Jack Stallard

My dad died two weeks before Christmas in 1991.

I was sports editor at the Lufkin Daily News and was in a meeting at work when I got the call telling me dad was in the Veterans Affairs Hospital in Johnson City, Tennessee, and wasn’t going to make it much longer.

The man on the phone said if I wanted to see my dad alive I needed to leave immediately. If I was flying, I might make it, but if I was driving — even if I broke every law on the books — dad would probably be gone before I got there.

I figure anyone working in law enforcement along my route from Texas through Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia and into Tennessee 31 years ago is retired by now, so I can go ahead and admit it.

Flying wasn’t an option financially, but what is normally a 13-hour drive took around 11 hours. Do the math, and judge me if you will, but I was going to say goodbye to my dad.

Cancer is a horrible disease, and I barely recognized the man lying in that hospital bed struggling for every breath. I hoped and prayed he was medicated enough to kill the pain, but I desperately needed for him to know I had made it.

I leaned in for what turned out to be the final time I talked to him on this earth, and as I looked into his eyes I realized I didn’t know what to say to the man who meant so much to so many people.

For some reason, I thought about the Dallas Cowboys. I know that sounds silly at a time like that, but dad was a huge fan.

I still cherish the times we spent watching them play while we snacked on apples gathered up on Coffee Ridge or oranges purchased from the high school band. And, of course, yelling at the television in case Hall of Fame coach Tom Landry needed any suggestions on play calls.

As it turns out, the Cowboys were about to play the Eagles in a few days, and a win by the Cowboys would send them to the playoffs for the first time in five years.

So, I leaned down, kissed my dad on the forehead, took his hand in mine and asked “Hey, buddy. Has anyone told you about the Cowboys?”

I felt a faint squeeze of his hand, so I said, “If they beat the dadgum Eagles on Sunday, they are in the playoffs.”

If you ever met my dad, you probably remember a lot of things about him, but I promise you never forgot his eyes. They always held a mischievous twinkle and a love for life that literally shined through despite hardships not many folks would have survived.

When I told dad about the Cowboys, his eyes widened and sparkled, and then he winked at me.

Man. I needed that.

Dad died the next afternoon, and three days later – on Sunday, Dec. 15 — we laid him to rest beside his mama and his little brother in a beautiful cemetery in the East Tennessee mountains.

After the funeral, some of us drove to his favorite camping spot on Watagua Lake and said more goodbyes. Then, we went home and watched the Cowboys beat the Eagles.

The Cowboys won a playoff game that season, and then won three Super Bowls in a four-year span. They’ve been hard to watch since then, winning just four playoff games since that last Super Bowl victory back in 1995.

But I’ll always be a fan, and you can bet I’ll be tuned in this Christmas Eve when they play the dadgum Eagles again.

I still owe them for giving me the right words to say to my dad when a few words were all we had left.