For a man whose facial expression never changed, whose steely, 1,000-yard stare terrified even Mike Ditka, Tom Landry always looked a little peculiar with a brushed suede fedora atop his balding head.
Maybe his unbending calm for 29 seasons along the Dallas Cowboys sideline rendered the hat a bit odd. Maybe his reticence -- he was more renowned for The Look that emanated from his eyes than for any catchy witticisms spewing from his mouth -- clashed with the stylish headgear. Whatever the case, the fedora never seemed quite right, like Allen Iverson in cowboy boots or Dennis Rodman in anything normal.
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Then the other day, as I waded through ode after ode, eulogy after eulogy devoted to the man behind the impenetrable look and the ubiquitous hat, I found my explanation.
For Landry, who succumbed to leukemia Saturday, the fedora embodied professionalism. It exuded class, a fitting answer from a man who darn near defined the word.
But beside dignifying his presence, that omnipresent hat did Landry a disservice -- it cloaked the man beneath the hat from a world quick to condemn him for his on-field pitfalls and reluctant to extol his off-field triumphs.
Many knew the Landry who won 270 career games. Many knew the Landry who captured two Super Bowl rings. And a few may have known Tom Landry the coach -- an iron-willed field general whose coarse exterior rarely allowed anyone, from the media who worked with him to the players who worked for him, to understand the genuine article.
The real Tom Landry never bickered when, in 1989, Jerry Jones so impertinently discarded him like wadded-up newspaper in his power-crazed purchase of the club. Post-retirement, Landry rarely returned to the sport he helped erect because he felt it would detract from his various charitable projects. Every Sunday morning for 43 years, the biggest name on the biggest team in the NFL packed his wife and kids in the car and trekked to Highland Park United Methodist Church, just down the street from my house in Dallas.
I was one of the lucky ones. I got to experience the Landry legacy.
I have only 20 years under my belt, so Dallas' 24-3 Super Bowl triumph over Miami in 1972 doesn't exactly stand out in my mind. Nor does the 'Boys' 21-17 flameout against Pittsburgh in 1976 leave me crestfallen, because frankly, I wasn't alive to witness many of Landry's finest hours between the lines.
But outside of them, I was able to peek under his bill and catch a glance of the real Landry through his daughter, Lisa Landry Childress, who babysat me at an age when I had trouble even saying the word football.
The intriguing, almost comical part of the story lies in the fact that for several months my family had no earthly idea that Lisa Landry from down the block wasn't just Lisa. She was Lisa Landry -- that Landry -- daughter of perhaps the most notable football figure ever to grace the Lone Star State.
Ms. Landry, who passed away in 1995 of liver cancer, never bothered to tell us because she never felt a need to. Only months later, when my mother stumbled upon a lengthy feature in the Dallas Morning News devoted to Landry's wife, did she experience her epiphany. When asked about her celebrity, Lisa confirmed the relationship and said no more. Why flaunt her bloodline when it did nothing to foster the bond between the two families?
She was right of course, and to her, it was no big deal. But in retrospect, it was a big deal; it demonstrated her class. I now know where she got it from.
From an outsider's point of view, Tom Landry will go down as many things: a champion, an innovator, a motivator, a philanthropist, a God-fearing Christian and a family man.
Dig a little deeper, however; see through that fixed gaze that burned holes though even the toughest gridiron warriors; observe the man behind the myth and beneath the fedora, and you'll find something else.
You'll find class, pure class. Then tip your hat to him.
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