Emmitt's tarnished star

By Gary Geffen Sports Central Columnist

I've got one question for Emmitt Smith: are you insane?! Picture the following conversation:

Surrounded by vicariously-living yes-men, Smith sat in his ivory tower built on a crumbling foundation of ego and ability to ponder:

Emmitt: I've been racking my mind all week about what to get my offensive linemen for Christmas. I mean, in Dallas, this would have been easy, I'd give them all cars -- Mercedes, no, BMWs, no, ah, I got it -- Hummers! They are big guys, you know, big guys deserve big cars! But these guys in Arizona, what do I get them? I mean, so what my season was pathetic, at best, it isn't my fault. I am Emmitt Smith.

Suddenly, Emmitt turns to his TV showing him saying, "No, I am Emmitt Smith" smiling at his Visa card. His eyes provide for him an epiphany that his mind cannot deny. The rushing titles, the MVPs, the Super Bowls, the NFL rushing record, all history. Smith looses himself in the piercing severity of realization. He smiles a smirk of self-achievement and humbleness.

"Man, the things I've done, what's left? Maybe this should be it for me. I mean, I can't blame others for the fact that I only ran for 256 yards in 10 games. I mean, I was supposed to have a triumphant return to Texas Stadium. The fans all wearing my jersey and doffing their hats. Me, goggling at The Ring of Honor with the names Roger Staubach, Tony Dorsett, and soon, me, hanging suspended between masses of cheering American humanity who gave up everything else life has to offer that day to see me.

I mean, I thought for sure that would inspire even the most weakened muscle in my 34-year-old body to have at least that day, enough to make everyone smile and be happy they chose me."

Emmitt releases a sigh of resolve. He stands hands folded head down and thinks. That isn't what happened that day, is it, though? No, my man, it isn't. His shoulder stings. Broke me right there, didn't you, Roy Williams. Knocked me out for six weeks. I had to leave that game with -1 yard on six carries, my worst professional performance.

Interloper: "Naw dude, you're the dude, dude! All those people wearing 22 on their red jerseys, they want you, dude. It is just like when you listened to me last time and said you were a tarnished star in Dallas. You are still a star surrounded by trash. The Cardinals got a new QB, WR, and you this year. You're the only true star, you're the only one with experience, they need you to show them how it's done, dude. It's not you, dude, you got what you call a track record. You're the only one. It can't be you, dude.

Emmitt smiles, shakes his head. Yeah, yeah, yeah! How could it be me? I mean, yeah, look at everything I've done, the rushing titles, the MVPs, the Super Bowls, the NFL rushing record. I don't see anyone around here with any of that. They do need me.

You know what I am going to do? I am going to put Hummer keys in my offensive linemen's lockers and when they go out to the parking lot you know what they are going to see? What a champion drives! A Hummer ... mine, that is. The other five will just be remote-controlled Hummers. After all, I am the talent, right? The talent gets what the rest want, right?

Interloper: You're the talent, all right, Emmitt. Without, you none of us would be anything they need you, I need. YOU ARE EMMITT SMITH!

Hopeful future conversation:

Emmitt: They fired Dave McGinnis. Nobody thought my Hummer joke was at all funny, my body hurts, and my team is going to have to start all over all again. I am getting too old. I should retire.

Interloper gulping, thinking of his new house payments: Dude, you're the dude, dude. Remember all that stuff tarnished star stuff, the rings? It is all you, they need you.

Emmitt: Dude, you're fired.

How long is Emmitt going to allow his credibility and performance to slip? Soon, his public relations company is going to need a public relations company. In one year, Smith has gone from the face of the Cowboys to a man who has isolated himself from former and current teammates. Whatever bird is whispering in your ear, Emmitt, kill it.

Article courtesy of Sports Central.