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photo lab as a technician.He knew how to work a camera, but so, for that matter, do most six-year-olds.
    Robert Hart, one of the paper’s photo editors, scribbled “MIA’S; 4322 LEMMON AVE” on a piece of scrap paper and handed it to Kegans. “If you don’t get anything,” he told the intern, “don’t come back.”
    Kegans sped to Mia’s, parked his red Datsun 240SX, and dashed through the front doorway. He nervously approached Jones and Johnson’s table. “Guys, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m with the Dallas Morning News and I have to take your picture.”
    “Okay,” said Jones. “Just make it quick.”
    Click.
    Click.
    Click.
    Click.
    Click.
    Click.
    “That’s good,” said Johnson. “It’s enough.”
    With that, Kegans returned to the Morning News office, loaded his roll into the film processor, and prayed. In the twenty-five minutes it took for the six photographs to develop, Hart laid on the pressure. “There better be something here,” he said, “This is your life as a photographer on the line.”
    The pictures emerged from the machine. They were non-artistic, non-dazzling, non-eye-catching—and absolutely, positively perfect. There, sitting across from one another and engaged in conversation, were Jones and Johnson. It was as good as official: The Cowboys were under new management.
     
    On the morning of February 25, 1989, readers of the Dallas Morning News woke up to find one of the most breathtaking sports-related front pages in the city’s 143-year history. Beneath the headline COWBOYSSALE NEAR; LANDRY LIKELY OUT and alongside one of Kegans’s photographs ran a piece from staff writer Bernie Miklasz, who cobbled together a story utilizing Maisel’s encounter along with various other sources. It began:
    Arkansas millionaire Jerry Jones and Cowboys owner H. R. “Bum” Bright were locked in negotiations all day Friday, attempting to make final a purchase that would give Jones control of the Cowboys and Texas Stadium Corp. A source with knowledge of the negotiations said that Jones has offered Bright $130 million for the team and stadium leases.
    By all indications the purchase, which could become official Saturday, would abruptly terminate the 29-year regime of Tom Landry, the only head coach in the Cowboys’ history. Jones, according to several sources close to him, plans to replace Landry with University of Miami coach Jimmy Johnson.
    The article was jarring, the picture even more so. How could Jones and Johnson come to Dallas and strip Tom Landry of his job and then his dignity by celebrating at the legendary coach’s favorite restaurant? Throughout the city the news was blasphemous. The local talk radio stations were bombarded with venomous calls— Who was this Jones guy? How could he dump Coach Landry like that? The Cowboys were an institution, not merely another team. This was evil; nightmarish; pathetic; wrongheaded. A handful of solitary voices begged the city for patience. The request was roundly ignored. Patience? To hell with patience. “My first impression was that this Jones guy had a chance to make it,” says Norm Hitzges, the longtime Dallas radio personality. “Or that he had a chance of becoming the NFL’s version of the Hindenburg.”
    When Jones initially learned of the franchise’s availability, he told himself he would fork over whatever it took. After all, a dream was a dream. Yet the eventual deal was, in hindsight, a steal. Though Bright had wanted $180 million, he wound up settling for significantly less:$90 million for the team, $50 million for the stadium, and $10 million to assume the mortgage on the team’s headquarters. After four days of negotiating, Bright and Jones had one of their final battles on the morning of February 25 at the Bright Banc on Stemmons Freeway, when they disagreed over $300,000 in closing fees. Bright pulled a quarter from his pocket. “Let’s flip for it,” he said.
    Jones called tails. The coin landed heads up.
    “Oh