Silent Cry (17 page)

Nineteen ninety-two was a good year for us. The Cowboys won the Super Bowl at the
end of the 1992 season, and Nate went on to play in the Pro Bowl. We spent lots of
time together, just the three of us. Nate communicated with me differently now, and
I felt more secure. At Easter, he was asked to speak at church, and he surprised
me by saying yes! He encouraged me to spend time with the Lord and be active in church.
Whenever I asked him to come to church with me, he was always clear that he had too
much respect for God to play with him. He'd say, “When I get myself completely together,
I'll start going to church. Right now, I'm just not good enough.”

In the fall of 1992, the new season had begun, and the Dallas Cowboys were off to
a great start. They were winning almost every game, and with every victory, the media
focused
more attention on Nate. He was their darling. He always gave an entertaining
interview, and there wasn't a sports station on television that didn't want their
moment with him. He had more opportunities for endorsements and appearances than
ever before. He had become a hot item overnight.

I was very busy scheduling appearances for Nate, making sure he was always prepared,
packing for him, and attending both home and away games. I had quit my job at Coppell
Bank in October because taking care of Nate was a full-time endeavor during the week.
On the weekends, I was responsible for entertaining family and guests. The more
attention Nate received, the more the old Nate surfaced. Once again, he started drinking
too much and coming home late — if he came home at all. When he did show up, he demanded
meals or sex. The more this old pattern emerged, the more fearful I grew.
This cannot
be happening again; we just got married!
I reminded him of his promise that things
would be different.

“Dot,” he said, “I'm not perfect, but I promise to do the right things. If you wanted
a perfect husband, you shouldn't have married me.”

We argued constantly, and his temper grew increasingly violent. He sometimes shoved
me or grabbed my throat when he was angry, but he always apologized later. He was
drinking all the time. I knew he was drinking and driving, but if I expressed any
concerns, it started an argument, and the arguments were physically violent. Once
he'd crossed that line, it was easier and easier for him to do. The abuse got worse.

Nate had a routine. On Wednesday, he went to work. Later, he'd call to see if he
had an appearance and, if so, at what time. If there was nothing on his schedule,
he'd tell me what he
wanted me to cook or pick up for him and when I should have
it ready. He'd usually arrive home around 7:00 p.m., eat dinner, and then watch movies
in his media room until he fell asleep.

Thursdays were much the same, only it was more likely he had an appearance. He usually
wanted Tré and me to be present at all his appearances. We were rarely on camera,
but he wanted us to be there supporting him.

On Friday before a game, he stayed home or came home early. He would invite people
into town to see the game, and it was my job to entertain them. He would be jolly
on Friday night, looking good and being gregarious. By Saturday morning, he would
be detoxing and treating me like a servant. People stayed with us every weekend there
was a home game, and I was supposed to keep all of his guests out of his way. I also
had to make sure Tré made absolutely no noise, fix Nate exactly what he wanted to
eat, and serve it when he wanted it.

On Saturday afternoons before a game, the Cowboys sequestered their players in a
hotel to keep them out of trouble. Whether the game was home or away, the Cowboys
made sure their players were all safely tucked into a hotel where they could keep
an eye on their assets. Then I could relax a little — but not much. I knew at some
point Nate would call from the hotel and demand that I drop whatever I was doing
to bring him food or his music or anything else he wanted.

On Sunday mornings of home games, he would come home from the hotel, no matter what
time the game started. I had to make sure the house was kept in complete silence
and that no one disturbed him. I wasn't supposed to do anything but be in the room
with him, keeping everything perfect. He didn't want the phones to ring or Tré to
bother him, and he always asked, “Did you pray for me?” Sundays were stressful.

On his way to the game, Nate would call me with his ticket
list. He loved to get
tickets for people, but he liked waiting until the very last minute before deciding
to give the tickets away. I was then supposed to contact everyone and organize everything.
It was my responsibility to see to it that his guests arrived comfortably at the
game and that I was there with Tré as well.

It was impossible to make it through the weekend without angering him in some way.
T. Hayes would call to give me a heads-up if he knew Nate was angry with me. “I talked
to that boy,” he'd say, “and I can tell he's not gonna be in a good mood.” T. Hayes
knew what was going on. If things were really bad, I would call and tell him Nate
was hurting me. I sometimes asked him, “Why don't you talk to Nate?”

“Nate's trying, Dot,” he said. “I don't know what's wrong with that boy.”

We always went out to eat with family and friends after the game. After we came home,
he'd spend an hour drilling me on every play. I had to pay close attention during
the game and not get distracted visiting with other wives, or I'd be in trouble.
Then it was time for Nate to hit the streets. Sometimes he came back late that night,
and sometimes he didn't. Whenever he did get home, there would be an argument. I
tried my hardest to ignore it, but that didn't work very often. I knew he would come
home sometime, insisting I make him food or have sex — and I didn't want to give
him either. I started to hate him.

At the end of the 1993 season, the Cowboys won another Super Bowl championship. I
worked as Nate's local agent, scheduling appearances and endorsements and reviewing
contracts for commercials. This was now my full-time job. Tré and I attended most
of the appearances to watch him sign autographs
or appear on television or commercials,
but in between we rarely saw him. He turned cold and distant.

One night, Nate grabbed me by the hair and pulled me around the house. I wanted to
call the police, but I just knew it wouldn't make any difference. Nate always got
out of trouble as quickly as he got into it. He could charm his way out of anything.

Nate spent lots of money on people and was always the life of the party. He gave
liberally to my family, including vehicles as well as cash. They all loved him, but
it made things worse for me. If one of them made him mad, he took it out on me. If
I tried to keep him from giving them things (because it would eventually blow back
on me), my family got angry with me. They didn't understand and thought I was being
selfish, trying to keep Nate from sharing with them.

Then a close friend of mine came to me one day, telling me that Nate had come to
her apartment, coming on to her for sex. When I confronted Nate about it, he threatened
me, abused me, and choked me. I knew she was telling the truth, but Nate accused
her of coming on to him.

I felt isolated and alone. I desperately wanted help, and part of me wanted to confide
in someone, but several things stopped me. First, my friend Lynn was leaving. K-Mart
had signed with the Seattle Seahawks, and they were moving to Washington. Telling
her seemed pointless.
How could she help from Seattle?
Plus, each time Nate abused
me, I convinced myself it would be the last time. It sometimes felt like I had done
something wrong and that when I had been sufficiently punished, the abuse would stop.
I was also genuinely afraid that if I went to someone about Nate, they might confront
him and make things worse for me. Finally, I believed that if I had to go through
all of this in order for Nate to receive Christ, then I was willing to live through
it and pay that price.

So, I told no one. Just God. I cried all of my tears in silence. I poured out my
grief and believed I was suffering as a result of my own bad choices, that I somehow
deserved this treatment because of my mistakes. Someday I would pay it all back,
and this hard part would be over.

I lived two completely separate lives. One life was inside my home — frightened,
abused, angry, and alone. The other life was outside my home — a functional, normal
celebrity wife. I remember watching the other wives and wondering about their lives.
Were they happy? Were their husbands faithful? Did they struggle with abuse like
I did, or were their homes peaceful? Did other celebrity wives go through abuse too
,
or was there just something wrong with my life?

I couldn't wait for the season to be over. I wanted to disappear. It was getting
harder and harder to hide the physical abuse, but I knew I had to. If anyone had
an inkling of what was really going on, I believed Nate would have killed me.

After the Super Bowl, the Pro Bowl came around, and we went with Nate to Hawaii.
For once, he was completely relaxed, and I didn't have to worry about extra people,
appearances, schedules, or endorsements. It was the nicest time I'd experienced
in years.

When we returned home, the public appearances started up again, and so did Nate's
antics. Now he was constantly in trouble — with women, DUIs, and general bad behavior.
In no time at all, he'd gone from media darling to media bad boy. As the press attention
turned negative, his reputation suffered. The worse it got in the media, the more
he took it out on me. There were times he beat me until I was unable to move. The
abuse was happening more frequently, and it was getting
more violent. The morning
after a beating, Nate would either act as if nothing had happened the night before,
or he would be extremely nice to me. I hated my roller-coaster life. I never knew
from one moment to the next what to expect from Nate Newton. Sometimes I thought
I would go to sleep and it would be my last moment alive.

The Cowboys continued to do well, and I was extremely busy taking care of Nate and
his calendar. The arguments and beatings never stopped, so I just accepted it as
part of life. Whenever he was upset, he abused me. Then he would apologize and want
to “make things right.” Each time I thought,
This is the last thing I'll have to
go through
. And of course I was always wrong. I know it sounds crazy, but I honestly
thought I deserved the abusive treatment as punishment for my sins.