Tuna Casserole

When the phone rang last week, I almost didn't answer. The long vacation was weighing on me, along with many pounds of pasta and a glutton's share of homemade cookies. I moved slowly but managed to answer before the machine kicked on.

Along the bottom of the set, the ticker was creeping like a sloth: Bill... Parcells... agrees... to... contract... with... Dallas... Cowboys...

An uneasy feeling hit me, a queasiness borne from what I figure to be a bleak next couple of years. Oh, it'll be fine for you if you're a Cowboys fan; I'm sure Bill Parcells will do here what he did with the Jets and the Patriots and the Giants--win. Right away and often. But for the rest of the league and its fans, for me, a Cowboys renaissance feels like impending doom. The rebirth of a long-dead monster.

Yet there's something oddly right about this. Parity in the NFL is all well and good, but wasn't it fun when there were a handful of proper villains to battle the heroes? Because when the 'Boys can play, really play instead of fake the funk, there's no middle ground, no indifference--you love 'em or you don't. If nothing else, taking sides, rooting for or against them, makes things much more exciting. Better for the bettors, too.

To help nurture the competitive spirit, I commit the rest of this space to humble suggestions and notes, a sort of field guide for the new coach. I figure Parcells can use all the advice he can get. He'll make things right in Dallas, but it won't be easy going.

Be the boss: This has to happen up front or the situation will eventually deteriorate. Bill, if you haven't heard, The General--that's Mr. Jones to you--likes the spotlight. Fancies himself a bit of a leader. It's his sideline and all that...or it was. Now it has to be yours. I saw you in various interviews smiling and chumming with Jerry, and bully for that. But you seemed a bit too submissive with the "I'm an employee of the Dallas Cowboys" line. Bullshit. You're the head coach who's been paid a fantastic sum to fix this ungodly mess. Act like it. Swagger a bit. Control the situation. Make sure church and state get separated, lest everyone involved repeat old mistakes. (I suggest getting hold of Jimmy Johnson for another telling of his ugly story, but you'd better prepare by ingesting some pain killers. Get the strong stuff. Percocet, not that girly Advil junk.) Let Jones go off and play front-office deity if he wants; you coach and tend to the troops. Try to get him off the sidelines for games and limit his access and everyone else's for practice. This will accomplish two things: 1.) It will keep him away from you and let you do your job, and 2.) It will keep me away from you and him, thereby greatly increasing my nap time.

Run a meritocracy: No more trading on reputations. The Cowboys have too often fallen in love with the idea of a player rather than his production. It's bad management, the kind of suspect thinking that's led to the likes of Dwayne Goodrich and Darnay Scott securing work in football instead of crab fishing or dealing pig futures. Make the lot of them win their jobs or go and put your big Tuna foot in their slacker asses. I'll help. Start with oft-injured Rocket Ismail and Joey Galloway. Those two have been on TV halftime shows more than they've been on the field catching passes. Either they produce or they're out on the street. Same goes for the shaky cornerbacks and the midget linebackers and the shameful offensive linemen. And now that I think of it, everyone on that silly 5-11 team. No one should be safe. Remember: 5-11--that's only three better than those bunch of orange-and-black-clad clowns in Cincinnati.

Find a quarterback: Draft one, buy one, enlist one of the janitors, craft one from papier mâché and stale Fritos. Whatever. But you're going to have to do something. (Those two were so terrible this year....I just can't even....ugh...hey, whaddya do with those pain pills?)