One year after his viral heartbreak, Cowboys legend Drew Pearson again awaits the Hall of Fame call

Last time it hurt so much because Drew Pearson believed it was his time. Harold Carmichael got in last year. And he was Pearson’s back-up on the NFL’s All-Decade team of the ’70s, which was named, in no little irony, by Pro Football Hall of Fame voters. Pearson was the only member of the first- or second-team offense that wasn’t in. He figured this had to be it. This was why he invited friends and family and media to his home, to witness his time.

But if the Hall of Fame call never came, his emotions certainly did.

On camera, no less.

“They broke my heart.”

The viral images revealed the sensitivity of a once fearless wide receiver, the god who answered Roger Staubach’s “Hail Mary,” the blueprint for the Cowboys’ No. 88. The injustice should have seemed bad enough on paper. Watching it play out?

Unbearable.

“The way I felt,” Pearson said Monday, “the whole world got to see.”

Now, here we are, a little more than a year later with another Hall of Fame class in the offing, and once again Drew Pearson waits. His chances look better this time. He’s the lone player among senior finalists. Tom Flores is up as a coach. Both senior candidates have become national causes. Coors even put Flores in commercials and on cans, leaving Pearson to feign disappointment.

“I could have done malt liquor,” he said. “Even Boone’s Farm.”

Pearson’s sense of humor is proof that if the snub hurt, it didn’t metastasize into bitterness. On Friday, he’ll be on a flight to Tampa. Come Saturday morning, he’ll get a call or he won’t.

“No matter when it comes,” he said, “it’s still a great feeling. And hopefully I’ll be able to get that feeling when it happens.”

Pause.

“Hopefully.”

Whenever it happens, it’s a long time coming for a guy who grew up in South River, N.J., thinking his best shot as a pro athlete would be at second base. As a teenager, he starred on men’s teams that played a three-state area. Led the county in hitting as a junior at .440. Of course, he played a little football, too. Made the varsity as a sophomore, unthinkable at South River. His first catch was a 60-yard touchdown. The guy who threw it? Joe Theismann. Only he was Joey THEES-man back then. On Saturdays, Pearson played both ways. On Mondays, he took reps on the junior varsity as Theismann’s heir apparent.

Pearson chose Tulsa over Nebraska because they told him he could play baseball, too. By the time he gave up his first love, he’d grown into a good receiver at 6-0, 180 pounds. Not that it got him noticed much at Tulsa. “Wallowing in obscurity,” he called it.

The ’73 draft came and went — 17 rounds, in fact — and no one claimed him. Then he got three calls. He turned down Green Bay, but Pittsburgh had appeal.

The Cowboys’ call came from a scout staying at a Tulsa hotel. He talked Pearson into driving over, then pitched a $150 signing bonus.

“If you pay me that in cash,” Pearson told him, “I’ll sign right now.”

Why cash instead of a check?

“I needed gas to get back home.”

For a tank of gas and a couple months’ rent, the Cowboys got one of their all-time greats. Started six games as a rookie and was first-team All Pro three of his first five seasons.

Pay no heed to his career statistics. The numbers don’t translate to today’s video game NFL. Neither do the rules. In Pearson’s day, when defenders didn’t have their hands on you, they went for your head and knees.

And heaven help any poor soul over the middle.

Today’s players are bigger, stronger, faster and richer. Pearson made $14,500 as a rookie and $225,000 in his 11th and final season, when an accident on LBJ claimed his brother’s life and ended his career. Most players of his caliber make more in one quarter of a game than he did his last season. Yet he begrudges them nothing.

He’s even at peace with the terms of his cash bonus.

“I used to be embarrassed to admit that,” he said.

Playing for Tom Landry’s Cowboys had its perks, Pearson said, enabling a long and successful career in media as well as athletic apparel. Now 70, he has no regrets. Especially if it all goes right this weekend.

COVID-19 precautions being what they are, Pearson has already taken one test, and he’ll take more in Tampa. Can’t socialize at the hotel. No restaurants. No mingling in the lobby.

Can’t do much of anything except wait.

“If you’re lucky enough to be selected,” he said, “they have the gold jacket dinner on Saturday night. Then they take you over to the game. That’s if you’re selected.

“If I’m not selected, that all goes to hell, and I’m going to Cabo.”

Because of what Pearson went through last year, I didn’t ask him what he’ll say if he makes it. Normally I don’t believe in jinxes, but, in Pearson’s case, I’ll make an exception. He did his part. Now it’s up to others not to screw this up.

But, just the same, I did have one last question:

Did you push off?

“No push off,” he says, and it’s 1975 and he’s only a handful of steps from the end zone and a playoff win for the ages over the Vikings at Metropolitan Stadium, Nate Wright on his hip, Staubach’s Hail Mary in the air.

“I’m swinging my arm around to make the catch, and with that contact, he went down. I’m sticking to that story for the rest of my life. There will be no admissions in my speech if I get in the Hall of Fame, either.

“Never gonna happen. No push. Touchdown, Dallas.”

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