And on the 8th day after another disappointing .500 season, God looked down through the hole in the roof of his favorite team’s stadium and said “I need a makeover.” So God made a draft.
God said, “I need a Cowboy willing to work harder and play smarter and not drive drunk. Then get up the next day, with nary a complaint, and do it all over again.” So God made a draft.
He thought, “I need a Cowboy sturdy enough to block Jason Pierre-Paul, one savvy enough to not commit a false-start penalty and another one swift enough to track down RG3.” So God made a draft.
God said, “I need more Cowboys like Sean Lee and Bruce Carter and Jason Witten, and fewer like David Arkin and Stephen McGee and Bobby Carpenter.” So God made a draft.
God saw that the Cowboys were hopelessly over the salary cap and had 18 free agents. He realized that since their last Super Bowl they were 141-142 and that they were established as a 25/1 longshot to play next February in New York. So God made a draft.
God needed a fearless man, someone not afraid of sacrifice or of giving up golf for the greater good. He was desperate for fresh blood, for an eager soul with virtue and values and a promise to travail the Cowboys’ 12 miles of dusty, gravel road back to success. So God made a draft.
God said, “I need a catcher who’ll make Tony Romo look more like Joe Flacco, a sacker who’ll help Gerald Sensabaugh get turnovers like Ed Reed. I need a man of disciplined character who can both rally behind Jason Garrett and prop the rickety, paint-chipped window open just a little longer for Jerry Jones.” So God made a draft.
God needed someone to re-energize his team. Someone that would keep the Cowboys from plunging from America’s Team to a national embarrassment. Someone that would prompt fans to again turn on their TVs, to paint their faces and proudly wear the star, and cry when they lose and be proud when they win, and halt their belief that implosion is the most efficient path back to glory. So God made a draft.
He wanted a Cowboy so stubborn he’d be willing to do more than enough, yet smart enough to know when he’s forcing too much. So God made a draft.
God desired a Cowboy who would treat his teammates like family, and his fans like neighbors. A player willing to learn a playbook, not merely earn a paycheck. One dedicated to lead by example behind Valley Ranch’s doors instead of selfishly preening for the cameras. He longed for a calloused, committed Cowboy who would finally cut the bullshit, by never cutting corners. So God made a draft.
God said, “I need a Cowboy as strong as Larry Allen, as consistent as Troy Aikman, as durable as Emmitt Smith, as fast as Bob Hayes, as passionate as Michael Irvin, as dominant as Bob Lilly, as gutsy as Roger Staubach, and as mean as Randy White.” So God made a draft.
God looked down on what once was his pigskin paradise, slowly shook his head, closed his eyes and crossed his omnipotent fingers. God made a draft. And he gave the Cowboys the 18th pick.
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