We lived in Juárez, above a tortilleria where throughout the day you could smell them being made. On Sundays and some Monday nights, my father—a mechanic who was always fixing an old car—would watch the Dallas Cowboys play.
He’d yell and cheer. And because he did, I watched Los Cowboys and yelled and cheered alongside him. Eventually, so too did my brother and then my sister. When we moved across the United States-Mexico border, first to El Paso then even farther to Colorado Springs, we watched them play. When we moved even farther, Germany, where the Army stationed my father, we still watched. Because of the time difference, when Los Cowboys won Super Bowl 27 and 28, the games didn’t end until around 4 in the morning. We watched.
On those two January nights, I never went to sleep. When it was time to go to school, I walked out into that bitter German winter dawn, and to the bus stop, ready to take that forty-minute bus ride to the nearest American middle school. Sometimes, during those unsympathetic mornings, it was so cold my hair would freeze while waiting for the bus. On those two January Monday mornings after Los Cowboys won the Super Bowl, I didn’t even notice it was cold, or that I hadn’t slept in a day.
I still watch them play. Which is why I wanted to write about the Dallas car club dedicated to Los Cowboys. It’s online today.
