The Dallas Cowboys have long been compared to the Empire from Star Wars, with Jerry Jones taking the role of the Emperor. In this scenario, AT&T Stadium is nothing less than the Death Star. There’s literally a star right in the middle of the field, and it doesn’t take much to envision a giant laser shooting out from the AT&T logo atop the dome.

When I recently took a trip back to the Lone Star state after almost 20 years away, I couldn’t pass up a chance to tour this so-called Death Star, but if anything, I felt like I was headed for Disneyland, the happiest place on earth. Growing up in Texas as a Cowboys fan since the days of Danny White and Tony Dorsett, I had never had the opportunity to visit the old Texas Stadium, so this was long overdue. It was during the offseason and not for a game, but I would at last see the world of my beloved Cowboys in person.

As I approached the complex, an unmistakable sight hovered ominously on the horizon. Everything’s bigger in Texas, but this was otherworldly, a gargantuan, ultramodern spectacle that indeed looked more like a space station than a sporting arena. An ash-colored statue of Tom Landry stood sentry at the gates, and a loop of Jerry Jones, accompanied by heroic music evocative of old westerns, blared from speakers proudly welcoming visitors to the home of the Dallas Cowboys.

Once inside the building, a story began to unfold, though I wouldn’t realize it until later. While some stadiums give off a vibe of family or tradition that might be described as warm and cozy, this one emanated the cold radiance of luxury. It was unsurprising in a way, very on-brand for an image-driven billionaire.The decor was bright and shiny, with illuminated inscriptions on a wall and a glassy view into the Cowboys pro shop where hats and jerseys hung like candy.

Before long, we began our tour, winding our way through cavernous concrete hallways and into a giant freight elevator that could have fit the old Texas Stadium inside. We made our way to the top level, stepped out, and saw before us the field of our…dreams?

The green turf and the iconic star had been removed in preparation for Wrestlemania. WHAT? This was a Stone Cold stunner. Talk about a Heartbreak, Kid. My hope of taking pictures on the playing field, as I had heard they allow during some tours, was dashed. Oh, well. WHATCHAGONNA do when Hulkamania takes the star away from you, BRROTHERRR?

The tour guide peppered us with almost unbelievable factoids about the stadium, an undeniable engineering marvel, but one narrative emerged above all else. This was Jerry’s house.

It was said that Texas Stadium had a hole in the roof so God could watch his favorite team. At AT&T Stadium, the decision on whether the retractable roof is opened rests with one man, “Mr. Jones.” The logical extension of the old mythology for the new stadium, then, is that even God needs Jerry’s blessing to watch the Dallas Cowboys.

Maybe that’s a little unfair, given that the structure at least creates the appearance of a hole in the roof as a nod to the team lore, but as we learned that Jones even sold the excavated dirt from the site of the stadium for profit, my prevailing impression was that this man could turn just about anything into money, whether it was dirt or hope.

What my head already knew started to sink in on a gut level. This place was not about fans. It was about business. It was about the exhalation of one person. The stadium was a showpiece, a power play, a status display to a world of people with unfathomable wealth.

We made our way down into a luxury suite and settled into plush seating where the entire field, along with one of the largest TVs ever created, were now part of our living room. At least, it could be our living room, for a negotiated price. We could also have a personal server to provide drinks. Of course, that too came at a price. “If you have to ask how much, you can’t afford it,” the tour guide informed us. Why did I get the feeling this would be a good hangout for the likes of Jabba the Hutt?

We then proceeded to the lower levels of the stadium, making our way into the locker room of the famed Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders and Richard Dalrymple. Was the recent scandal just a classic case of he said/she, she, she, she said? I guess we’ll just never know the truth with full certainty about why a guy would use his security card to go into this particular space when there was another restroom just across the hallway, but if there’s such a thing as a disturbance in the Force, I sure felt it here.

This space seemed frozen in time, ensconced in the creepy-old-man vibes of a bygone era that believed women should be seen, and not heard, or at least, not believed. How ’bout them 2010s?

Given that the Cowboys were recently also involved in a lawsuit related to cheerleader pay, I have to think the team’s favorite cheer might be, “Two, four, six, eight, settlement is really great!”

As we walked out of the cheerleaders’ locker room, I carried a growing discontentment. I was still excited to visit players’ locker room, but even there, it felt like something was missing. So much for that recently acquired Amari Cooper jersey.

Yes, the NFL is a business, but part of a successful business model is to create a sense of connection long enough to cast a spell, like a series of still images moving at the minimal rate of 24 frames per second. Take too many frames away, and a movie becomes a GIF at best. Even the absence of one or two key frames can be the difference between the Emperor shooting lightning from his fingertips to an old man just threatening you with some kind of hex.

Only time will tell if the Cowboys have already lost too many such key frames to maintain the illusion, but when their biggest deal of the offseason is a partnership with a crypto company, even the last people remaining in the theater might realize they’re watching an unintentional comedy, not a serious Oscar contender.

As we approached the end of the tour, I looked up at the championship banners from years passed. It was surprisingly hard to feel inspired. As large as they were, in a building this size, they seemed almost incidental, distant in space, but also time.

The Cowboys have gone from the stuff of legend to living off legends (LOL). For too long, they haven’t been good enough to win championships, just good enough to keep fans paying and haters hating. But even that won’t last if the team continues on the path of self-parody.

Perhaps the experience of being in the stadium would have been entirely different on a game day. As it was, walking through corridors that somehow did echo the industrial aesthetic of Star Wars, I couldn’t help but feel like we were in the Death Star after all, a colossal, mind-boggling work of machinery that was ultimately hollow, devoid of life and spirit.

I had to admit it. The Old Republic had become the Empire, and I was now a willing citizen.

It’s too late for me to turn back. Just looking at this little key chain I got from the pro shop on the way out of the stadium fills my heart with too much joy, because nothing can take away my childhood memories.

But, oh, how I miss our Darth Vader.