Back home in Texas after the 2001 season finale, all that was left for the Dallas Cowboys to close the book on the season was one final position meeting. For the most part these are cursory get-togethers. Coaches make a few statements. Playbooks are collected. Off-season plans are discussed. But when you're as bad off as the Cowboys were in December (six years removed from their last playoff win), there isn't a whole lot of chit chat going on.

So it only took a few moments for the running backs' meeting room inside Valley Ranch to fall silent. And it stayed that way for several uncomfortable minutes until the younger players heard the faint sounds of sniffling coming from the back of the room.

When they got up enough nerve to twist their heads around and investigate, they discovered Emmitt Smith sitting by himself, crying.

His face was buried in his hands and his fingers moved slowly, rubbing his eyes and wiping away the wetness. Emmitt Smith: a gazillionaire with a wonderful family and a spot waiting for him in Canton, on the verge of Walter Payton's all-time rushing record and NFL immortality, was alone, in the dark, weeping.
 

This is how I'd like to remember Emmitt. As a man of pride and class who cared deeply about his performance and that of his team. As a warrior. As a man of character. As a player on the verge of the NFL's most prestigious record who embodies all that is great about this sport.

	30 Second Column
	The Dawgs have gone to the dogs. First they corporatize Cleveland Browns Stadium, complete with cell phones and chardonnay in the new Dawg Pound. Then, on Sunday night in Cleveland, the Browns rally from 23 down in the second half in front of a half-empty stadium. The few folks that did stick around turned into a Jerry Springer audience and cheered when QB Tim Couch went down with a concussion in the fourth quarter. While he shouldn't get so worked up over the fans that boo him, Couch has every right to rip the scumbags who applauded his injury. Who are these people? Where are the good folks (cuckoo, yes, but not criminal) who I used to grow snot icicles inside the old rusty Mistake on the Lake? Browns fans used to be like your in-laws: they'd never leave and they'd never be quiet but you loved them anyway because they were so blindly loyal. I don't know who's sitting in these seats, but they aren't Dawgs. They're more like clueless, classless poodle-posers.
	The Flemister File
	Wherein we follow the exploits of FlemFile mascot and Washington TE Zeron Flemister: ZFlem spent part of the 'Skins bye week in his hometown of Chicago visiting the house he grew up in on the south side that has been in the Flemister Family since 1920, literally from AFlem to ZFlem. When he was four his octogenarian grandfather used to babysit ZFlem quite a bit and you better believe he brags about his grandson around the neighborhood something fierce. "He's pretty proud of me," says ZFlem, who took the fam to (where else?) The ESPNZone to eat. "He tells everyone about his grandson and he wants a Redskins jersey because it will have his name on the back too. It was pretty cool seeing him." On Sunday ZFlem did his gramps proud, hauling in two more catches for 22 yards. Rookie QB Patrick Ramsey threw at him a record (for ZFlem) five times. Apparently it took a rookie to understand how vital tight ends are underneath when facing the cover-2 scheme that's all the rage these days. Speaking of rage, Ramsey actually got on ZFlem in the huddle for not finishing a route, something the tight end actually welcomes. "The talk of the locker room and the plane ride home was all about Ramsey," says ZFlem. "About how he stepped up and played with so much poise and confidence. A rookie who holds out doesn't get respect from the team until he produces." So he's got the team's respect. But to get the stamp of approval from The South Side he better keep throwing at AFlem's grandson.
	The Flem Five
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	WHYLO of the Week
	My mailbag is like an electronic piρata. I tap it each week and am always amazed at the things that spill out. Here's what I mean: Father Cory Dahl, the pastor at First Baptist Church of Sturgeon Bay, Wis., wrote in to suggest Christian Okoye for last week's All-Armageddon Team and we ended up exchanging several emails about U2, religion, the idea of grace, faith, a higher power (no, not Brett Favre) and the Packers. Wayne Thogmartin was upset about my poking fun of the Packers cheerleaders in last week's column on Packers backup Doug Pederson. "How could you have missed out on all the Scandihoovian babes that are up here?" Scandiwhatian? Fellow reader Paul also enjoyed the column but wanted to know if "You could get me a new fleece pullover, my dog ate mine." Tony Alvarez says, "Not to sound like an ass but don't you have anything better to do than write about losers like Doug Pederson?" Loyal and longtime FlemFiler Todd Larson writes, "Still love reading your columns, especially in football season. Keep up the great work. But if you take requests, you haven't used my favorite word, 'Doofus', for quite a few columns now. Any way you can weave in 'Randy Moss' and 'Doofus' into the same sentence?" Regarding the All-Armageddon list and the feature on KC RB Priest Holmes, Wallace Wilson wanted to know if I made up the lead to the story. Seriously. He asked me that. He really did. "This town is Chiefs crazy, and I don't see someone here not knowing who he is. Did you make that up?" No, I did not. But I did invent a word to describe readers like yourself. Wally, Who Helped You Log On?
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	If I'm Bill Cowher I leave Kordell at QB and try to work Tommy Maddox in on defense. They need more help over there. Scientists have deconstructed the human genetic code but I still have to stick half my arm into a fog of gas, grime and cobwebs in order to reignite my hot-water heater's pilot light by hand? With apologies to Johnny Rotten, Queen Elizabeth rules. Did you see her drop the puck in Vancouver? You know you've lived a great life when, like the Queen, you can say the last NHL game you went to was 51 years ago. The New Orleans Saints have sold out 16 straight home games. Will the New Orleans Hornets be able to match that? Confused about this new microfracture surgery athletes like Terrell Davis are having to help with bad knees? It's the same puncture/regrowth principle as aerating your lawn. I cannot curb my enthusiasm for HBO's Curb Your Enthusiasm. Brett Favre on the Packers season so far: "I don't know if I've ever been associated with a team that has had so many injuries and had to overcome as much adversity this early in the year as this team has." I don't blame Chiefs chief Dick Vermeil for chafing a bit about his team's ridiculously hard sched. KC with the Panthers schedule is a redo of the 1999 Rams. Side note on Vermeil done while working on the Flem Five with my buddy Burnsie: Vermeil was 25-26 with the Rams. Note to Nike: You can stop running those Jason Giambi commercials. How long until a speedy wideout or physically mature running back tries to jump from high school straight to the NFL? Bet it's sooner than you think. Can you believe Peyton Manning's 11-yard scamper (Jaunt? Amble? Trot? Shuffle?) was the Horseshoes' first rushing TD of the season. Ya know the only time I've ever heard Manning get miffed is when I hinted that he might not be the league's most nimble QB. He shot back about how he has been one of the NFL's least-sacked QBs during his career. And he was right. This column was written while listening to The Smiths' Louder Than Bombs.

Not the guy with the flecks of gray in his beard and the sluggish 33-year-old body that may now require as many as 10 games to gain the 540 yards needed to plod past Payton.

Emmitt for one yard.

Emmitt for minus four.

Emmitt for no gain.

Not that guy.

Not the guy whose most eye-popping performance in his 13th season has been with ALF. Not the guy who ranks 16th in the NFL in rushing with 306 yards a single TD. Not the image of those ubiquitous Tracking Payton charts where the tiny football never seems to move any closer to 16,726. Not the guy who has rushed 26 times the last two weeks -- 19 of them for three yards or less.

Not that guy.

People like to compare the NFL rushing title to the home run chase in Major League Baseball. But it's not even close. Barry Bonds breaks his record with a towering, powerful blast and a glorious trot around the bases. In baseball the power, the electricity and the prestige build from homer No. 1 until homer No. 73 is uncorked. It's the exact opposite in the NFL, where the all-time rushing leader ends up gimping, scratching and clawing his creaky body to his mark.

Lets face it, it's just not pretty what this sport does to running backs over time. Payton gained 533 yards his last season. Franco Harris? 170. Thurman Thomas? 136. Eric Dickerson? 91.

Watching Emmitt so far this season has given me a whole new respect for the enigmatic Barry Sanders, whose most brilliant pirouette may have been the one he pulled in 1999 when he disappeared from the game within reach of the record. He did it, I now suspect, to avoid exactly what Emmitt is going through this season: the world tuned in to watch your every move long after the magic has left those legs.

But it's not just football players or athletes. It's doctors, lawyers, columnists, broadcasters -- few of us ever go out on top (or anywhere close to it.) We keep chugging away at it, just like Emmitt. And it's not always pretty. So is it right, just because he's a star, to hold Emmitt to a standard none of us are willing to meet? I don't think so. If you were within reach of immortality in your field would you keep going at all costs or consequences no matter how embarrassing?

Hell yes you would.

So out of empathy and respect, this one time -- and one time only -- I'm willing to turn my head away from the TV screen and wait for yard No. 540 and ignore everything else leading up to it. I'll forget for the time being what kind of damage Emmitt's young bulldozer backup Troy Hambrick could be doing. I'll push from my mind how much added pressure a poor running game is putting on young QB Quincy Carter.

I'm gonna give Emmitt the most rare and royal treatment you can bestow upon a pro athlete in an era of unparalleled cynicism in sports -- the benefit of the doubt.

So crawl, Emmitt. Gimp. Make like Franco and run for the sidelines. Put the Cowboys' season on hold. (Because at nearly $10 million against the cap next season, this is it, pal.) Take all the time you need. Then bask in it and take one final victory lap.

Because you've earned it.

In an empty apartment on the eve of his first training camp in 1990, Smith wrote down the words: NFL ALL-TIME LEADING RUSHER. Since then, as the paper yellowed with age, he has methodically chopped away at the record with an NFL-best 11-straight 1,000-yard seasons. He's earned it all right: nine Pro Bowls, four rushing titles, a league and a Super Bowl MVP award. With uncanny field vision Smith perfected the art of running between the tackles while adding more yards after initial contact than just about anyone who has ever carried the ball on Sundays.

Still, Smith's greatest gift as a runner has been his timing. He was drafted into a budding dynasty, played next to a Hall of Fame quarterback who kept defenses honest and in front of a line that revolutionized the concepts of size and power in the NFL. (Smith's blockers have taken 26 trips to the Pro Bowl. Sanders'? Six. Payton's? Four.) And he'll likely end up playing longer but with a shorter yards-per-carry average (currently 4.3) than any of the top five running backs of all time.

His average yards per carry this year? 4.3. Ya see, the truth is Emmitt's never been one of the game's most dynamic, pure runners. Query his contemporaries, former greats like Jim Brown, Marcus Allen and Tony Dorsett, and the words that come up most often to describe Smith are the same ones that come out of his own mouth -- durability, heart, courage. Traits that have been built, not bestowed. Traits that make his rush at the record even more remarkable.

Traits that were on display in 1994, when Emmitt led the Cowboys to the NFC East title with 168 yards rushing against the Giants despite playing with a separated shoulder. Smith picked up 41 yards on nine consecutive touches during the 52-yard game-winning drive in OT. Afterward he was sprawled out on a trainer's table inside Giants Stadium, surrounded by medical staff, writhing in pain. It was the gutsiest thing I have ever witnessed in pro sports and the signature performance of his career.

Emmitt carried the Cowboys -- and the sport -- to a new level that day, and for many seasons beyond.

So we can all carry him for a while.

David Fleming is a senior writer for ESPN The Magazine. E-mail him at FlemFile@carolina.rr.com. But watch out -- you could be the WHYLO of the Week.