Jerry Jones leans forward in his creaky leather chair, elbows on the desk, grin polished to a mirror shine. He talks like a man who’s about to change lives, and possibly menu prices at the stadium.
JERRY (drawl like slow molasses over money): “Now lemme tell y’all somethin’. Leadership—ah didn’t study it, ah didn’t read about it, ah invented it. Accidentally, o’ course. Like fire. Or mayonnaise on barbecue.”
He settles back, thinking so hard the air gets heavier. “This was… oh, let’s call it nineteen-ninety-somethin’. Maybe two-thousand. Doesn’t matter—time bends for winners. Anyway, ah was in the facility, walkin’ around doin’ mah daily leadership patrol, which is where ah just walk and folks get better by proximity.”
He gestures like he’s parting seas. “Ah passed by the cafeteria. Fellas were eatin’, coaches mumblin’ ‘bout strategy—words like ‘gap integrity’ and ‘clock management,’ nonsense terms invented by losers. Ah just wanted a sandwich.”
He stops, nods slowly, remembering something that may or may not have ever happened. “Ah said, ‘Lettuce. Tomato. Extra destiny.’ The fella makin’ the sandwich froze. Looked at me like ah’d just told him how to win the Cold War with a draw play.”
He chuckles—low, ominous. “Next thing ah know, the whole room’s starin’. ‘What’s destiny?’ they ask. Ah said, ‘It’s somethin’ you order before you even know what’s on the menu.’”
He slaps the desk, delighted with himself. “Boom. Leadership. Accidentally. Just like that.”
He paces now, lost in his own legend. “Ah gave ‘em the speech. Told ‘em greatness ain’t about talent or luck or analytics—Lord no. It’s about tone of voice and impeccable cufflinks. You gotta look like you meant it before you even think it.”
He points to a framed picture behind him—something between a family portrait and an ancient rune. “That’s when ah learned mah greatest lesson: the difference between a leader and a follower… is who gets to interrupt who.”
Another pause. He stares at the ceiling, smiling like revelation just shook his hand. “By the end of that day, folks were inspired, team was confused, and ah got mah sandwich. Destiny-flavored.”
He leans back, folds his hands, satisfied. “See, leadership ain’t complicated. It’s just charisma with a light drizzle o’ delusion. Some folks call it ego. Ah call it executive aura.”
He stands, brushing off invisible dust. “Now ah could tell ya how that lesson led us to a lifetime of success, but ah think the proof’s in the prestige. Look around—this here franchise glows in the dark.”
He gives a slow nod, certain the world now understands something profound even if they don’t.
“Anyway… ah been talkin’ too long. Y’all take that with ya. Maybe start a company or somethin’. Remember: leadership can’t be taught. It’s caught—like a cold, or confidence.”
He grins at the window, where the stadium lights flicker in the distance.
“Mah plan’s workin’ perfectly.”
Fade out. Dust sparkles. Somewhere, a fan sighs. Jerry smiles like he just cured mediocrity with words that mean nothin’ and everything.*
