O Romo, Romo! Wherefore art thou Romo?
Obey thy owner and improve thy game;
Or, if thou will not, be but sworn of this,
Thy late season slumps will not be missed.
Doest thou love thy current quarterback position?
If thy answer is nay, then a pro golfer thou shalt be.
Good-night, good-night! The playoffs give such sweet sorrow,
Verily, Jerry’s world shall cry on the morrow.
These times of woe offer no respite from such sadness
and the bitter angst of ignominious defeat.
Changes, great changes, forsooth lie on the horizon,
“America’s Team” shall not be forsaken.
But soft, what light through yon “Jumbotron” shines?
Tis home field in the playoffs with thee at the helm!
On this, brave Romo, I plight thee my troth.
The preceding classical prose was penned with great thought and affection by the Bard of Golden Pond with humble apologies to the Bard of Avon.
I have never been a huge Tony Romo fan, but I have to say I am weary of the incessant negative reviews of him in the paper and on the tube. I mean, come on, how many front, back, and side views of his hang-dog look as the game winds down is finally enough? I find it quite ironic that, the same scribes and pundits who put all the blame on Romo, maintain that extending his contract is the only recourse for the future of the Cowboys.
I have long said that, when Romo is scrambling around back there for his life, there is no one better at finding, and hitting, an open receiver. The problem seems to be that his offensive line couldn’t stop a nosebleed, much less give him enough time to drop back properly and throw without getting a knuckle sandwich from a blitzing linebacker.
The answers to the Cowboys’ offensive woes are simple — Jerry needs to be the owner and he needs to hire a general manager; he needs to tell Garrett to be the head-coach and give the play-calling to the offensive coordinator; he needs to acquire some quality depth in the offensive line; he needs more quality running talent (he’s got plenty of receiving talent); he needs to require “Mad-dog Ryan” to finally produce on defense; and he needs to kick Romo’s butt and tell him to get on with his bad self!
I’ll be watching next year from Florida with great interest. I wish the Cowboys all the best next year except for the game (date to be determined) when the Denver Broncos come to Jerry’s humongous igloo. My fondest wish would be to watch the Cowboys and the Broncos go at it one more time in the Super Bowl.
How about this for customer service? I called DirectTV to have our service discontinued as of Wednesday the 16th of January. I was told that we had to pack up the reception equipment in packing boxes and mailing labels that they would provide. Then came the kicker — their folks cannot ship the packing material until seven days after the service is terminated. That meant we would have to quit watching TV on Monday the 7th, in order to receive the packing material around the 14th and get the equipment mailed off before we left town. “Why no, Mr. Platt, we cannot send you the packing materials in advance of your shut-off — that might be too convenient and it is against our policy.” (I took a slight liberty with the quote.) The nice lady said our only alternative would be to pack up all the equipment, take it to Florida, and they would subsequently send the return packing material to our new house.
Does that not sound dumber than a box of hammers? There is just no way The Little Woman and I could spend 13 days out here on Golden Pond with no boob-tube to distract us. That is just too much quality time together immediately preceding the three days of quality time in the car going to Sarasota. Most importantly, my beloved Broncos are playing their first, but hopefully not last, playoff game on the 12th and we will be glued to the sets.
The solution: we now shut down the TV service at midnight on the 16th. I will take the five reception boxes (that’s right, five of them) and their remotes to our neighbor for safekeeping. She will receive the packing material a week or so after we’re gone and send the equipment back for us. Thank you again, Diane, you’re a saint!
I leave you with this thought to ponder: On the keyboard of life, always keep one finger on the Escape Key.
Dick Platt is a Daily Sun columnist. Want to “Soundoff” on this column? Email: email@example.com