History Lesson 
Tuning in Dandy Don
By marrying television, football gained an audience but lost a game
(Page 5 of 5)
The corridor that leads from the elevator to the boxes is like a carpeted hallway in a very long motel. During the trek to the press booth, I craned my neck to see inside any box which had an open door. I wanted to know just how much comfort $100,000 would buy.
One open doorway was partially blocked by a fiftyish matron in an expensive blue cocktail suit.
"Honey," she was calling to her friend, "you must come and see this. It is simply darling!"
Her friend, also in expensive blue, joined her in the doorway.
"Now why didn't I think of that!" she moaned. "It's such a cute idea—decorating for Halloween."
Over her shoulder I could see the orange and black crepe paper streamers that stretched from wall to wall and the witches and pumpkins that dangled from the ceiling. The decorating effect was that of a high-school gym prepared for a sock hop.
A bespectacled young man from the Detroit Lions staff joined us as we traipsed noiselessly along the endless curving hall in search of Press Box A. Behind the dark frames of his glasses, his eyes were large circles of wonderment.
"I can't believe this," he said, shaking his head in amazement.
"Not exactly like Detroit, is it?" my companion remarked drily.
The visitor was too stunned to hear. "What goes on down here in Texas anyway?" he asked, rhetorically.
Through an open door we glimpsed a buffet table laden with silver dishes and centered by a large silver urn full of grapes. Manicured middle-aged gentlemen in business suits stood around in small, chatting groups, sipping from glasses supplied by a whitecoated bartender. Scattered here and there were a few strikingly pretty girls in miniskirts and tall boots.
The young man from Detroit shook his head slowly. "You have to see it to believe it," he said softly.
Since we had not yet found our destination, we stopped a friendly looking man wearing a badge that said CATERER.
"Could you direct us to Press Booth A?" my companion asked.
The lanky informant squinted and inquired, "Is that the booth for working press or the one for television people?"
My escort, a writer for television, managed to respond in a fairly normal tone that we sought the television booth.
"Then keep straight ahead," the helpful guide instructed. "You can't miss it 'cause its just across from where the real press sits."
The TV /Radio Press Lounge was large and spacious. A number of people were sitting at the round tables, eating, drinking, and watching giant TV sets. Our booth opened off the lounge. It was a small room furnished with comfortable chrome and leather swivel chairs lined in front of a counter which ran the length of the far wall. Above the counter the wall was open to the air. A moth fluttered into the room and wavered with surprise before weaving his way back out toward the center of the stadium. Like the moth, I felt a little confused by my surroundings. I reached out through the opening and felt the hot, humid air on my skin.
"What a strange place this is," I remarked, looking from our partially open room to the partially-covered roof. Through the gaping hole over the playing field, the dingy clouds looked like fuzzy balls of lint. "It's like being inside and outside at the same time."
"Yeah," an inhabitant of the booth remarked drily, his shirt sleeves rolled up because of the heat, "this stadium lets you enjoy the worst of both worlds."
Free food, free drinks, free transportation and free information kits were available for the press, courtesy of the Dallas Cowboy organization. Drinks were brought by a pretty girl in a movie-musical cowgirl costume. Fortified, we settled back in our swivel seats to await the beginning of the game.
On the field, a group of young boys were involved in a punt, pass, and kick competition. The computer-operated billboard flashed a steady stream of electronic enthusiasm and advertisements while the public address system showered the crowd with carefully-enunciated information.
"Here are the latest standings in the Oak Farms Dairies Favorite Cowboy Contest," the announcer said. "First in the standings is...ROGER STAUBACH!"
The Honors List was not quite as long as that announced by the British in celebration of the Queen's Birthday, but it was impressive. One by one the announcer recited to the lukewarm applause of the crowd. There was the Zale's Jewelry Unsung Hero Award, Ken's Men's Shop's Big Play Award, Oak Farms Dairies Most Valuable Player Award and Tiche's Department Store's Mascot-of-the-Week Award.
Last, but not least, was the Game Ball Recipient Award...a complete set of Encyclopedia Brittannica.
The scoreboard cheered fervently.
The band of paunchy musicians dressed in cowboy garb broke into a loud rendition of the rock tune, "Joy to the World," and the cheerleaders employed by the Cowboy organization danced onto the field. Selected from a crowd of young hopefuls, the girls had at first actually tried leading yells, but this didn't work out. Now they simply danced.
Some of the men in the booth were sharing binoculars for a closer examination of the cheerleaders. "When they were looking for a name for the girls, I suggested calling them The Tight Ends," one man snickered.
An American flag appeared on the scoreboard and everybody stood up. Down on the bright green field, a trumpeter played the national anthem while the lights on the scoreboard simulated a waving flag, and the cloth flag on the field hung limp and motionless in the heavy air.
As the players dashed onto the field, the television monitor came alive with the opening titles for ABC's Monday Night Football telecast. It was time for the game and Meredith's work to begin. In a van far beneath us Chet Forte began to peer at his monitor. Down there on the plastic grass, 22 men gathered to play while 65,378 throats roared approval and a nation of eyes sat watching, waiting to see those 22 bodies lunging, thudding, jarring, throwing, catching, running across the vivid, unnatural green.
Early in the game, the Cowboys took command with two touchdowns. One of the men from ABC fretted that the game was going to be too one-sided. "I want Dallas to win," he explained, "but it's got to be even and close. Otherwise they'll be dial-clicking all over the place." Before the first half was over, the Lions had narrowed the point gap. "That Greg Landry is a good quarterback," the ABC employee said happily.
During the half-time, the field bloomed with dancers, twirlers, bands. Everywhere there were flashing feet, flashing horns, flashing batons, and flashing legs. While the scoreboard recited statistics, the sweet-faced cowgirl brought refreshments. The Governor of Texas was introduced and booed. On the television set Howard Cosell was narrating highlights of Sunday's games while everybody waited for the 22 heroes to return to their carpeted battleground.
The stifling clouds that hung over the stadium, smothering the air with a sticky heat, finally began to spill over during the second half. With the first drops, the cameramen hastily began to cover their equipment with plastic. Gradually the rain grew heavier until it poured through the funnel-like opening in the center of the stadium. Under the roof that protected them, the dry spectators sat watching as the torrent of water fell upon the players and turned the surface beneath their feet into a slick sponge.
The game surged on, the players fighting for the ball, for time, for points, for annihilation of other players, for yardage, for winning, for money, fame, glory, TV cameras, Super Bowl rings, commercial endorsements, and a set of Encyclopedia Britannica.
Dallas scored and the scoreboard erupted with stars, rockets, hosannas. Detroit scored and the scoreboard flashed the single word—Touchdown.
"I can remember when scoreboards were incapable of editorializing," somebody mused.
"That was a long time ago," another responded ruefully.
The cold, drenching rain had stirred and cooled the air, making our little room more comfortable. On the TV set, the cameras panned from the wet field to a view of the sheltered boxes, while Don Meredith's Texas drawl commented, "The players refer to those people up there as The Romans."
Out in the rain the game was snarling and thudding toward its end when a wet, tired player suddenly began striking out furiously at everybody in sight. A player from the opposing team lifted him from behind and carried him away from the other players, his angry fists still nailing the air. The buzzer sounded, ending the game. Dallas had won, 27 to 24.
We tramped through the chilling rain to find the car, then inched precariously along the highway in the midst of a sluggish glut of traffic. In our rented car neither the heater nor the defroster worked. Cold and wet, we sought refuge in a motel coffee shop where I huddled over a cup of hot tea offered by a kindly member of the television crew. "What did you think of your first pro football game?" he asked.
I hesitated, searching for the answer among the bulky images that crowded my mind: rows of expensive equipment lining a tier at Texas Stadium, thousands upon thousands of people shouting with one voice, twenty-million television sets linked into one control truck, Don Meredith wearing earphones instead of a football helmet...
I smiled at the crewman and took a sip of tea. What do you say about a phenomenon that is part ritual, part business, part entertainment, part craft, part violence and dexterity, part passion and mystery? Something Don Meredith had said crept into my mind: "You have to remember that, basically, it's only a game..."
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