Tom Rafferty, Cowboys Ironman and Super Bowl Champ, Dead at 70: Football’s No-Nonsense Lineman Bids Us Goodbye

If you think NFL linemen are just lumps of meat clogging up the trenches without stories worth telling, then you’ve obviously never heard of Tom Rafferty.

Rafferty wasn’t just any ol’ guy pushing around giants on the gridiron. No, this man embodied the kind of gritty, thankless work that turns miserable football Sundays into moments of pure joy—and, yes, Super Bowl confetti showers. Trading the glamor spotlight for sheer iron will, Rafferty patrolled the Dallas Cowboys’ offensive line for 14 damn seasons. Fourteen! In an NFL, where careers often flicker and die faster than you can say “injury report,” he stood tall. He was the stalwart, the anchor, the kind of player who made those screaming quarterbacks and dazzling Running Backs look good. And here’s the kicker: he helped power the Cowboys to a victory in Super Bowl XII, capping the 1977 season with that glorious 27-10 thump over the Denver Broncos.

Yeah, the same Dallas Cowboys many of us still fondly call “America’s Team.” Rafferty was one of just a dozen legends in that franchise’s twisted tapestry to play at least 14 years with the Boys. That sort of longevity? It’s NASA-engineer-level rare in pro football.

So, here’s the punch in the gut: Tom Rafferty passed away last Thursday at age 70 after suffering a stroke. The news came down from his daughter, Rachel Powers, who revealed he’d been hospitalized since early May in Windsor, Colorado. And just like that, the man who taught himself how to walk again after a brutal neurological disorder (yes, HE taught himself, because Rafferty didn’t exactly ask for a participation trophy in life) took his final snap off the field of life.

Listen, everyone wants to talk about flashy passers and highlight-reel wideouts. They get the limelight, the fancy contracts, the endorsements. But the reality is the NFL, for all its glitz, is won and lost in the trenches. Guys like Rafferty built the foundation for Dallas’s greatness during the golden years, silently smashing skulls and breaking backs without a lick of credit. Tony Dorsett’s record 99-yard touchdown run? Guess who made the key block that sprung that magic? You guessed it—Rafferty. That’s the kind of unsung hero story that doesn’t get its due in highlight packages but should be forever enshrined in football lore.

And let’s not ignore the emotional weight here. This man bridged football generations. He started his pro life playing alongside Cowboys icons like Roger Staubach and later guarded the line for Troy Aikman. That’s like spanning two eras of cinematic geniuses—imagine working with both Scorsese and Tarantino back to back on legendary flicks and being the unsung stunt double in every one. That’s Rafferty’s NFL journey in a nutshell.

Now, why should you, a presumably sane fan who isn’t wearing three Cowboys jerseys at the same time, care about some offensive lineman gone quietly into the night? Because Rafferty’s story is exactly why football demands our respect. It’s not just about touchdowns and drama. It’s about the brutal, invisible work—the sweat, the pain, the 167 consecutive starts over more than a decade. It’s about perseverance when your body’s screaming to quit, and your name isn’t flashing on the jumbotron.

His death isn’t just a loss for Dallas, or the NFL. It’s a reminder that the game’s fabric is woven from the grit of players who never seek fame. They care only about making their team better, playing their role, and leaving the field knowing they gave everything.

It’s also a call for modern fans to recognize where real football greatness lies. Dak Prescott might be the Cowboys’ shining star today, chasing his elusive Super Bowl glory, but remember: every QB needs a Rafferty—someone to absorb hits, create space, and defend the castle walls. Without that, all you have is pretty passing plays and overpriced highlight reels.

So let’s give the man his due. Tom Rafferty’s name may not echo in barroom debates like “Troy Aikman Super Bowl MVP,” but he won his battles on the field every damn day, etched an NFL ironman record into Cowboys lore, and reminded us what toughness really means.

And hell, the universe can take a few notes from Rafferty’s resilience, especially in a world where players fall like dominoes from injuries or mental battles. If one man can relearn to walk after terrifying neurological damage and still hold his head high, what’s our excuse for quitting when things get tough?

Here’s to you, Tom Rafferty—a Cowboys legend, a Super Bowl champion, the lineman who did the hard stuff so others could shine. Rest easy, you tough son of a gun. America’s Team, and the entire football world, salute you.