9601030787
DETROIT FREE PRESS
960126
Friday, January 26, 1996
METRO FINAL
1C
Photo Color LINDA KANE/Associated Press
Jerry Jones is often on the sideline, and says: "Had I not
gone into business, I would have been a coach. And I think I
would have been good at it. But there are more qualified men
than me to coach here."
MITCH ALBOM
SUPER BOWL XXX; SEE ALSO METRO EDITION PAGE 1C
Copyright (c) 1996, Detroit Free Press
MISSIONS ACCOMPLISHED
COWBOYS' JONES AT TOP OF HIS GAME
TEMPE, Ariz. -- Jerry Jones is talking to me, something about revenue
sharing, but it isn't the conversation that holds me, it's his look. His eyes
are wide, bigger than they need to be, and his mouth curls in the corners as
he speaks. His neck is tight above his expensive white shirt collar, his nails
are manicured, his complexion is pink. To me, he seems slightly crazed, like a
Southern evangelist, his words appear to fly straight from his mouth to his
ears, fueling him on. He enjoys listening to himself, that is obvious, and
when he finishes talking, he just stares with that crooked smile, never
blinking, never breaking contact, as if waiting for the spell to take hold. It
is then I wonder if what some people say about Jerry Jones is true:
He is the devil.
On the other hand, to be fair, some folks say he's a genius. And more than
one person whom I trust says Jones is misunderstood, that he is a decent
fellow, that he does things no one hears about, kind acts, charitable acts.
Maybe that's so. I'll tell you this: He could sell you broken eggs and
convince you they'd be chickens one day. Jones, who owns the Dallas Cowboys,
is unabashed when it comes to business, and unintimidated by famous partners.
Heck, seven years ago, he burst into one of the world's most exclusive clubs,
the NFL owners, and began kicking his spurs into its side. Today, he runs the
meetings.
Jerry Jones. Jerry Jones. You don't go anywhere in football without
hearing his name -- followed by some quick analysis. He a lucky son-of-a-dog.
He's ruining sports. He's got an ego the size of a Winnebago. He's a shrewd
investor. He wants to be coach. He wants to be a player. He is misunderstood.
He is the future of sports.
How big has Jones made himself? I have been coming to Super Bowls for 14
years, and I have never before seen an owner set up his own table at player
press conferences. Jones does. He sits behind his name tag, like a 53-year-old
star quarterback, and waits to be interviewed.
I'm not really sure anyone believes a word he says. But they all gather
'round to hear it.
Game a serious business
"Do you secretly want to coach this team?" I ask Jones.
"No, I don't. I will say this. Had I not gone into business, I would have
been a coach. I love football that much. And I think I would have been good at
it. But there are more qualified men than me to coach here."
It was not a serious question.
But football is serious business to Jones. He paid a then- record $140
million for this franchise back in 1989, fired Tom Landry, hired Jimmy
Johnson, bought a mother lode of talent, won two Super Bowls, fired Jimmy
Johnson, signed Deion Sanders, all this while rolling down the window and
flipping off his league. He tells me "the other owners need to think more
creatively . . . they need to become the sexy thing in their cities . . . they
need to merchandise themselves better."
Of course, as Wheatina might remark to Wheaties, "That's easy for you to
say." Jones suggests other owners might do what he does -- shell out $40
million in signing bonuses in a single year, for example -- but they don't all
own the Cowboys. Jones can make buckets of money by signing private deals
with Nike and Pepsi (even though the league has a collective deal with Reebok
and Coke) because, let's face it, what company wouldn't want the Cowboys'
image and popularity?
But Pepsi doesn't want the Tampa Bay Bucs. And Nike doesn't want the
Arizona Cardinals. When Jones talks about other owners needing to work harder,
he sounds suspiciously like the millionaire who says, "Those folks on welfare
can be just like me -- if only they weren't so lazy."
He, uh, paid his dues
Maybe some of this comes from Jones' roots. He was born with the proverbial
silver spoon, the son of an Arkansas businessman who ran a profitable
insurance company. Jones always figured he would take over one of his dad's
businesses, and he did. And while he made fortunes far beyond his father's
wildest dreams -- mostly as an oil tycoon in the '70s -- Jerry did not
exactly pull himself up by the bootstraps.
Football was a part of his life early on, and he played at Arkansas, where
he roomed with a fellow named Jimmy Johnson. Neither was a star player.
"There were many times I asked myself, why am I going through this?" Jones
recalls of his football days, "but those handful of times when I played? They
were all worth it."
Today, he again gets his thrills on the sideline -- never far, it seems,
from a TV camera. Yes, this sounds like a man trying to buy back his macho.
But then, what kind of owner do you expect at a Super Bowl? Sure, the other
owners sued him for $300 million. But know this: If his Cowboys win, Jones
will be hailed as a visionary, a man who saw things nobody else did.
Will they be right? Who's to say? Back in college, when Jones was dating
his soon-to-be wife, a former beauty queen, he tried to win her a teddy bear
at a carnival. He kept missing the targets. So he ran behind the curtain and
made a deal with a worker.
He paid for the bear.
Then he gave it to his date.
He is back at the Super Bowl, with the hottest team in football, and all
that really matters, in his mind, is that. He's got the pretty girl, he's got
the teddy bear, and the fact that he had to pay for it is only a minor
inconvenience, isn't it?
THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION MAY DIFFER SLIGHTLY FROM THE PRINTED ARTICLE.
JERRY JONES; BIOGRAPHY; SUPER BOWL