....I know you all secretly are true Raider Nationites, just like me, so this is addressed to you all.
I was at the Houston/Oakland game yesterday. If you watched (for all of you Raider fans who live in Houston, anyway), I am sure you saw me, because I got seats on the fifty yard line, next to the tunnel, and beeswaxing with 'THE VIOLATOR', (and his significant other, 'THE VIOLATED'), 'SENOR', and 'SPIKE'. Our corner of the Oakland Coleseum gets filmed more often then Condoleza Rice's bowel movement testimonies in front of congressional committies. So recognizable are these three, that parents made a constant parade down to our little section to get their kids in a picture with one, two, or all three of them.
Nice guys all.
The Violator is loud, talkative, opinionated, and was immediately interested in why the hell I and my wife were occupying the seats of a regular "Nation" personage. Until I stood and yelled the foulest language I could muster on a full stomach at the Texans as they ran from the tunnel, I was clearly not welcome. He was the first to acknowledge my existance. He kept asking Raider field personnel if he and his pals could run out on the field and hit a Texan, "just one time". Then he promised they would return to their seats right after. The gate that all the field personnel used to get onto the field was right where 'The Violator' stands during every game, so he greets everyone coming and going and they all, of course, know him very well.
'Senor' was a troubled sort, who had the biggest beer mug I have ever seen, but sadly he can only drink caffeine and sugar free soda pop in it. He has ailments of some sort - bad back being one, he had to stand (right in front of me, with his big Silver and Black sombrero on) for the entire game - and never looked quite "right", like the light inside was on dim.
'Spike' is a character of a completely different type. Reknown for his scathing commentary directed at opponents, he would constantly yell out things, such as "You filthy Texas, like, really stink, man", and "Go back to Houston and, like barbeque your young", or "You, quarterback, whatever your name is, your gay". I was amazed at the plethora of original observations he could come up with. In between, he would loudly announce his parole officer didn't know he was at the Raider game. Then he would pose with the cutest little five year old blonde haired girl with Raider ribbons in her hair and wearing a "Real Women Wear Black", size 'tiny' t-shirt on. 'Spike' clearly skipped a grade or ten in his youth. He is now an IQ point looking for a partner.
All these guys had two things in comment. They had very supportive wifes/S.O.'s at their sides to help them, well, be themselves, and they all were on the diminutive side. WOW and Lurker, for two, can vouge that I am not all that small. But I was Lurch to their Gomez Addams. They weren't tiny, exactly, but none hit six foot.
Behind us all, was what would become of Joy (from "My Name Is Earl") in about fifteen years. She was the den mother of several lads who would look at home with the Hitler Youth, if they allowed Mohawks, shaved heads, and the usual piercings and tatoos into that fraternity. For some odd reason, these poster people for any "I hate Whitey" campaign got along famously with 'The Violator', (black), 'Senor' (Hispanic), and 'Spike' (abridged).
Mrs Violator, (the 'Violated) and hardtack motorcycle trailer trash momma were the best of friends, actually. Man, was she loud and in form, telling people near us who were trying to start "The Wave", that that s**t was for baseball, not football, and holding up signs to direct us peons to count out the first downs and point, after each and every (and rare) Raider first down. She would take many of the pictures of people and their kids who had the guts to venture down to where we were at field level, giving a hard finger whistle to make them stop moving and awing at the getups of the the three so she could take the snapshot.
No fights, though. These were no doubt going on elsewhere, but not where we were. After the game, many drunk accountants, lawyers, and other professional converge around the tunnel where we were grouped, to yell out the usual things about the ancestry of the Texan players, wave the sheared off heads of Houston player spouses who ventured into the stands by mistake, and in general thank them for a great game. At this point, one fellow was directed by our section manager (these seats require that you must always prove you have a seat there and this guy manages that and "disagreements" of any sort) to curb his language, because he was being a bit more discriptive in his post game indications of violence. The guy blew up and started to direct his venom at the section manager in full voice. No big deal, except he happened to be standing directly next to me in my aisle. His arm swinging and elbow etching of the air were getting a bit close. I finally squeezed in between him and the fellow he was mad at and held my ground, because he also was getting too close to my wife. He continued for a minute or two before moving off, still yelling at the guy, who just laughed at him the whole time.
Later, we took the train into San Francisco and had a few rounds at Lefty O'Douls, near Union Square. Met some nice people while there. Great place to sit and watch sports and meet people. O'Doul was an old-time ball player, so the place is a museum of pictures with Lefty and you-name-him from the Ruth era Yankees. Old style Hof Brau House.
The City is such a great place. Have to do this more often.
