Excerpt
Al Davis
There I was on Labor Day weekend, 2002, attending a second birthday party
for our friends' son. Helping with the camera work, enjoying the September
weather and mingling with complete strangers. Overall, it was about as
exciting as watching a pro bowlers tournament on television.
But then a serious-looking Black gentleman, noticing the polo shirt with
Raider insignia, struck up a conversation about the team's 2002 chances.
After a short while of polite speculation, he asked me what I thought of Al
Davis. I gave an answer and sensing his anxiousness, returned the question
to him. He began to describe how Art Shell was not given a fair chance by
Mr. Davis, and his verbal delivery picked up speed as the vituperation found
expression. Suddenly, the man's voice trailed off and he searched for words
to capture his pent-up feelings.
Matter-of-factly and looking me directly in the eye, he deadpanned: "I
think Al Davis should be assassinated."
Opinion. Everybody's got one.
This is especially true when it comes to discussion about the principal
owner and the general partner of the Oakland Raiders. In terms of cult of
personality, Al Davis ranks up there with Joseph Stalin, Adolph Hitler,
Fidel Castro, and Richard Simmons.
Ask people what they think of Al Davis and they'll talk of his ducktail
pompadour or his penchant for leather dress. They'll talk of how he stole
the team away to Los Angeles, his personnel decisions, his bathing habits,
or that he's ready for the old folk's home. When it comes to expressing a
sentiment on this individual born on the Fourth of July, 1929, everyone
feels compelled to offer an assessment.
But does anyone really know Al Davis?
The truth is: 98% of people with an opinion on Al Davis have never even met
the man.
I met Al Davis once. No, it wasn't at the mall or a porno theatre; it was
at his short-lived Southern California playground, the Raiders' offices in
El Segundo. The "Los Angeles" Raiders 1989 season was over, and the Pride
and Poise boys had pulled that win-two, lose-two excrement that made Raider
fans spit nails and curse their own fate. Mike Shanahan was fired in the
October Second Massacre after opening the season 1-3 against AFC West
opponents.
Art Shell was brought in and had the Silver and Black positioned for a
playoff run at 8-6. The Raiders promptly lost their last two road games to
finish at a kiss-of-death 8-8 (7-1 at home and 1-7 on the road).
Several Raider Nation friends of mine were sorely disappointed at this turn
of events. We felt it was imperative that Coach Shell meet us in person so
he could gauge the sincerity of our temperament and the depth of our
convictions.
So, on December 28, we embarked on the Mecca pilgrimage from El Toro to El
Segundo, stopping every eight steps for El Drinko. We made pretty good time
too: 55 miles in 2 ½ hours. Plenty of scenic vistas along the beautiful
I-405 corridor. Gassed and ready to make history, we pulled into the
parking lot at 332 Center Street. For those who never visited the Raiders
training facility in the City of Angels, be advised: it was a dump.
Converted from an old junior high school, the complex more closely resembled
a cross between a flophouse motel and a detention center than home to the "
Team of the Decades."
El Segundo means "The Second" but, viewing this hovel, a more appropriate
term was "El Segundo por ultimo": The Second to Last. Our first impression:
if Al Davis wanted to work in a ghetto, why did he leave Oakland? The place
was so depressing that Marcus Allen chose to relocate to Kansas City rather
than spend another day in these confines. The closest this place came to
Versailles fountains was when the kids across the street busted open the
fire hydrant to cool their heated skins.
It actually felt better to relax in the parking lot than to go inside-which,
after we were told Art Shell was not taking visitors that day-is what we
were doing when a black Cadillac pulled into the parking lot.
As fortuitous winds blow, we were standing in the stall next to the sign
that said 'Al Davis'; perhaps we were drawn to it. It certainly appeared
that we were waiting for him when the American-made luxury automobile pulled
to within six feet of us. There we were, three scruffy rednecks from the
Pacific Northwest-one a 300-pounder-when out of the car and into our midst
stepped the Machiavelli of football, Al Davis.