Jenny and I were driving through my parents’ neighborhood tonight when the car in front of us stopped and the door opened. I was a little nervous, not knowing what to expect. The driver, a smiling woman in her 70s with an interesting, unplaceable accent, stepped out and walked back to me. “I’m lost!” she said. She’d gone to the store and couldn’t remember how to get back to her grandson’s house on a nearby street. “Tony Romo’s my grandson”, she explained. I see. Well, I couldn’t remember exactly where the street was, but we couldn’t let Tony’s granny down.

I fumbled around on my iPhone map trying to locate the street until Jenny, wise as she is, asked Grandma Romo if she wanted to follow us there instead. She happily agreed, so we drove off with her in trail. Soon she stopped at (we hope) the right house, and we drove off. My brush with Cowboys greatness was over.

In retrospect, I could have done all sorts of obnoxious things like asking for Tony’s autograph or trying to score some tickets. I could’ve simply asked her to tell Tony good luck in the big game against the Redskins on Sunday. But I didn’t. The weirdness of the whole situation kept my brain from working correctly.