Commitment To Excellence

What happens when a day in paradise spins out of control? Here we explore the ugly side of Raider Nation.

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By Jeff Field and Mark Bryant

Summer 2004

Rip was, to use the oft-repeated expression, a "die-hard Raider fan." He and his cohorts Julio, Greg and Burt had arisen early that Sunday morning to see the Raiders take on the Cincinnati Bengals in Oakland. To them, they weren't simply going to a football game, they were on a mission.

The foursome piled into Greg's black Chevy Blazer, festooned with decals sporting the Raider logo and team colors. They reached the stadium parking lot around 9:30 am. The game was not set to start until 1 pm. As had been planned, they joined the assembled multitudes in that ritual which has come to be known as "tailgating"--in which the Raider faithful (and whoever else happened to be there) would loiter around their vehicles, eat, scream, yell, and enjoy a beer or two. Or thirty.

In addition to the prodigious amounts of Budweiser on hand (was it three cases or four?) there was also Jack Daniel's, and, for such a special occasion, a couple bags of crystal meth.

By the time 1:00 rolled around, the foursome were making their way into the stadium, in game form--that is, hopelessly intoxicated.

The game was over almost before it began, with the Raiders fumbling the opening kickoff and the Bengals returning the fumbled ball for a touchdown. This, however, did nothing to slow the brisk business being done at the concession stands, where the beer flowed freely.

Somehow, sometime during the third quarter, Rip managed to make his way to the restroom. But that was as far as he got. As he stood there attempting to unbutton his pants, he suddenly vomited violently into the urine trough. Then, he passed out on the floor.

After a time, Julio, still in the stands, became concerned and went to look for Rip. He found him just in time--security had been called--but not before Rip's wallet, metal-spike studded collar and wristbands, and his vintage Lyle Alzado jersey had been stolen. They made their way back to their seats.

By the time the game ended--the Raiders lost 27-6--Rip, Julio, Greg and Burt stumbled out into the parking lot. Greg and Burt, swearing loudly and infuriated about the game's outcome, kept repeating that the Bengals "sucked ass" and were "a buncha fags."

They piled into the Blazer and headed out of the parking lot. Greg and Burt, riding in front, got the idea to drive to downtown Oakland* to "score a fat-ass rock." Rip, in back, was nodding in and out of conciousness. Julio worried.

Once they found an area that looked promising, they parked the Blazer and got out. They walked down a dimly lit street, looking for someone who could "hook them up." They were still loud and belligerent. Burt spotted a car parked about half a block up. It was a red Lexus. Its' vanity license plate read: "9ERNO16"--Niner number sixteen**. Burt, upon seeing this, flew into a blind rage, snatched up an empty bottle from a nearby garbage can, and hurled it at the Lexus. He missed. Instead, he hit the car parked behind the Lexus--a meticulously restored '72 Olds Cutlass. Its' custom chrome rims shone even in the dank, hazy early evening. The bottle hit the trunk of the Olds, denting it, bounced, and hit the back window, cracking the glass.

Upon hearing the noise, four men dashed out of a nearby corner market. Evidently, one of them owned the Oldsmobile. They spotted Burt and company down the sidewalk and raced toward them, spoiling for a fight. The ensuing melee was disrupted by the sounds of approaching sirens. All the combatants scattered and fled, albeit in different directions.

Rip half-ran, half-staggered in what he knew not direction until it seemed he was a safe distance away. Eventually, the sirens faded. He ducked into a dark alley and collapsed on an empty shipping crate.

Rip surveyed his surroundings: Empty bottles, used syringes, trash, rats. He noticed he had lost one of his shoes. It occurred to him that he was hardly the first person in his condition that had occupied this space.

Rip sat for an indeterminate period of time. He felt himself sobering up som--not a lot, but some. A thought occurred to him--he knew not from where:

"If this isn't rock bottom, I don't know what is. I guess there's nowhere to go from here but up--unless I stay right here where I am."

"AND THAT WAS A TERRIFIC JOBBA CONSUNTRAYSHUN BY TIM BROWN"

(...announcer's gushing commentary, fade to black)

*According to FBI crime reports in 2002, Oakland exceeded the national average per population of 100,000 in the following: murders, forcible rapes, robberies, aggravated assaults, burglaries, larceny and thefts and arsons.

**Joe Montana wore number 16 during his years as the San Francisco 49ers heroic quarterback. Montana led the 49ers to four Super Bowl titles in the 1980s. Many Raiders fans despise the 49ers primarily because of their squeaky-clean image and do-no-wrong aura that they claim the media promotes. The aforementioned is reputed to be the antithesis of Oakland fans, legendary for their rowdy behavior.