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Poppies, honoring the Britain's war dead.
Tower of London...
[IMGwidthsize=620]http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2014/09/12/1410516481241_Image_galleryImage_LONDON_ENGLAND_SEPTEMBER_.JPG[/IMG]
Agree with the bolded
Agree with the bolded
I don't think there was "Irrefutable Evidence" that...
a) after catching the ball, Dez did NOT make a "football move" in reaching for the goal line
or
b) that his knee wasn't already in contact with the turf when the ball came free from his hands (i.e., the ground cannot cause a fumble)
The reply guy screwed the pooch (as they said in the Right Stuff) by overturning the call on the field
(Singing) "Oh...happy...day..." 
Okay...that...that was beautiful sarcasm. Well done sir and if I haven't stated this previously I don't agree with the Megatron rule, but I'm loving the IRONY that the Cowboys were defeated BY it after having benefitted from an obvious bad call the week before. In the words of Rodney Dangerfield in Caddy Shack "So let's DANCE!"
Agreed!
Logical Dreadhead: He made the grab in mid-air and fell backwards over the DB. He can SAY he had control of the ball (in that half a second) and was reaching for the goal line, but it LOOKED like he and the ball were falling at the same time and his hand was on back of it. The ball hit the ground with his hand on it and he fell on top of it and when he rolled over and unto his back and the ball which he'd NEVER SECURED bounced up and unto his chest where he finally secured it. It wasn't a catch and the replay officials saw what I saw a reciever who SHOULD HAVE pulled a ball INTO his body if he in fact HAD control of it rather than trying to be a hero. From the position they would have had a TD was as much of a gimme as the one they got in the first quarter as a result of the MYSTERY pass interference call on Greenbay. Catch NOT made...game LOST. Get OVER IT! Funny how you all loved the officials after they prison raped Detroit and were singing the "one call can't effect the outcome of a game" blues.
Dread-hater:
"Crackheads in my house, potato chips and peanut butter for dinner—my life was **** all the way to college."
Rolling Stone -- Dez Bryant: The Survivor
Deep poverty, family drama, mudslinging and power struggles: The trials and triumph of the Dallas Cowboys' most explosive star
Where Dez Bryant was raised, they call it the come-up — that Tupac-twisty climb from starveling to stardom, from rags-to-Rolls-Royce royalty. Bryant, whose first five years in the game stack up against any receivers in the Hall of Fame, is a one-of-a-kind wideout with length, strength and speed, a beauty-and-beast-mode cocktail of Randy Moss and Marshawn Lynch. A former first-team All-American whose draft stock cratered when he was suspended from playing in his junior year of college, Bryant has been a bargain for the Dallas Cowboys since they traded up to pick him late in the first round in the spring of 2010: two consecutive Pro Bowls, one All-Pro selection and a season for the ages last year.
This summer, he's pressing to finally get paid in a manner befitting his stats and rock-star station. He's retained Tom Condon, the premier agent in football, and signed with Jay Z's Roc Nation Sports to handle his contract talks with the Cowboys and broker his marketing deals; and he can't leave his house in suburban Dallas without being swarmed by selfie-seeking fans imploring him to please remain a Cowboy. Anywhere Bryant goes, they come from all directions, many or most of them female. Whatever they're drawn by, it's deeper than sex, though he's drop-dead-Denzel and he knows it. What they want, besides his baby, is to mother him, to make sure no one inflicts further harm on a man raised hip-deep in heartbreak. How do they know he's suffered? The way women have always known, whether it was Sam Cooke or Richard Pryor or Marvin Gaye who stood before them: They know a battered star-child when they see one.
But all that's behind him now, the pain and the poverty and not knowing when he'd eat next. The bad old days were charnel-house bad: a grandmother on crack and running the streets; his mother selling crack to raise her three kids, all of whom she'd had by 18; the stepmother's house with the lock on the fridge. Here was a kid largely raised by his brother, who also happened to be his uncle; who knocked on neighbors' doors to beg for food stamps; who shared a tiny duplex with more than a dozen people and slept wherever there was room for him on the floor. "Crackheads in my house, potato chips and peanut butter for dinner — my life was **** all the way to college," says Bryant. The news is decidedly better these days: His mother, Angela, has cleaned her act up and is stable and married (to a woman, as it turns out); his siblings avoided the snake pit of drugs and have never been to prison or rehab; and Bryant, at 26, has the world at his feet, after carrying it on his back since he could walk.
*As a kid, Dez had to steal his first set of pads, but soon after, he became a high school star.*
So why, sitting across from me at a plush hotel in Dallas, is he cartwheeling between outrage and wracking sobs, vowing to "show those motherfuckers who did me dirty"? Why is he so wounded by the bargaining machinations of reptilian Cowboys owner Jerry Jones, who had refused to make him a five-year offer at the going rate for franchise wide receivers? And why is he spitting fire at the man who gave him refuge after he'd been booted out of Oklahoma State football in 2009, calling David Wells, a black businessman in Dallas and a longtime trusted proxy of the Cowboys, a "thief and a liar" who Bryant says ripped him off?
The answer is, it's football, which is as brutal off the field as anything you've ever seen on Sunday. Betrayal, race politics and a purported Walmart tape that may or may not depict a lurid crime: This one's the Super Bowl of player/owner battles, a midnight game of chicken between two bent-for-leather drivers, with the Cowboys' season hanging on the brink.
***
When you go back a decade and watch video clips of Bryant playing football in high school, what you see is a kid who, in every sense of the word, looked unstoppable in life. He wasn't just taller and tauter than those guarding him, with a condor's wingspan and an air-walker's way of taking the game three feet off the ground. He also had the knowledge — the impatient body wisdom — that he was going places the other kids weren't. It's there in every movement: the one-hand grabs; the whipsaw cuts after the catch. Even when he scores, it's clear he's just marking time. I'm ready for my close-up, Commissioner Goodell.
Ten years later, the stakes have changed, but Bryant's still a man against boys. At six feet two and 216 pounds, he's LeBron in cleats. The game's most productive wideout since 2012 (almost 4,000 yards total, and more touchdowns — by far — than any other receiver in the game), he's essentially become Dallas' passing attack. Simply put, he does what the greats have always done: makes the extraordinary look ordinary. And vice versa.
In truth, though, no one ever had it harder than Desmond D. Bryant coming up. His mother, the oldest of eight children by six fathers, was impregnated at 14 by her mother's boyfriend, MacArthur Hatton, who'd also sired two of Angela's siblings. Her...
