“He’s earned the right to be our quarterback, as hard as it is for me to say,” Romo said of Prescott in what amounted to an official concession speech last month. “What is clear is that I was that kid once.”

When Romo was that kid, it was all so much fun. He sang Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” at his locker, and he joked with the reporters who scribbled down his every word. Even when he was injured, he would brush off his physical problems because he was absolutely positive that he would come back, even better than ever. Most of the time, he was right.

“When things don’t go your way,” he once told me, “you just have to come right back and say: ‘Let’s try this again. Let’s have some fun.’”

Romo doesn’t look as if he’s having any fun now.

The black vinyl seat at his locker was empty when I visited Texas last week. Next to it was a pile of papers with information about the Giants, and how the Cowboys would match up. Romo had scribbled notes in the margins, knowing full well that it was unlikely that he would play. He doesn’t need to talk with reporters, and so, generally, he doesn’t.

It’s a jarring change. When I covered the Cowboys for The Dallas Morning News in 2003, just after Romo was signed as a rookie free agent, I could always find him on the blue leather couches in the locker room, a motivational book in hand, the dimple on his left cheek showing because he was nearly always smiling. For three seasons, Romo sat and watched the Cowboys burn through quarterback after quarterback: Quincy Carter, Drew Henson, Vinny Testaverde, Drew Bledsoe.

Romo, a friendly son of Wisconsin, seemed to know his time would come. And just like that, midway through the 2006 season, it did. He came in for Bledsoe against the Giants, and he never looked back.