, but he was intelligent and incisive.”

From Johnson’s vantage point, Haley was the missing piece. When he wasn’t groping his penis or damning the white man or telling a writer to fuck himself with a blowtorch or calling Jones “
Massa Jerry! Massa Jerry!
” as he entered the locker room, Haley was staying late for extra film; providing instruction to rookies and young players; barking out words of encouragement.

On one of the final days before the season opener against Washington on September 7, 1992, Johnson gathered his team and gave a tone-setting talk. “I want y’all to remember something very important,” he said. “What many of you have in common is the one thing that should drive you—nobody wanted you.” He looked around the room. There was Haley, dumped by the 49ers. There was Emmitt Smith, bypassed by sixteen teams in the ’90 NFL Draft. There was Nate Newton, the 340-pound offensive lineman routinely dismissed as too fat. There was Stepnoski, the undersized center. There was Irvin, who’d barely avoided being cut. There was cornerback Larry Brown, a twelfth-round pick. There was tight end Jay Novacek, left unprotected by the Cardinals. Sure, the Cowboys had a golden boy in Aikman to plaster on billboards and brochures. But by and large, it was a team of misfits. Of Charles Haleys.

“There were so many pieces thrown into a stew,” says Washington. “But it wasn’t any ordinary stew. It was the Southern Country cooking stew, and it just tasted
soooooooo
good.”

For the Cowboys, it had been a good offseason. No, a
great
offseason.

First, the league confirmed that Dallas was America’s Team again, placing the franchise on an unheard-of five nationally televised games.

Then, in early April, the Cowboys learned that Air Force’s Chad Hennings, the 1987 Outland Trophy winner, might be available. Dallas had initially used an eleventh-round pick on Hennings in 1988, figuring that, once his military commitment was fulfilled, the defensive tackle might give the NFL a shot. Though Hennings was an armed services loyalist, he started to think differently when President Bill Clinton announced massive cuts in the national military budget. Hennings wanted out.

At 6-foot-6 and 272 pounds, Hennings was bursting with potential. But he was also rusty. Having spent much of the past half decade deployed in England, flying A-10 Thunderbolts in Western Europe
(and in the Gulf War, in which he earned two medals for flying forty-five relief missions to support Kurdish refugees), Hennings had not touched a football in four years.

On the night of April 25, 1992, he boarded a plane at London’s Heathrow Airport and landed in Dallas nine hours later for a tryout. His internal clock was eight hours ahead and he hadn’t slept in a day. “I thought I’d come in, run the 40 in front of my position coach, then talk,” he says. “It was nothing like that.” With Jones, Johnson, and ten to fifteen others in attendance, Hennings went through a bevy of tests and drills. He was equal parts nervous, exhausted, and exhilarated—and his performance dazzled the masses. Football depended largely on speed and size. Here was the merging of the two.

“I like what I see,” Johnson said. “When can you get out of the Air Force?” Three weeks later Hennings was a Cowboy.

Dallas used three of its first four picks in the NFL Draft to select players who, like Haley and Hennings, would put the final touches on Johnson’s dream of a blitzkrieg defense. With the seventeenth selection the Cowboys landed Texas A&M’s Kevin Smith, a badly needed shutdown cornerback with flypaper hands and Deion Sanders reaction time. With the twenty-fourth pick they grabbed Robert Jones, an East Carolina middle linebacker considered to be the draft’s best pure athlete. And with the ninth pick of the second round, they selected a linebacker-turned-safety out of Arizona State named Darren Woodson.