From Seoul to São Paulo, the World Watches America Re-Hire Schottenheimer: A Tragicomedy in 16 Acts

PARIS—Somewhere between the Seine’s grey ripple and the seventh espresso of the afternoon, word reached the international press corps that Brian Schottenheimer—yes, that Schottenheimer, scion of football’s most reliable family tragedy—has been handed the keys to the Dallas Cowboys’ offense. The planet, distracted by minor irritants such as record heat in Delhi and the slow-motion disintegration of the Arctic, paused only briefly to mutter, “Ah yes, America’s Team™ doubling down on dynastic mediocrity. How perfectly on-brand.”

To the uninitiated beyond U.S. borders, Schottenheimer is less a coach than a recurring character in an HBO dramedy that refuses to be canceled. His résumé reads like a UNESCO list of places where optimism goes to die: the Jets, the Rams, the Seahawks—each stop an elegant demonstration that nepotism is the most renewable resource we have. Still, Jerry Jones, the Cowboys’ silver-haired Caligula, saw something in Brian’s particular brand of sustained near-success and thought, “That’ll play in prime time.” The rest of the globe responded with the polite shrug usually reserved for British cabinet reshuffles.

Yet the appointment carries geopolitical heft, if only as a parable. In an era when nations outsource national defense to apps and central banks treat recessions like TikTok trends, the Cowboys’ decision is a comforting reminder that some institutions still prefer the devil they know. Schottenheimer’s play-calling is the macroeconomic equivalent of the European Central Bank’s inflation targets: technically ambitious, spiritually timid, and ultimately revised downward once the fourth quarter—sorry, fourth quarter-century—turns ugly.

Consider the optics from each continent. In Seoul, where baseball games are won on spreadsheets and fermented cabbage, Schottenheimer’s reputation for red-zone timidity is viewed as a cautionary tale of excessive filial piety. In Lagos, fans juggling rolling blackouts and Nollywood cliff-hangers simply marvel that Americans can fit this much melodrama into sixteen regular-season games. Meanwhile, in Davos, where failure is merely a branding exercise, Brian’s career arc is admired as “serial resilience,” the same phrase applied to crypto exchanges that keep getting hacked yet somehow retain users.

The broader significance? Schottenheimer’s elevation is globalization’s fun-house mirror. We export McDonald’s, Marvel movies, and mortgage-backed securities; we import the notion that last names are transferable skill sets. If the Cowboys flame out spectacularly—vegas.eu has the over/under on “creative differences” at Week 9—rest assured the collapse will be live-tweeted in seventeen languages. The memes alone will generate enough carbon to melt another glacier, but at least the glacier won’t have to watch another delayed screen pass on third-and-long.

And let us not ignore the dark poetry of timing. As COP delegates argue over half-degree temperature clauses, the most-watched American sport doubles down on a coach whose offenses traditionally move the chains about as effectively as a hungover customs agent. It’s as if the universe handed humanity a perfectly on-the-nose metaphor: we can’t convert in the red zone, literally or figuratively.

Still, hope springs eternal in the souvenir shop. Somewhere a child in Mexico City is buying a Cowboys jersey stitched in Vietnam, dreaming that this Schottenheimer iteration will be different—unaware that the jersey’s dye will outlast the coach’s tenure. That’s the cruel beauty: every empire needs its jesters, and the NFL’s jesters come with laminated play sheets and guaranteed contracts.

So when the Cowboys’ season ends in the usual pyrotechnic disappointment, remember you witnessed more than football. You watched the world rehearse its favorite ritual: elevating legacy over logic, then acting shocked when the final score reads 24-20, opposition ball, one timeout left, and a check-down pass to the flat. Brian Schottenheimer isn’t merely calling plays; he’s conducting the symphony of human folly—first down, second guess, eternal recurrence. Curtain.