The air in Arlington is thick with the smell of sports leadership stability. One of our professional teams has recently flown to the top, the other is always … well, the Cowboys. We want the Rangers to win again soon. We want the Cowboys to win again … sometime, but at least we aren’t home to the Mavericks. Since Mark Cuban sold the team to a family of carpetbaggers in Las Vegas, this region has been quietly served a masterclass in how not to run a franchise.
The front office stability of the Cowboys can be frustrating and repetitive. The vast changes in dollars available to the Rangers front office can cause whiplash. However, both a welcome change of pace from the kind of boardroom folly that can set a franchise back a generation. You don’t have to look far for this cautionary tale, just fifteen miles east to the ghost of the Mavericks’ infamous power structure. The story of Nico Harrison—hired, authorized to trade a global superstar in Luka Dončić, and then unceremoniously dismissed just eight months later as the team crumbled—will be taught in business schools for years as a prime example of institutional chaos. It was a disaster, plain and simple, and one that demonstrated a profound vacuum of steady, purposeful leadership.
Contrast that volatility with the calculated, patient hand of Chris Young of the Texas Rangers.
Young didn’t just inherit a team; he inherited an expectation, and he built a champion. His leadership has been a textbook blend of shrewd talent acquisition and an unshakable belief in his vision. He didn’t chase headlines; he chased results. He stabilized the front office, invested massively in the core, and proved that a clear, consistent direction can turn years of frustration into immediate triumph. The next step for CY and the Rangers is to prove success isn’t just about big contracts; for the second straight year, the budget will be cut significantly this time. So now it’s about Young having the strategic foresight and conviction to execute his plan without succumbing to panic or short-term noise.
At the GM meetings in Las Vegas last month, Young said he is up for the challenge of competing for a playoff spot on a budget. “We don’t feel sorry for ourselves that our payroll is going to be smaller than it was,” Young said. “I’m a competitor. It doesn’t deter me. That means we all have to be better at our jobs, and that is what I expect to do.”
Then there is Jerry Jones. Say what you will about the man who is owner, president, and general manager of the Dallas Cowboys, but the one thing you can never question is his commitment to the franchise’s brand, stability, and enduring relevance. In a league designed for parity, Jones has consistently kept the Cowboys as a fixture in the national conversation. While other owners might waffle on coaching or organizational structure, Jones provides an absolute pillar of control.
His leadership is the rock against which the tides of media scrutiny break. He cultivates a specific, powerful culture that, while often controversial, ensures the team is always competitive and always, always the focal point of the NFL. He provides a vision and a voice that, for better or worse, never wavers.
The two Arlington teams, the Rangers and Cowboys, show us the two faces of effective executive control—one a former player who quietly engineered a title, the other an eternal showman who helped engineer three titles and who guarantees a perennial spotlight. Both, however, are a universe away from the transient, panicked decision-making that led to the Dončić fallout.
Chris Young was born and raised in North Texas. Jerry Jones has now lived here for nearly four decades. Each got the team to the top soon after taking the reins of leadership. Both have had great success and failure. Both will make more mistakes along the way. But both know who we are and what we want.
