Cowboys Magazine: Mike Fisher Talks Jerry Jones

[Ed Note]: BTB will be running a series of posts over the next few weeks highlighting some of the articles in the new magazine Maple Street Press Cowboys Annual. You can pre-order the magazine for delivery by visiting the Maple Street Press website.

Today's feature article is by Mike Fisher entitled: The Ringmaster: Jerry Jones After 20 Years in the Cowboys Circus. When I first started thinking about authors for the magazine, I wanted to get in touch with Mike. I knew he had a long relationship with the Cowboys, so he could add some color about the 90's Cowboys, which he did in a separate article in the magazine. But I also knew he had a personal relationship with Jerry Jones, so I wanted him to do an article on our fearless leader. He was happy to do it.

Mike Fisher is a long-time Dallas Cowboys/NFL beat writer and columnist who has written two books on the Cowboys, is a radio personality on 103.3 ESPN, writes about the Mavs and the DFW sports scene on www.DallasBasketball.com and is also available on www.Twitter.com/fishsports.

Make the jump to get a taste of Mike's article on Jerry Jones.

[Excerpt from the actual magazine article]:

Jerry Jones is holding court in the middle of the hoity-toity Rattlesnake Bar in Dallas's Ritz-Carlton Hotel. Some in the growing throng of not-for-long strangers want to hear the great man philosophize. Some want to shake his hand. Some want an autograph. Some just want to gawk.

And because he is the billionaire owner of Dallas Cowboys and because even the hoity-toity are affected by a recession, pretty much everybody is hoping Jerry will buy them a drink.

The loud and steady din-men baa-ing in agreement with whatever he says, women giggling and clapping on cue as if an "Applause" sign is lighting up, Mr. Jones's drawling baritone lifting itself above the rest to instruct "Victor" to "put it on my bill!"-is interrupted by the piercing screech of a woman.

A woman scorned.

"You are screwing me!" screams the she-devil as she plows indelicately through the crowd and toward its carnival-barking epicenter.

She is not as attractive as she probably was when she left the house; overindulging will do that even to a blonde in her late twenties who is ably pulling off the belly-button ring thing. Her words are slurred and the wine in her glass is sloshing as the sea of humans parts respectfully, for anyone who barks like this at Jerry Jones must know him. A Valley Ranch secretary? A spurned lovah? A long-lost niece concerned about her inheritance?

Nope. Try a long-time Texas Stadium season ticket holder.

"You are screwing me out of a million dollars!" the woman screeches. "Screwing me!"

Turns out, Belly-Button Ring's Red Bull and vodka-soaked point is this: Her family could afford to attend games at the old building in Irving, but feels priced out of the new (Your Corporate Name Here) palace in Arlington.

Therefore, Jerry Jones is "screwing" Belly-Button Ring.

Jerry coolly takes a sip from his glass. His silver-blue eyes-a shade eerily close to that of the Cowboys' game pants-need but a moment to size up his accuser. He shifts into a different gear, from life-of-the-party host to intimate seducer.

"Honey," Jerry coos into her bejeweled ear, "if I was screwin' you, you'd know it."

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