[I found this January 1996 article among some of my papers awhile back. I include it here because it was typical of the pieces that I did for the OpEd page in that era, i.e. wry takes on themes of the day. This was the era of growing political correctness, and the editor, the late David Boldt, encouraged me to puncture it whenever possible.]

I try to be a patriot but it is hard not to have reservations about a country in which so many people find something to admire in the Dallas Cowboys.

     Intelligent and sensitive citizens cannot have failed to observe that the moral collapse and general decline of the country began in the 1970’s, the same decade that Dallas began referring to itself as America’s Team.

     And it is especially depressing to note that the nation felt no need to reconsider its infatuation with the Cowboys, to say nothing of the Cowboys’ infatuation with themselves, after they had been twice beaten soundly in the Super Bowl by another team, a superior team that really deserved to be called America’s team, but whose dignity and good breeding would not have permitted it.

     I am speaking, of course, of the Pittsburgh Steelers.

     I cannot say that we know anything about football in our house or even follow it closely, but it was a pleasure to observe my wife Farley again, as in the days of our courting, dressed up in her black and gold Rocky Bleier jersey, pacing the room and covering her eyes on virtually every snap of the AFC championship game.

     It was a pleasure too to see that black-clad team going about its menacing business as in days of yore.  As my friend Bill has noted, there is no logo on the left side of a Steeler helmet, so when seen from this sinister side, there is a sense of something fearsomely monolithic and pure and refreshingly unmodern: a team that would rather play football than advertise itself.

     For Farley and me, the Steeler dynasty of the ‘70s provided a festive background against which we played out the comedy of our young adulthood.  Being in our twenties then, we now see it through a nostalgic lens.  We were not particularly looking for theological signs in those days, but the fact that two of the four Super Bowl victories were over Dallas convinced us not only of the existence, but of the ultimate good taste, of the Deity.

     The loss of humility, the waning of shame, the rise of arrogance as an acceptable substitute for character, all  these themes are present in the Cowboys ballyhoo.

     Couple them with the glitzy silver pants and the cheerleaders and you begin to appreciate how, over time, bad taste can seem to have moral repercussions.  Tony Dorsett leaves Pitt to go to Dallas and suddenly he is acting cocky and pronouncing his name like a Las Vegas stripper.

     The country should pick up on these things and disdain Dallas accordingly, but it doesn’t.  Announcers are always going on about how good Dallas is, blah blah blah, and people are impressed.  It’s all a little tiresome to Farley and me, especially measured against figures of such Olympian proportions and edifying grace as Terry Bradshaw and Lynn Swann and that nice man who gave his shirt to the kid en route to the locker room.

     My mother-in-law, a small woman, would occasionally meet Mel Blount in their apartment elevator.  She would look up to the top regions of the elevator.  “Nice game yesterday, Mr. Blount,” she would say.  He would look down and smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”

     It is improbable that this sort of thing ever happens between an elderly woman and a Dallas Cowboy.

     So, whatever happens in Super Bowl XXX, it’s important for the good of the nation to underline that Dallas should be reviled and Pittsburgh admired, because the former is haughty and artificial and vain and the latter is good and true and possessed of a superior heritage.

     In fact, as a general rule, the rust belt teams, where the uniforms are in real colors, where cheerleaders, if there are any, wear sensible sweaters or parkas and where the cold tends to discourage narcissism, are to be preferred over others.   This is why Farley and I were also rooting for the Packers.  Farley is not often given to prayer.  But this past week, when she heard that Dallas beat Green Bay, she prayed.  It was a short prayer.  Covering her eyes with her hands, she said, “God, I hate the Cowboys.”