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Someone once said, “It doesn’t matter what happens in a game, as long as you win it with eighteen seconds left.” OK, so maybe I made that up, but in reality, the only thing that matters is that final push to victory. Last Sunday, while fans, coaches, and teammates all held their collective breaths, Tony Romo and Jason Witten proved, once again, that you don’t mess with Texas…especially not the (unquestionably) talented and (possibly) charmed faction of it that is the Dallas Cowboys.

What is it about the Cowboys that makes so many people care about their game? Is it the talent of its players, the productiveness of its coaching staff, the beauty of its cheerleaders? Is the fact that the Cowboys hail from Texas, a place where people have hearts as big as the state itself? I think the key lies in this… it lies in the fact that the Cowboys offer us a sense of familiarity, of home, of family.

Those of us who are children of the 1970’s still remember, I’m sure, how the Cowboys were the name on everyone’s lips. Due to the popularity of the team, many TV markets broadcasted Cowboys games. Nowadays, and depending on where you live, you may rarely or, even worse, never, have that privilege. For me, growing up in a small town on the outskirts of Myrtle Beach, SC, some of the only memories I have of my family being together are Sunday afternoons gathered in front of the television, eating Pizza Hut pizza that my Dad had to drive to get, and watching Cowboys games. The rivalry of the 1970’s era between the Cowboys and the Steelers brought some heated moments in our den, as I always pulled for the Cowboys and my closest sister, just to spite me, I am convinced, cheered for the Steelers. 

For me, now, thirty years later, Sundays are sacred, not for any religious reason, but because of what we have deemed “family day.” My husband, our two-year old baby girl, and I, along with a few friends (hers and ours) sit in our den, eat lots of finger foods, and watch a ton of football (yes, my toddler LOVES football. Be jealous, be VERY jealous). Because we are in South Carolina and, therefore, subjected to Panthers game via our local market, we get Direct TV and the Sunday NFL Ticket so we (hopefully) never have to watch crappy football. We have four televisions set up in our den, and, regardless of what other games may be on at the time, the Cowboys game always gets the prime big-screen spotlight.

Flashback to last Sunday’s game: as the final minute played out, I could hardly bear to watch. Forget the fact that I play fantasy football and this was the first week of our league’s play-offs; forget the fact that I was playing my husband for the opportunity to move to the next round; forget even that I had the supreme providence to draft both T.O (in the third round, can you believe it?) and Romo (I took him in the 5th—all the guys said I “reached,” but who would accuse me of that now?)—all I cared about was a Cowboys WIN.

I had my hands over my eyes, so I missed Romo’s touchdown throw to Witten, but what I couldn’t miss was hearing Morgan, my little girl, jumping up and down and yelling, “Go, go, GO Cows!” as they scored the winning touchdown (I am convinced that this is why they won, by the way).

I watched my daughter, and it hit me that at the tender age of two she is experiencing what I have waited 37 years for—the best Cowboys season ever. For some reason this seems especially important, and gives me hope for her future as she continues to grow up a Cowboys fan. As I tucked her into her crib that night, she said, “Mommy, Morgan, Cows,” toddler slang for “Mommy and Morgan had a really good time watching the Cowboys today.” It was a family day that surpassed any of the ones of my childhood…