people need to remember about Massimo Manca, the man who—by the dual powers of mythology and bluster—unintentionally started this whole dynasty thing.
Before there were the legends of Troy Aikman, Emmitt Smith, and Michael Irvin, there was a side practice field in Irving, Texas, on a weekend in March 1989. This is where the Dallas Cowboys veterans and free agents gathered for a standard three-day “voluntary” (translation: choose to attend or wind up slinging Slurpees at the nearest 7-Eleven) minicamp; the place where Jimmy Johnson would have an early opportunity to evaluate his players and set a tone.
Ah —tone. Wasn’t that the key here? If Johnson was painfully aware of one thing, it was that the Dallas Cowboys—now his Dallas Cowboys—were woefully short on talent. Save for Michael Irvin, the prior season’s first-round draft choice, and Herschel Walker, the veteran running back who had piled up 2,019 total yards in 1988, the roster was a collection of long-past-their-prime veterans (Ed “Too Tall” Jones, Tom Rafferty), doomed-to-be-mediocre pups (Danny Noonan,Bob White, Jeff Zimmerman), and blah nobodies taking up space (Steve Folsom, Manny Hendrix). “I remember going into one of my early defensive meetings and there were five or six players older than I was,” says Dave Wannstedt, then the Cowboys’ new thirty-six-year-old defensive coordinator. “That’s a bad sign.”
Though the upcoming draft would yield, among others, UCLA quarterback Troy Aikman, Syracuse fullback Daryl Johnston, and Pittsburgh center Mark Stepnoski, Johnson knew that counting on rookies to win games was akin to depending on the federal government to deliver timely tax refunds.
It was March 18, 1989, and the Cowboys were already toast.
Minus talent, Johnson’s strategy was to mold via torture. Viable or not, the new Cowboys headman believed he could take a wad of used bubble gum, pound it into the ground, and uncover a brick of gold. As an introduction to the Johnson Academy of Brutalization, on the first day of minicamp all Cowboy players were required to run sixteen 110-yard sprints under a certain time threshold before they could participate in general drills. “It was brutal,” says Ron Burton, a third-year linebacker. “I don’t think a lot of the guys were used to having to prove themselves before camp even started.”
One man certainly unaccustomed to such a regimen was Manca. Born on the island of Sardinia, Manca attended high school in Reno, Nevada, then spent three seasons in the mid-1980s kicking for Penn State. Like many players of his ilk, Manca’s postgraduate years were an NFL travelogue. He kicked three games as a strike player for the Cincinnati Bengals in 1987, and the following year attended training camp with the San Francisco 49ers. In the spring of 1989 Manca auditioned at a free-agent kicking combine in Reno and earned an invitation to the Cowboys’ camp.
Through his trials, Manca had come to understand that the kicker was expected solely to hone his craft. At Penn State, the 5-foot, 10-inch, 211-pound Manca lifted weights and ran stairs about as often as he shaved six-legged alpacas. It was no different with the Bengals and 49ers. “So when I showed up with the Cowboys I was totally out ofshape,” says Manca. “As a kicker you know you won’t be doing anything too strenuous.”
On his first day with the Cowboys, Manca was standing along the perimeter of the practice field, watching his new teammates divide into sprint groups, when an assistant coach pointed his way. “Manca!” the coach yelled. “Jump in there with the linebackers and running backs!”
Gulp. Manca turned to his left, where he spotted a gaggle of sleek, muscular men with pumpkin-sized calves. He completed the first two or three runs without much trouble. The next two—a little harder. The next two—a lot harder. By the eighth sprint, Manca was walk-jogging, sweat pouring down his face. Johnson was not
Before there were the legends of Troy Aikman, Emmitt Smith, and Michael Irvin, there was a side practice field in Irving, Texas, on a weekend in March 1989. This is where the Dallas Cowboys veterans and free agents gathered for a standard three-day “voluntary” (translation: choose to attend or wind up slinging Slurpees at the nearest 7-Eleven) minicamp; the place where Jimmy Johnson would have an early opportunity to evaluate his players and set a tone.
Ah —tone. Wasn’t that the key here? If Johnson was painfully aware of one thing, it was that the Dallas Cowboys—now his Dallas Cowboys—were woefully short on talent. Save for Michael Irvin, the prior season’s first-round draft choice, and Herschel Walker, the veteran running back who had piled up 2,019 total yards in 1988, the roster was a collection of long-past-their-prime veterans (Ed “Too Tall” Jones, Tom Rafferty), doomed-to-be-mediocre pups (Danny Noonan,Bob White, Jeff Zimmerman), and blah nobodies taking up space (Steve Folsom, Manny Hendrix). “I remember going into one of my early defensive meetings and there were five or six players older than I was,” says Dave Wannstedt, then the Cowboys’ new thirty-six-year-old defensive coordinator. “That’s a bad sign.”
Though the upcoming draft would yield, among others, UCLA quarterback Troy Aikman, Syracuse fullback Daryl Johnston, and Pittsburgh center Mark Stepnoski, Johnson knew that counting on rookies to win games was akin to depending on the federal government to deliver timely tax refunds.
It was March 18, 1989, and the Cowboys were already toast.
Minus talent, Johnson’s strategy was to mold via torture. Viable or not, the new Cowboys headman believed he could take a wad of used bubble gum, pound it into the ground, and uncover a brick of gold. As an introduction to the Johnson Academy of Brutalization, on the first day of minicamp all Cowboy players were required to run sixteen 110-yard sprints under a certain time threshold before they could participate in general drills. “It was brutal,” says Ron Burton, a third-year linebacker. “I don’t think a lot of the guys were used to having to prove themselves before camp even started.”
One man certainly unaccustomed to such a regimen was Manca. Born on the island of Sardinia, Manca attended high school in Reno, Nevada, then spent three seasons in the mid-1980s kicking for Penn State. Like many players of his ilk, Manca’s postgraduate years were an NFL travelogue. He kicked three games as a strike player for the Cincinnati Bengals in 1987, and the following year attended training camp with the San Francisco 49ers. In the spring of 1989 Manca auditioned at a free-agent kicking combine in Reno and earned an invitation to the Cowboys’ camp.
Through his trials, Manca had come to understand that the kicker was expected solely to hone his craft. At Penn State, the 5-foot, 10-inch, 211-pound Manca lifted weights and ran stairs about as often as he shaved six-legged alpacas. It was no different with the Bengals and 49ers. “So when I showed up with the Cowboys I was totally out ofshape,” says Manca. “As a kicker you know you won’t be doing anything too strenuous.”
On his first day with the Cowboys, Manca was standing along the perimeter of the practice field, watching his new teammates divide into sprint groups, when an assistant coach pointed his way. “Manca!” the coach yelled. “Jump in there with the linebackers and running backs!”
Gulp. Manca turned to his left, where he spotted a gaggle of sleek, muscular men with pumpkin-sized calves. He completed the first two or three runs without much trouble. The next two—a little harder. The next two—a lot harder. By the eighth sprint, Manca was walk-jogging, sweat pouring down his face. Johnson was not
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