Better to Reign in Hell

by Jim Miller

  Back in the day, the Raiders camp was not in the sumptuous Napa Marriott but in the El Rancho Tropicana in Santa Rosa, a now defunct lodging described by former team doctor Rob Huizenga as “a funky one-story motel complex” that was affectionately nicknamed “El Roacho Turpentina” by the players. It was “El Roacho” that Pete Banaszak recalls the Hells Angels visiting each summer with the tacit approval of Raiders “everyman” coach John Madden. There, in more humble surroundings, the camp was, according to Huizenga, “one part celebration, one part M.A.S.H. unit, one part riot.” By all accounts, when camp was in Santa Rosa, what went on in the Bombay Room before curfew was as important to the team spirit as what happened on the field during practice. “The Raiders are back in town. Lock up your wives, daughters, and house pets,” the local paper once proclaimed. There were Raiders orgies, sexual escapades with maids, and “high-tower Johnny” was arrested while attempting to score one night on top of the cherry-picker the team used to film their practices. John Matuszak would kidnap Raiders staffers and make them drive him around as he had sex with his girlfriend.1

  Ken Stabler, whose long hair was, according to John Lombardo, “the perfect example of the message of fuck-you Raider independence,” would study game plans “by the light of a jukebox” in between bouts of his legendary womanizing. Stabler’s Raiders dug their hands into “the candy jar” for speed pills, which they called “rat turds.” Snake’s “wild-eyed” Raiders “would be so wired they couldn’t stop moving their jaws.” Of the Golden-era Raiders, Ted Hendricks quoted the visionary British Romantic poet William Blake and remembers, “I didn’t have to answer to anybody.” Gene Upshaw used to rap with Black Panthers Huey Newton, Eldridge Cleaver, and Bobby Seale in Oakland bars, and, as Cliff Branch recalls, “We were very liberal and guys partied, but that never stopped us from getting the job done . . . If you wanted to be a hippie or a Hells Angel, that was fine as long as you played Raider football. John [Madden] gave us a lot of rope, and breaking curfew was encouraged.” Ben Davidson with his Harley-Davidson motorcycles and handlebar moustache was, as Mark Ribowsky puts it, “a sixties generation icon of anti-heroism.” Chip Oliver, professional football’s first hippie linebacker, is alleged to have played on psychedelics; he eventually dropped out and joined a commune. Ex-Raider Tom Keating recalls, “We had people that did everything.” As George Atkinson puts it, “Shit, when we came to town it was lock up the goddamn kids and the dogs. We had the skull and crossbones on our helmets, the black jerseys, and the whole bit, and we lived it.” Jack Tatum’s nickname was “Assassin.” The Raiders were labeled the “criminal element,” and they reveled in it.2

  The sound of Bach and the antiseptically clean aura of the Marriott tried to break through my badass Raider reverie, but I fought it. Even in the L.A. years, guys like Lyle Alzado kept the craziness going, and Raiders partying and coke use continued to scandalize the league. In recent years, Darrell Russell’s ecstasy-fueled fall from grace and Sebastian Janikowski’s GHB-induced floor dives have kept the outlaw legend going. Wasn’t there even a Raider pot bust last season in San Diego? I struggled to keep the Golden-era rebel outlaw myth alive in my head. Cognitive dissonance? No problem. Wine tourists were heading for the bus in front of the hotel. I thought I recognized Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons” playing in the lobby. Kelly nudged me and told me it was time to head to practice.

  As we padded through the posh halls of the Marriott toward the practice field behind the hotel, I clung to my press pass with a strange sense of disbelief. Joe Queenan has observed of such moments that seeing a professional athlete up close and personal is like seeing a god whose feet are not supposed to hit the ground. While fans love their team forever, athletes come and go. I had never been keen on meeting a Raider because I was not deluded enough to think that they wanted anything more from me than my loyal dollars and distant adoration. As for my desires, I wanted them to win. When they didn’t win, cut ’em, trade ’em, see you later. No Raider or rock star or Greek god of any other sort was bound to be coming to dinner at my house anytime soon, nor was I heading up to Mount Olympus. Hence, I was emotionally opposed to shattering the aura, but here I was nonetheless.3

  I passed by the rope that would keep the unwashed masses from getting a peek at the boys in silver and black and stepped onto the magic turf of training camp gazing up at the “Commitment to Excellence,” “Pride and Poise,” and “Will to Win” banners that hung all around the field. The team was lying on their backs, stretching. We were instructed by security not to sit on the field or step toward the sideline. I glanced over at the blocking dummies. Was I really here? All the exercise equipment at the end of the field was painted silver and black. Coach Callahan was standing at a distance watching the whole field full of prone players. I surveyed the far sidelines—no Al Davis. Indeed, Tim Brown, Jerry Rice, and Bill Romanowski all had the day off as well. As Callahan watched, the other coaches walked through the sea of bodies, all in silver and black except for the kickers and quarterbacks, who wore red. “On your backs! On your butts!” barked one coach. “If you quit wearing those heels you’d do all right!” yelled another. Kelly noted that, at the moment, she was the only female on the field as another coach scolded a player for being a “woman.”

  Once the drills started, I glanced up at the men high atop the cherry pickers filming the practice. They looked serious. Indeed, the whole affair was a model of corporate efficiency as the players broke into various skill groups to work on footwork, kicking, blocking passing, receiving, and so on. Walter Camp, who saw the football coach as a kind of Taylorist factory manager, would have been happy. “Play with your eyes!” a coach yelled. We watched a scrub who would soon be cut throw a few passes. Jerry Porter was wearing Tim Brown’s number 81. Security guards paced back and forth giving the practice an aura of Homeland Security. Nobody looked hungover or wired. There were no fights. I walked back over to the hotel to go to the bathroom and saw Tim Brown talking to a man in a “2002 Wine Tasting Triathlon” t-shirt and a straw hat. It must be a fan, I thought. So I waited patiently for my turn, and, as noted previously, got blown off by Brown. The next day, however, I would discover that the man was a reporter for a Bay Area newspaper who was asking Tim how he felt about getting fewer catches this year. I thought back to Jerry Porter, his competitor, wearing 81 and it seemed clear that I had haplessly stumbled into a Raiders soap opera. Jerry was the only other Raider who refused an interview that day. In this case, being a nobody with a “media” badge on was a distinct disadvantage.

  Back out on the field, I met Joe, our photographer, who’d shown up with his camera in a Boilermakers Local 6 hat and t-shirt, just in from taking shots of ironworkers on a Bay Area bridge project. With his long gray hair and beard, he was a strange sight on the Raiders practice field. Any picture we took, we were informed, was the property of the NFL. After watching another few minutes of drills, we noticed a group of fans standing next to us under the cherry picker. We walked over, introduced ourselves, and got their stories. As opposed to the aloof demeanor of the Raiders’ public relations guys, the fans were friendly and accommodating. All members of various booster clubs, they had gotten in to see practice under a special deal the team has with its official fan groups. Composing a class of fan royalty, these booster club members get to come to camp, attend official Raiders events, meet players, and get occasional tours of the Raiders’ facilities. “Get out of the drill!” yelled a coach to a Raider who wandered out of his area as one of the boosters told us that the Raiders were the only NFL team to officially recognize fan clubs. Indeed, ex-Raider Morris Bradshaw helps coordinate activities, we were informed. While the idea of “officially recognized” fans seemed a bit odd, Jeff Haldeman, Jeff Clark, Larry Mastin, and Dave Laughlin were all very nice guys who told us some great road warrior stories about surviving the hostile confines of the Meadowlands in New Jersey and Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia as well as tales from Baltimore and Buffalo. Jeff showed us pictures of his elaborate R
aiders room back home in York, Pennsylvania, and Larry talked about following the Raiders from overseas while he was in the military. He also had a pretty cool Raiders watch. We would meet Dave again the next week at the first preseason game as he tailgated beneath the River City Raider Boosters tent. We talked about Santa Rosa camp lore and exchanged e-mail addresses. No Raiders thugs here, and nobody from Oakland.

  Once the practice ended, we strolled over toward the entrance of the weight room where coach Callahan was having his press conference. Almost immediately he was surrounded by a pack of reporters holding cameras, tape recorders, camcorders, and one or two with old-fashioned notepads. He went through the litany of injury reports and comments on rookie performances. We stood outside the cluster of ravenous sports journalists and took pictures of them taking pictures. Kelly lingered by Callahan’s escape route to try to snag him for a brief question about fans, but he was too quick, bolting past her and a tubby fellow from a small Bay Area publication. With no Callahan to query, we were left to loiter around outside the weight room and compete with reporters and a throng of fans for the players’ attention. Being elite members of the “media,” we didn’t have to stand behind the white line with the privileged fans or behind the rope like the outsiders. Instead, we jockeyed for position with the San Francisco Chronicle, the Oakland Tribune, the San Jose Mercury News, and other Bay Area news media types. After losing out to all of them, we repositioned ourselves at the end of the line of fans. It was clear that the players had developed a sophisticated system of media/fan avoidance. Player after player emerged from the weight room and suddenly got a call on his cell phone. It was either a spontaneous miracle of coincidental mass communication, or a handy postmodern dodge.

  The cell phones allowed the players, almost all of whom stopped to sign balls, helmets, pictures, and other Raiders items, to do the rounds while still managing to maintain an aloof celebrity cool. Player after player came out, cell phone in hand or just about to ring. Deciding that it would be impolitic to try to penetrate the players’ protective cell phone bubbles, we watched them head down the line of fans, waiting for a conversation to end or a technophobe to emerge from the weight room. We felt a little bit like birders waiting patiently for a majestic specimen to land on a proximate branch or spectators at an overcrowded zoo hoping for a rare glimpse of a reclusive tiger.

  Fortunately for us, not all of the Raiders were plugged in. After security shooed us away from blocking the exit from the practice field several times, we hit pay dirt. Roland Williams stopped and greeted us with a grin before telling us what he thought of the fans: “They’re the best fans in the league. The most committed fans in the league.” He stopped briefly with a playfully devilish look in his eyes. “They have the highest number of tattoos on elderly women amongst all NFL fans.” We laughed, and he continued: “I once saw this guy with a bald head and the shield tattooed all over the back of his head. It was amazing.” Beautiful. We thanked him for his time and quickly jotted down some notes. Next came Mo Collins. Mo spent a long time signing autographs and spoke with the fans in a very gracious and friendly manner. It reminded me of stories of the old days when the players would come out and stop by fans’ tailgate parties after the games or meet them in local bars to hang out. “Raiders fans are very intense and very loyal to the Silver and Black,” he told us. “It’s great to have that kind of support behind you.” We thanked Mo and took notes as a couple of players on cell phones stopped by. A few of the lesser known rookies looked a little daunted by the attention and snuck by quickly with their eyes to the ground as the line of fans failed to recognize them.

  Our luck with the big guys was consistently good. If our day in camp was any indication, for the most part the nicest guys on the team are the offensive and defensive linemen. Less glory, fewer cell phones, more smiles. Tackle Brad Badger stopped by briefly and told us, “On game day, it’s incredible. Compare it to Halloween. I played in the Coliseum as an opponent and those fans will find anything to pick on you. The intensity of Raiders fans stands out. It’s more than with fans of other teams. You know some of those guys would get down on the field and make the tackle themselves if they could.” A few more cell phones went by, and, just when I thought Raiders attitude was dead, Jerry Porter came back from the lunch room holding a piece of pizza. When the rush of autograph requests were shouted out he said, “Fresh out of autographs. I ain’t got none.” “Oh, is it that way now?” said a sassy, flirtatious woman behind the ropes. Jerry kept walking.

  Eric Johnson stopped by next after spending a lot of time with the fans, chatting and signing, and said, “Raiders fans are the best. They really help the momentum. Especially the Black Hole fans. On third down and five or fourth down and five they get so loud that other teams can’t hear their calls. There is no other stadium like Oakland—except San Diego and that’s because it’s filled up with our fans, too.” He smiled and headed for the lunch room. A reporter was asking Adam Treu a question about Barret Robbins. A lot of the reporters were asking questions about Barret Robbins, that and the Brown/Porter “controversy.” Rick Mirer came out and asked us to head over to the shade to talk. “Having played for five other teams I can say that there are passionate fans everywhere, but these fans take an especial pride in the intimidation factor. It’s interesting to see it from the other side. Word around the league is, don’t take your families to Raiders games. Players get things thrown at them.” Comparing Los Angeles Raiders games with games in Oakland, Mirer noted that both were tough venues, but, “The stadium in Oakland is more intimate than the L.A. Coliseum. The fans there try to make it hard on opposing players. It’s the things they say.” He paused for emphasis and then continued on with a wry smile, “And the way they say them. You don’t look them in the eyes.”

  As Rick finished up his comment, Matt Stinchcomb came out and one of his teammates recommended we speak with him. He looked at us as if we were about to try to sell him an overpriced lemon in the back of a used-car lot. “Are Raiders fans good fans?” I asked tentatively of the man who could squish me like a grape. “Of course,” he said curtly as he turned his back to us and signed a few obligatory autographs. John Parella, on the other hand, was more talkative: “Raiders fans are some of the greatest fans in football. The most passionate. They don’t just come to cheer, they know the game. When I was in San Diego, they were okay. But here, they have a terrible week if we have a bad game.” I asked him what he thought of Oakland and/or the East Bay community and he said of the East Bay outside of Oakland, “I live there. So I like it a lot.” After we spoke to Parella, we let a few backups and cell phones go by unmolested before we spotted one of our favorite Raiders, Frank Middleton, wearing a t-shirt they sell at Ricky’s Raiderland in San Leandro: “60 Minutes of Hell.” Frank got right to it, “Raiders fans are crazy lunatics. It’s all good. They’re not like San Francisco where they drink wine and eat cheese. They really are the twelfth man.” When we asked Frank about Oakland, he said, “I don’t know much about Oakland. Where does Oakland begin and end? People don’t bother you. They show up for football, but they don’t bother you.” Jerry Porter came back out and signed some autographs, stopping at the end of the line to lean over a very little boy who was playing a Gameboy and ignoring the wide receiver. He had no comment for us. “I’ll check you later,” he said.

  East 14th/International Boulevard—East Oakland

  It was hot and most of the team had come out of the weight room, but star quarterback Rich Gannon was still in there. We sweated and waited and Bill Romanowski came out. Just as he was headed our way, a reporter stepped in front of us and grabbed him. It was the wine tour triathlete! There was not much time to mourn the loss of the Romo interview, however, as Gannon appeared in the distance and stopped to speak to a camera crew. When Gannon paused, Charles Woodson came out, went down the line, and spoke to Kelly as he walked: “Raiders fans are the best in the nation,” he told her amiably. “In Los Angeles, in Oakland, all over. A few fell by the
way because of the switches [between cities], but they come to rallies and are more emotional and a lot more into the game than other fans.”

  Kelly thanked him, and he disappeared down the hall. Gannon, the big fish of the day, awaited. I watched as he wrapped up the TV interview and, minus cell phone, started signing autographs. Then, two steps away from us, his phone rang. Undaunted, I lurked behind him as he walked over to the fans behind the rope and signed autographs. I would not let the man who represented half of my unnamed number 12 Stabler/Gannon Raiders jersey get away. Who was he talking to? His contractor, it appeared, as I thought I overheard, “I don’t want those spindle things put in downstairs, okay?” I kept hanging around. Behind me, players were getting in tricked-out SUVs with perfect black paint jobs and fancy silver rims. Gannon paused, turned his back to the fans, and listened intently to his cell phone. It must have been a home decorating emergency. I think I caught his eye, but he darted away quickly, losing me as he made his way down the hall. Short of tackling the NFL’s Most Valuable Player, I was out of luck.

  In the meantime, Kelly got in a good interview with Tom, a really nice security guard for the Raiders. “It’s beautiful to get to interact with crowds,” he told her. “When the Raiders first came back in 1995, the crowds were rowdy. The practice was closed to the public, but people made holes in the walls to watch. They tried to sneak in, too. We had to have security twenty-four hours a day. Sometimes the players would throw their room cards out their windows to girls.” Tom stopped and pondered what else to say. “Every now and then we get a Raiders fan out there [behind the ropes] in full gear. Some crazy guy who believes he’s an actual Raider. These guys will yell and scream and we’ll have to tell them to calm down.” Still, Tom loved his job and had great praise for the Raiders family. “Fans in Napa are great. People bring cakes and pies. Family day for the fans gets crazy. I’ve been to almost every stadium in the NFL and there is nothing like the Raiders fan. The tailgating is something else. It’s one big happy family.” We thanked Tom. Joe walked over and took a picture of a blonde girl, Amanda Logan, with a Raiders tattoo. I thought about what Frank Middleton said, “Where does Oakland begin and end?” It was time to find out.