Better to Reign in Hell

by Jim Miller

  After donning our Raiders gear, we walked to BART and rode the escalator down to the platform, where a very angry janitor was screaming at people to get out of his way as he swept up some broken glass. The woman standing next to us shot me a glance and said quite audibly, “He’s got some issues.” Once our train came we were on our way to our first game, an insignificant preseason contest with the St. Louis Rams, as official participant-observers. I glanced at the papers I’d picked up on the way to the station. The Terminator was campaigning to recall pallid Governor Gray Davis and get himself elected and, of the 130 candidates, the East Bay Express had endorsed former Diff’rent Strokes star Gary Coleman. In the world of sports, Oakland Tribune columnist Dave Newhouse opined, “Let’s hope the jury hasn’t been fooled by Al Davis.” The Raiders trial had gone to the jury, and Newhouse informed his readers:We are about to learn who are the most gullible people on Earth—Oakland Raiders fans, East Bay politicians or a Sacramento jury. Raiders fans are gullible because they continue to believe Al Davis is without fault, even if he yanks their beloved team out of Oakland once again. With feigned sincerity Davis says he cares about the fans. And they believe him because they are lambs and he is their shepherd, and he can lead them anywhere. They refuse to believe he cares only about money and power, and he’ll stomp on anyone to get what he wants. Even those fans who worship him.1

  I put the paper down. Clearly the season was off to a fine start. Our train was zooming through Fruitvale, and I looked out the window at a $1 Or Less store and a giant Goodwill. As we glided along, we passed a burned-out house, a junkyard, a taxi yard, a body shop, the old Oakland Cannery, plumbing supplies, more junkyards, vacant lots, and a goodly amount of industrial wreckage. We were five hours early for the 6:00 p.m. game as the train pulled into the sparsely populated Coliseum BART station. Kelly and I strolled over to the empty pedestrian bridge above Coliseum Burger on one side and Coliseum Steel on the other. The Raiders shield on the Coliseum itself loomed ahead. We walked up to a lonely vendor and bought our first program for the 2003 season. Not seeing any fans, the first person we encountered on the way to the parking lot was an Alameda County sheriff’s deputy, whose assessment of what it was like to work Raiders games was given on the condition of anonymity: “Some days can be tough and some are not. Raiders fans love to drink, so it’s drunk fans who are the problem. In fact we almost lost an officer last season. A fight started and the police handcuffed a Raiders fan who then kicked an officer in the face, which caused him to have a brain hemorrhage. We almost lost him. But the guy who did this represents only a small minority of fans.” With that grim start, we kept moving.

  Once we made our way down the ramp to the parking lot, we could see that it had recently opened and that a lot of fans had already set up impressive tailgates—five hours early. The first group we encountered was Bonnie McDonald and friends. They were flying a Raider Nation flag along with a Mexican flag above a big white canopy covering their elaborate spread. It was a large, multi-ethnic gathering of people ranging in age from their twenties to their sixties. We were greeted warmly as we took a picture of their setup and introduced ourselves to Bonnie. “What irritates me the most—I really hate it—is when people say they’re for the 49ers and the Raiders because they live in the Bay Area,” she told us. “In my mind, you’re a Raiders fan or not.” As for the fans’ image, she said emphatically, “ I called a radio show years ago because they were beating up [on] Raiders fans on the air. To me it was obvious what was going on. The Raiders have had to deal with a lot of media bashing. Some kids get rough, so every Raiders fan is labeled an outlaw. But most Raiders fans would give you the shirt off their backs. We bring a lot of food. If you’re a Raiders fan, help yourself. We have a friend who works his way down the tailgate line.” Back in the glory days, Bonnie remembered that “90 percent of the players lived in Alameda. The Raiders were everywhere you went. They didn’t make as much money then. You knew them.”

  Singh Shady #1

  Cars continued to stream into the lot. I noticed that there were Raiders flags flying alongside the flags of not just Mexico but also Brazil, England, Australia, Ireland, Jamaica, Puerto Rico, the California Bear Republic, and, of course, the United States. Raider Nation, it seemed, had a variety of sister countries. We met up with Joe and his friend Ilene, who had never been to a Raiders tailgate before. She noticed that there were many people in wheelchairs as well as elderly people and small children. “It’s a real family event, and that surprises me,” she informed us. We walked by a black pickup blaring AC/DC, and I was struck by a visage that seemed to have been plucked straight out of a Grateful Dead show. There before us was a Sikh with a very long beard, swaying and drumming away on his bongo. On closer inspection the drummer was wearing a number 1 Raiders jersey with “SINGHSHADY” inscribed on the back. Singh Shady, it appeared, was fulfilling his dream of playing in the Black Hole for the first time. Hailing from Vancouver, Canada, Singh Shady took up drumming after a visit to Venice Beach, California, at the ripe old age of thirty-two. “After my weekend in Venice, I went back to Vancouver and went to drumming school where a kid there gave me a drum. I practiced for two years in my basement, thinking about this day. My dream has been to drum in the Black Hole.” Unfortunately, Singh’s ticket (which he has posted on his website) was in section 338, two decks above the Black Hole—but it was serendipitously in row 8, seat 8, on 8/8/03. Still, the experience seemed worth the nonstop drive down from Vancouver for some preseason drumming action. Singh was happy to pose for several photos and gave us his e-mail address and website information.

  Singh’s website, we would later discover, greets the viewer with a large “WOW” with a picture of the Earth standing in for the “O” and the motto: “You Gotta Believe, Before You See.” One is then treated to a Singh Shady poem:In Singh Shady’s World

  It Takes a Lion’s Heart,

  To Love The Mysterious Ways

  Of The ONE Cosmic Energy.

  The Game is KARMA

  The Goal is to TRANSFORM

  Negativity to Positivity

  Darkness to Light.

  Then the interested shopper can click on “Wear the Lion on the Heart” and choose from a wide range of Singh Shady sweatshop-free apparel. Search further and you will find “Shadyz Nation,” where the photo of our favorite “sports drummer” appears above the heading, “Ever See a Team Lose The Championship Game, And Their Fans Dancing in the Stands!” The viewer learns that “I figure if I go to Oakland, Play my drum at The BLACK HOLE, Sooner or Later, I Gotta Get Noticed! . . . Around Every DARK CLOUD, Is a SILVER LINING!” This is followed by a tribute to other Raiders fans complete with links to their AMIAFAN.COM web pages and a copy of Singh’s famous first ticket to the 8/8/03 preseason game with the Rams. If all of this is not enough, you can check the Venice Beach Drumming Circle schedule and learn that “Singh Shady is a Capitalist Communist [whose] goal is to Make Money, Share Money” and has made his name a registered trademark. Wow.2

  After we bid adieu to Singh Shady, we wandered a few parking spaces farther on until we came upon Phil Ramirez (AKA “Raider Phil”), his wife, daughter, and son Angel. Phil and Angel were wearing silver-and-black face paint and had skulls and spikes on their shoulders. We stupidly declined their offer of pollo asada and admired their big silver truck with a giant Raiders shield painted on the hood. They had dragged a Rams doll to the game on their trailer hitch. I looked over and Joe was taking a picture of a Raiders fan being interviewed by a TV news reporter. The interviewee was Traci the Raiders Cat. Traci had been dressing up as a Raiders Cat for two years now. Although she couldn’t afford to buy tickets to most games, she comes “because it’s like a family.” Traci was saving up to buy season tickets next year. For now, she enjoys doing karaoke at Ricky’s and hanging out in the parking lot before games. Traci, it turned out, was not the only Raiders fan who came to the parking lot before games they couldn’t afford to go to. Larry the “Raiderman,” who looked vaguely lik
e a Raiders hobbit, told us that he’d been a fan since the late seventies. He had lived on “the east side” of Oakland in the same house since 1969. Currently unemployed, Larry could scrounge up enough money to get his silver face paint and shoulder spikes at the Halloween store, but the game tickets were out of reach. He was hoping that someone would give him an extra. As we walked away, I thought of what ticket-less fans say at Dead shows: “I need a miracle!”

  About this time I remembered that we actually had one official “appointment” to meet BlackHole Mike, one of the many Raiders webmasters. We met up with Mike next to where Slackenloader was setting up to play. “I saw my first game in 1978 on TV with my grandfather. What struck me was the mystique of the Raiders, especially Stabler, but all the greats,” he told us. Mike, who is a mortgage broker, lives in Fremont. “The core of the Black Hole met in 1995 to 1996. I actually sat in another section and tried to get people going there. I pointed to the Black Hole and said, ‘I belong there.’” He also told us that the Black Hole does a road trip every year. “Contrary to what people might think,” he elaborated, “There aren’t many fights. I remember in New Orleans in 1995 the Black Hole broke up a fight. We actually break up more fights than we cause.” As for the music, Mike said, “It’s my job to bring the band in. It’s Slackenloader this year.” We thanked him and noticed that Slackenloader had started to tune up.

  I need a miracle

  Once our visit with BlackHole Mike was over, we kept wandering through the rows of tailgaters. It was only a couple of hours until game time now, and the barbeque smoke was thick and people were getting considerably drunker. We stopped and admired an industrial-sized kettle barbeque that had giant slabs of brisket and ribs; whole chickens and a turkey; and a rope of sausage links all hanging from wires over the coals. A big bear of a man, also named Mike, got up to greet us and gave Joe and Ilene some ribs. Mike and his girlfriend Jenny were working on a bottle of tequila, but it was love not war that the cactus juice inspired in them. After the ribs we strolled by a big group that was roasting a whole suckling pig over coals laid on top of metal sheeting. The unfortunate swine (we later learned) had been hunted down, captured, and killed by the Raiders fans themselves somewhere near Petaluma. From there we strolled on past the River City Boosters and met back up with Joe and Ilene, who had briefly disappeared into the ribs.

  At the southwest corner of the parking lot by one of the main gates we met Donovan and Jack, the first fans in the lot. Arriving the night before at 6:00 p.m., they had set up shop in front of the gate and waited overnight for the privilege of getting their prized spot. According to Donovan, they usually get to the game twenty-four to thirty-six hours before kickoff. “Sometimes we’ll have two hundred people out there all night,” he told us. “The earliest we have shown up is Friday morning for a Sunday night game.” Donovan and his friend Jack have been the first in to tailgate for three years. Jack, who grew up in Richmond and has been a fan since 1966, explained, “It’s a Silver and Black thing. I go to games stone-cold sober, but I’m on a high from this.” He gestured toward the extensive tent setup the two had erected behind their Raidered-out trucks, complete with a customized Al Davis banner. Jack’s strategy for getting in first was elaborate:I always get stall one, row one. I got here at 6:00 p.m. last night, but sometimes I’ll come two or three days before the game. I have orange cones I use to mark off my area in line, and I have a deal with the guys behind me to guard my spot so I can go home to take a shower in the morning. I have to be fresh and clean. There are twenty-two people now who have negotiated around the tailgate rules and prohibitions so they can stick together once they are inside the lot. The police have tried to get me to take down my stuff, but I stick with it. This is my life. I love this team. This is what we do.

  Donovan and Jack both pointed out that people they have met in the parking lot are some of their best friends in the world, and that this is the only place where they see them. It was, I thought, like a temporary migrant camp, a weekend experiment in collective culture.

  Strangely amid the odor of searing beef and charcoal smoke, I smelled elephant dung. It was very hot and I was wearing a heavy black football jersey, so I thought this might mean I was having a seizure of some kind, but as our trek through the parking lot continued I discovered that the circus was literally in town: part of the parking lot was cordoned off for the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey’s Circus, the Greatest Show on Earth. I was surprised that the circus thought there was much of a market left for clowns with Gary Coleman running against Arnold, a porn star, and a host of other tongue-in-cheek wannabes to occupy the State House. It was getting even closer to game time, so we circled back to where Slackenloader was covering head-bangin’ favorites. I laughed when I saw that the singer was wearing a “Slackenloader for Governor” t-shirt and that Gorilla Rilla, yet another costumed Raiders celebrity fan, was kicking up his heels with a leggy blonde woman.

  After a dance or two we interviewed the Gorilla, Mark Acasio, who was currently in the fourth year of his tenure as the Raiders Gorilla. Why be the Raiders Gorilla? “To do something different and get a lot of attention,” Mark told us. “I’ve been on the Jumbo Screen in the Black Hole.” Mark, who has lived in the Bay Area his entire life, has a Gorilla Rilla website as well as business cards. An entrepreneurial gorilla, he does parties and other events for pay and Raiders games for free. After chatting with the Gorilla, we ran into another group of celebrity fans: Azel, Kimmy, and Melvia, the Oaktown Pirates. Clearly the most fashionable of all the costumed Raiders fans, the trio bought personal seat licenses in 1995 when the team returned and, inspired by the Raiders theme song “The Autumn Wind,” began attending the games as pirates in November 2001. Azel was originally an Eagles fan, while Kimmy and Melvia were born and raised in Richmond and Oakland, respectively. After Azel bought the hats, they started getting a lot of attention and have been chasing TV cameras and news photographers ever since. Not surprisingly, once we shot their pictures they gave us their card and web address and were off to the next shot, striving to keep themselves firmly enshrined in the heaven of the spectacle. Less driven by fame was Thomas, a pencil salesman who rolled up to us in his wheelchair, oxygen tank strapped to the back, to offer his wares. We bought one that said, “With God on the Raiders’ Side They Can’t Lose. God Bless. Go Raiders.” Kelly and I said goodbye to Joe and Ilene. It was time for the game.

  Inside the stadium we made our way through the hallways echoing with chants of “Ray-duz! Ray-duz!” On the way to our seats, Mario Garcia was nice enough to stop and model his “Aztlan Raiders” t-shirt and when I asked him what it meant, he replied, “Chicano Pride and the Raiders, man!” We headed down the stairs to the Black Hole and found our seats in the second to the last row from the top. They were not down next to the field with the costumed crazies, but they gave us a nice panoramic view of our fellow Black Hole denizens nonetheless. Right off the bat we met the couple behind us, Art and Karen and their friends, who made us feel right at home. Art, we soon learned, had recently been a judge in the Raiderettes tryouts. Many of the aspiring Raiderettes, Karen gleefully told us, had trouble following directions to move right to left. We laughed and continued chatting. When we told them we were coming up from San Diego, they offered to let us stay in their motor home overnight. Once everyone found out Kelly was pregnant, they asked for updates at every game. As Bonnie had said earlier in the parking lot, they would have given us the shirts off their backs.

  Sitting next to Kelly was Madison, a polite, soft-spoken man in his forties who frequently came to games with his wife and, unlike the rowdies all around us, rarely spoke. Jack and Bill usually sat in front of us. Jack wore a Raiders construction hat and actually worked in construction, unlike the many who have adopted workingman’s gear as a fashion trend. He is a large, gregarious guy with a booming voice and a big smile who looked like he could play linebacker himself. We asked him how long he’d been coming and he said, “Ever since they came back we’ve
been to every game. It used to be a lot rowdier about four or five years ago. I haven’t seen a fight for the last year, when there had been maybe one or two per half. So it really has gotten a lot better.” Good to know, I thought.

  Back in the seventies, Hunter S. Thompson described the fans in Oakland Coliseum asa sort of half-rich mob of nervous doctors, lawyers, and bank officers who would sit through a whole game without ever making a sound—not even when some freak with a head full of acid spilled a whole beer down the neck of their gray-plastic ski jackets. Toward the end of the season, when the Raiders were battling every week for a spot in the playoffs, some of the players got so pissed off at the stuporous nature of their “fans” that they began making public appeals for “cheering” and “noise.”

  It was the old Kezar Stadium where the 49ers played that Thompson described as a half-full “drunken madhouse” so mean and crazed that “10,000 of them were out there for no other reason except to get involved in serious violence.” How times have changed.3

  Looking around our neck of the woods and the Black Hole in general, the crowd was diverse racially and, it appeared, socio-economically. Hells Angels and housewives, gangsters and garbage men. What united the crowd, however, were ten basic commandments that you had to tolerate, even if you did not obey them: 1) wear black; 2) stand all game long or sit and miss the game; 3) be loud; 4) drink heavily; 5) curse like a sailor; 6) flip off opposing players; 7) fuck with opposing fans until they request a police escort; 8) fuck with the police escort until they request a police escort; 9) laugh a lot and have a hell of a good time; 10) be nice to fellow Raiders fans unless they are openly flaunting the ten commandments (in which case they should be fucked with).