DALLAS — On Feb. 9, 1993, the biggest phenomenon in the history of Dallas hit downtown with 15 tons of ticker tape and confetti as an estimated 400,000 people showed up at a party budgeted for less than half that turnout. Before the parade celebrating the Cowboys’ 52-10 Super Bowl win over Buffalo nine days earlier was over, 14 revelers had gone to jail, another two dozen to the hospital and a convertible carrying a Cowboy caught fire.
For those too young or too old to remember, this is what winning used to look like around here.
We were young.
We were stupid.
We were great.
In the 30 years since, through celebrations of two more Lombardi Trophies as well as a Stanley Cup and an NBA title, not to mention the annual Mardi Gras known around these parts as Texas-OU, we’ve never seen the like of what spontaneously combusted on a spring-like winter day. City officials postured and pointed fingers and ultimately apologized, explaining they had no idea that winning the city’s first Super Bowl in 15 years would elicit such a bacchanal.
The essence of the day’s events was distilled by a young woman holding her 5-month-old daughter, both nearly flattened by security guards evacuating an injured person near City Hall Plaza.
“They just ran over me,” Vicki Seltzer told The Dallas Morning News.
“This is great.”
‘Crazy, crazy scene’
Russell Maryland knew something might not be quite right after the convertible he was riding in with fellow defensive lineman Tony Casillas near the rear end of the parade turned onto Commerce and slowly squeezed past the Adolphus. Maryland remembered thinking up to that point it seemed a little like the parades back in Miami after the Hurricanes won two national titles.
“Except this one was like those on steroids,” he said last week.
Everywhere you looked down Commerce, the view was the same. Crowds massed on both sides of the narrow street and backed up between buildings. People hanging out of parking garages, people hanging out of windows, people hanging from street lights. People standing on buses and cars and traffic signs.
A guy in boots and a mullet balancing himself on an electrical conduit.
A rainbow-colored blizzard.
“The ticker tape was flowing,” Maryland said, laughing. “Crazy amount of it. Filled up the cars. Getting in your mouth. Getting everywhere.
“Crazy, crazy scene.”
Until that point in the route, the parade had been pleasant and uneventful. Fans remained at a safe distance.
“But at a certain point,” Maryland said, “a whole mass of people converged on us. They came right through the barricades. I had no fear for my life or anything like that. Everyone was really nice. They were wanting high-fives or autographs. They were shouting atta boys, ‘How ‘bout them Cowboys!,’ stuff like that. It was really festive.
“But you couldn’t drive for fear of running over someone.”
Michael Irvin told reporters he “kind of liked” all the attention. Made him want to get back to work to win it all again. Emmitt Smith removed all of his jewelry, afraid someone might rip it off his body.
“Some woman tried to pull me out of the car and kiss me,” he said.
The 350 police officers working the parade with 110 on standby reportedly didn’t do much to stop the breach of the barricades. Probably felt overwhelmed. Officials later said they needed twice as many as were on duty. One officer was treated for minor injuries after getting caught between the swelling Commerce crowds and a parked car.
A few officers begged TV reporters not to interview players in the cars because it only further slowed the pace, encouraging fans to press even closer.
The pleas went unheeded. Maybe it was because of the cacophony created by the high school band and the roars throughout the canyon. Maybe nobody cared. The parade had taken on a life and lawlessness all its own.
One minute Charles Dodgen was driving Erik Williams, the offensive lineman, in his 1990 Corvette convertible. Next minute, people are standing on his Corvette. So many people, in fact, that the wheel wells squatted on the tires. The car wouldn’t move. Which may have contributed to what happened next.
Either the heat from underneath the sports car ignited the confetti piling up on the street, or someone deliberately set the fire. Dodgen, a 60-year-old parts manager for an auto dealer, wasn’t sure which.
Going over the damage to his vehicle with a News reporter on site, Dodgen noted dents, a melted dashboard and knife marks in the paint job.
The reporter asked what color he’d call it.
“It’s aqua blue,” he said.
Pause.
“Well, a burnt aqua.”
Meanwhile, up front at City Hall Plaza, where Jerry Jones and Jimmy Johnson and the team’s biggest stars arrived without incident, if 25 minutes late, the reception was only slightly more subdued. Emmitt tried without success to make a joke about a moment of silence for the Bills. The crowd stifled itself long enough to let Troy Aikman explain why he’d left the Pro Bowl early. Simply had to get back to the city he loved. Then he hopped in a car for a waiting helicopter that buzzed him to the airport.
Jerry only learned later about all the troubles at the tail end of the snake he led through town. Dallas ISD officials estimated at least a third of the district’s students played hooky. The mayor, Steve Bartlett, blamed 200 or so youths for much of the fighting and looting. As a result, at parades after the ‘94 and ‘96 Super Bowl wins, the Cowboys rode on flatbed trucks, walled off from their adoring fans by a bigger police presence and better barricades.
Contacted by the media hours after the event in ‘93, Jerry called the Cowboys’ experience “very cordial” and the reception at City Hall, in particular, “outstanding.”
“I hope,” he concluded, “that it will not tarnish what should be a memorable day for the entire city.”
Fans’ hunger burns
Vicki Seltzer had gotten her wisdom teeth out that morning, and when she came out of the gas, she told technicians to remove her IV. She had someplace to go. She and her husband, Kevin, and their infant daughter, Megan, left Fort Worth early for the noon start to avoid the crowds. Too late. Many of the 400,000 arrived before dawn. Some apparently camped out. One woman came all the way from Los Angeles.
Vicki, who grew up a Cowboys fan in East Texas, had no idea there were so many people in the world just like her. The throng was so great, the space so tight, she held tight to Megan and Kevin’s belt loop as he led the family through the masses.
The Seltzers’ diligence was rewarded when Vicki got Drew Pearson, the original No. 88, to sign Megan’s shirt.
Getting roughed up a little by security down at City Hall couldn’t take any of the fun out of that.
“I was on cloud nine,” Vicki said last week. “I didn’t dream I’d do anything like that in my lifetime.”
She’s Vicki Bynog now, a registered nurse living in Big Sandy. Even after all these years — and 27 without another parade — she remains resolute in her football loyalties. She’s no fan of Jerry Jones, but the star still shines bright.
“Once you’re a Cowboys fan,” she said, “you stick with ‘em, good or bad.”
Unfortunately, her loyalty isn’t hereditary. Even though Megan was smack dab in the middle of it, she can’t remember a time when the Cowboys rated a parade.
Now 30 and living in Weatherford with her husband and 5-year-old son, she’s not even a Cowboys fan. Her husband, who grew up in Mineral Wells, follows the Broncos, so Megan does, too.
Broncos?
“The heart wants what the heart wants,” Megan’s mom said.
Think what you will, Vicki, but, if you ask me, this is what happens when the local team goes so long between parades. Minds and allegiances wander. Back in ‘93, it’d been so long since they’d won a Super Bowl — 15 years — the long-awaited celebration nearly blew the top off the city. Imagine what would happen if the Cowboys ever won another one. They’d be sweeping up more than confetti.
