by | Jan 28, 1994 | Detroit Free Press | 0 comments

ATLANTA — Troy Aikman wants to be a regular guy. I have decided to help him out.

All week at the Super Bowl, I have heard his plea.

“I just want to be a regular guy,” Troy laments, while surrounded by reporters and security guards. His friends — some of whom like to chew tobacco and spit — back him up. “Hell, Troy’s just a regular guy. Leave ‘im
‘lone. (Ptew!)”

Of course, being a regular guy is tough when you’re the highest-paid player in the NFL and the star quarterback of the Dallas Cowboys, the most popular football team on the planet.

But not to worry. You want regular? I am bringing my stuff. Meet me tomorrow, Troy, at sunrise, outside the hotel.

We’ll make the switch.

I will be you, and you will be me.

You get my press pass, my shoulder bag and my weary — but regular — body.

I get to be 6-feet-4, blond, blue-eyed, handsome, 27, single and loaded.

No need to thank me. As you cowfolk say, “Jus’ tryin’ to help.”

Readers may recall I did this once before, back in 1986, with Ron Darling, the New York Mets pitcher who was raised in Hawaii, spoke three languages, looked like Elvis, graduated from Yale, and was pitching in the World Series. He also had a gorgeous wife.

This, clearly, was too great a burden for one man, so I dashed to his aid. And he appreciated it. Sent me a nice note, in French. Or was it Italian? I think he wanted his wife back.

Anyhow, if I can do it for a man named Darling, I can do it for a man named Troy. Tomorrow morning, the day before the Super Bowl, we switch:

My notebook for your playbook.

My hotel key for your house key.

My bar tab for your eight-year, $50 million contract.

Jus’ tryin’ to help. A good ol’ boy

Wait. I know what you readers are thinking. What about Lorrie Morgan, the stunning blond country music star Troy’s been dating?

Come on! He keeps her, of course. What kind of man do you think I am? I hate country music.

The other women, naturally, I’ll have to deal with. The ones who mob Troy when he enters a hotel and blow kisses and sigh, “Ain’t he dreamy?” — they will be my burden. Every last one of them. I know. It’s tough. But I want to help. I really do.

Same goes for the major corporations throwing money like confetti to get Troy to be their spokesman. Not to worry, kid. Regular guys shouldn’t tolerate such nonsense. I’ll do their silly commercials and shoo them off, as quickly as I can, once I cash their checks.

Meanwhile, you can change the oil in my car, and shovel the snow from my driveway. It’s regular work, and I believe you’ll like it.

Your homestead? I’ll take good care of it. Your huge house, your pool, your private blackjack table and your big-screen TVs. Consider it done.

You let my dog out, OK?

As for the woman you hired to cook your meals — don’t worry. My home also comes with female cuisine. Her name is Mrs. Paul. She makes a mean fish stick.


“Sometimes we go to hockey games in Dallas, but it’s no fun for Troy,” says his buddy, Cowboys lineman Dale Hellestrae. “He gets bothered from the minute we sit down.”

Never fear. In my body, Troy, you can go to hockey games, sit in the press box, and nobody, but nobody, will bother you. Except maybe my boss, who likes to call every 15 minutes. And Troy. Listen. You have my permission to tell him anything you want. Really. You want to call him an obsessive, annoying, mealy-mouthed, yellow-bellied sapsucker, go right ahead. It’s OK with me.

Is it OK with you if I tell your owner, Jerry Jones — who likes to blow kisses to the crowd — to stop acting like such a dork? I mean, someone has to.

Get back to me on that, will you? Deadline looms

As for the Super Bowl, well, don’t you worry. I have watched you play enough to know what to do with your amazing arm and impervious body. I just point at Michael Irvin and if he’s covered I point at Alvin Harper and if he’s covered I look for Emmitt Smith, right?

Cock my arm and throw it?

By the way, if Emmitt starts complaining about how easily you got your contract, I tell him to shut up and run off- tackle, right?

Oh. I forgot. You don’t do that. You’re a great guy. Everybody says so. They call you the sweetest, most normal, unaffected, Californian-turned-Oklahoman-turned-Texan they’ve ever met.

Question about the body: those lips. Are you wearing sun block, or does it just look that way?

Also, the country music thing. I know you love it, and I know you said you got to the hotel here and they didn’t have The Country Music Channel on TV, so you “went out and bought a stereo and some CDs to have some music with me in the room.” Well. Be careful of that stuff in my body, OK? First of all, my credit card doesn’t go that high. Secondly, if you play too much country music, my dog has an accident on the carpet.

Question: Is it Disneyland or Disney World I’m going to? I always get that confused.

Whatever. I’ll be sure to do you proud in Super Bowl XXVIII, and I’m sure you — we — the Cowboys, will win. I’ll do the whole dirty party thing, the music, the women, the beer. You just relax.

The Pro Bowl — that’s in Hawaii, right?

Never mind, I’ll figure it out. You have a grand old time in my regular old life, being a regular guy again. I’m happy to oblige.

Of course, regular guys don’t play in the Super Bowl. But they do sit in the press box and write about it.

I do your job, you do mine, right?

Deadline is 10:45 p.m., Troy.

Don’t blow it.


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