All-All-All-All-Stars

Categories: Sports
Somewhere beneath this Dolphins helmet is former -- and, maybe, future? -- Dallas Cowboy Jason Garrett. Uh...Coach Garrett, perhaps? That'd be kinda cool.

Took a break from guessing about Bill Parcells' replacement long enough to breathe in the fresh air of the NHL All-Star Game last night. And, of course, who do I run into at American Airlines Center? Former Dallas Cowboys like this guy, this guy and even this guy, whom ESPN is reporting has been hired by owner Jerry Jones either as offensive coordinator or even, gulp, head coach. I've known Jason Garrett since 1993, and there's not a smarter, nicer guy in sports. But a head coach...already?

Like I was saying, the All-Star Game was scintillating. I admit to not knowing a jersey from a sweater, and, until I was corrected, I thought it was cool how Bing's son, Sidney Crosby, could skate so damn fast. But everyone, even us neophytes, had fun at this event. How could you not?

There was a MILF trio covering Journey. Confetti flying all over the arena (probably left over from last year's nixed NBA Finals party). Some band called Red Jumpsuit Apparatus claiming, "This is the greatest thing we've ever done!" as they played really, really really loud scream-alt-rock on a floating stage while a Zamboni slid underneath. The woman who sang a rousing rendition of "O, Canada" busted her ass on the ice. During the singing of "The Star-Spangled Banner," The Wreckers' microphones went on the fritz. And during the ceremonial puck-drop, Governor Rick Perry was booed louder than any Detroit Red Wing.

Awe. Some.


Then the game started and, yawn, I left. But I heard there were 21 goals, more than you'll usually find in a month at AAC. So that's a good.


As I was beating the traffic midway through the first period, it occurred to me that I have now had the pleasure of attending every major sport's All-Star Game in our fair burg. A sporty timeline of my life, if you will:


January 21, 1973: As an 8-year-old punk I watch from our family's season tickets on Texas Stadium's 8-yard line as O.J. Simpson wins MVP of the NFL Pro Bowl.


February 9, 1986: Now a 21-year-old punk with a fresh job at the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, I can't stop giggling as Larry Bird sits slumped in front of his Reunion Arena locker and conducts a half-assed NBA All-Star Game interview while drinking Miller Lite and punctuating every sentence with a healthy burp.


July 11, 1995: Back when it was The Ballpark in Arlington and he was a decent human, I interview a kinder, gentler Kenny Rogers about giving up a mammoth home run to Mike Piazza in Major League Baseball's All-Star Game.


January 24, 2007: As a 42-year-old punk, I complete my mythical Grand Slam with an appreciation of my good fortune and some thawed enlightenment: "Man, I wish every hockey game was 12-9." --Richie Whitt


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