by Jim Miller
Perhaps the most interesting aspects of Raider Nation are its contradictory meanings as an imagined community. Raider Nation is a place where fans go for community connection that transcends barriers of race, gender, and class, and it is a site of vicious competitive individualism and petty exclusionary tribalism. It is a family, and it is a place to get away from the ties that bind. Raider Nation valorizes discipline and excess. It is an imaginary land of authenticity, and it is a mass-marketed, trademarked commodity. Raider Nation celebrates working-class grit even as it valorizes the dominant values of a market economy that has ravaged the American working class. But most compelling of all, it is an embattled desire for some kind of community in an age when community is in decline.
The team’s past moves and its perpetual threats of future moves have broken the firm ties it has had with the city of Oakland, but it will always be haunted by the ghost of Oakland past. As Monte Poole observed after viewing Rebels of Oakland , a fine documentary about the Raiders in the seventies, the current Raiders have lost the “ability to bond with the community,” as have the players, “whose contracts have taken them well beyond even the most liberal interpretation of blue collar.” Poole goes on to note that “Today’s Raiders—and pro athletes in general—prefer the suburbs, isolated from the guy who carries a lunch bucket. Investments tend to remain under cover. There are thousands of restaurants, lounges and retail establishments in the Bay Area and [as opposed to the players of the seventies] not one Raider has his name out front.” The consequence of all this, according to Poole, is that “while the Raiders fan might be knee-deep in disappointment as the team stumbles to the finish, it could be worse. Your identity is not at stake, and the agony is not likely to reach down into your soul.”1
Although the notion that there ever was a time when professional teams really did have a genuine connection with the community is probably a myth of a golden era, it is a powerful one nonetheless. Sports fans strain against the notion that they are simply rooting for the interests of one corporation against another, even as team owners brazenly move, raid public funds, and do everything they can to shatter the illusion that community interests have anything to do with their bottom lines. And it is this phenomenon of “corporate delocalization” that defines the experience of contemporary sports fans and that particularly hits Raiders fans both in Oakland and Los Angeles who have had their team taken from them and have had to stare the naked truth of American sports and indeed America itself straight in the face. As Robert Putnam argues in Bowling Alone, with the “gradual but accelerating nationalization and globalization of our eco-nomic structures” has come, “[t]he replacement of local banks, shops, and other locally based firms by far-flung multinational empires” which “often means a decline in civic commitment on the part of business leaders.” The trend is clear, “As Wal-Mart replaces the corner hardware store, Bank of America takes over the First National Bank, and local owners are succeeded by impersonal markets, the incentives for business elites to contribute to community life atrophy.” In the case of professional sports teams, they are no longer even vaguely interested in representing “communities.” What sports owners want are “markets” full of “corporate supporters” whose interests are, in turn, to sell products to other “markets” of affluent consumers. It hardly matters where these “markets” are as the real money is generated by television contracts making the regular fans in the stands little more than props whose input pales in comparison to the luxury suite set.2
No cash refunds
Why do the Raiders seem to loathe Oakland? As a recent USA Today article pointed out, “At least six teams are at a ‘significant disadvantage because of their venues’ and several others have trouble keeping pace with richer teams.... [T]he Denver Broncos’ annual operating income, boosted by a new stadium, is at least $60 million more than the AFC rival Oakland Raiders.”3 Thus, despite the fact that there is “not a single franchise that is not profitable,” the rules of the game dictate that the Raiders need even more profit to “Just Win, Baby,” city, tradition, and fans be damned. The Raiders organization is a corporation marketing itself to other corporations, as are all the other teams in American professional sports. Just like other American corporations that have deemed it necessary to value “flexibility” over loyalty to their employees or even a minimal sense of social obligation and have demanded unprecedented control over our politics without giving much back to the body politic itself, professional sports teams have gotten into the game of bilking and screwing over their fans and then demanding more from them. And we are suckers for it because sport is, in our imaginations, a mythic space “outside” of history, economics, and politics. We know this isn’t true, but our hearts lead us astray time and again.
Hence the nostalgia that permeates Raider Nation is, for me, a yearning for the days when Ken “the Snake” Stabler was my childhood hero, and I didn’t know anything except that he played by his own rules, won the Super Bowl, and was the coolest guy in the league. For many more fans, it is a yearning for a golden era when the team was connected to a place and you could root for your working-class heroes without much cognitive dissonance. It is a yearning for a utopian imagined community that brings everybody together. It is a desire for something other than “one market under God.” And even that yearning is strained, as one fan pointed out: “You know, with professional football, like basketball, baseball, or any professional sport, you are required to suspend a great deal more disbelief on both sides—as both a player and a fan. I mean you look at these professional football players now. The game ends. They play together. They clearly like each other more than they like their fans.” Still, we want to be part of something that, if just for one moment, makes us feel we are bigger than ourselves.
Acknowledgments
We owe a special debt to Rosalie Kramm and Chris Jordan, without whose technical assistance this book would not have been possible. In addition, thanks goes to Colin Robinson, Abby Aguirre, Lizzie Seidlin-Bernstein, Maury Botton, and everyone else at The New Press for all their help with this project, as well as to Steve Hiatt for his fine editorial, design, and typesetting work. Our friend and photographer extraordinaire, Joe Blum, also deserves a medal for letting us drag him through Raider Nation and its hinterlands.
Special thanks also go to Jim Zamora, Monte Poole, Dave Newhouse, Michael Oriard, Chris Rhomberg, and Mike Davis, for their contributions and advice.
We are also particularly indebted to Bobby Davis; Michele Clark; Dennis Smith; Mark Henderson; Renay Jackson; Hank Mahler and family; Joe and John Spinola; Kevin, Menish, and the firefighters; Scott Schillo; Megan Bauer; Ricky and Bob Ricardo; Jimbo; Amanda and Carrie Donnelly; Chris Eaton; Carlos Canal; Lizet Gonzalez; Mychal Odom; Hector Martinez; Danny Widener; Chuck and Sharon; Bradley Bang; Jim Mahler; Rick Cassar; Jon Cariveau; Jennifer Cost; Roberta Alexander; and Alys Masek.
Raiders players Roland Williams, Mo Collins, Brad Badger, Eric Johnson, Rick Mirer, John Parella, Frank Middleton, Charles Woodson, Teyo Johnson, and Tom the security guard at training camp all graciously gave us a few minutes of their time as well.
We are also grateful for the input from Mike Sheehan, Randy Leppard, Victor Cotto, Mark Shelton, Jim Freeman, Brad Richardson, Andrew Miller, Patty and Pedro, John Dreisbach, Michel Hines, Bernard Anderson, Griz Jones, Tony Pizza, Nicole Joyner, Singh Shady, Malcolm, Mikie Valium, Darth Raider, Mike Rosaker, Dan Bartolomeo, Buck Allred, Eugene Jeffers, J.A. Miller, Stephanie Sandlin, David, Kerry Smith, Stephen Dixon, Gary Glasser, Terry Gartner, Mohamed Noor Ahmed, David Slack, Kris Snider, Daniel Chen, Marc Lein, Steve Lamoreaux, Margaret Caraway, James Shock, Tim Bryner, Mark Bryant, Mary Anne, Shawn Utterback, Jan Frost, Scott MacCarroll, Tony Lara, Larry Mastin, Peach, BlackHole Mike, StonerDude and Raiderhed, Slackenloader, Marc Guitierrez, Jeff Childs, Guadalupe Loera, Amanda Briggs, Nancy Machia-nado, Clifford Bolden, Bonesaw, Steve Clark, Dale Pendexter, Anthony Nardi, Lee Hutchinson, Steve Waite, Steve Poland, Derek Ryce, Paul O’Shanassy
, Artur “Fred” Chielowiec, Massimo Corsi, Mark Phillips, Barujo, Elva Salinas, Jim T, Jeff Haldeman, Jeff Clark, Dave Laughlin, Amanda Logan, W.S. Song, Mark Wilson, Bonnie McDonald, Phil and Angel Ramirez, Traci the Raiders Cat, Larry the Raiderman, Mike and Jenny, Donovan and Jack, Mark “Gorilla Rilla” Acasio, the “Oaktown Pirates” (Azel, Kimmy, and Melvia), Mario Garcia, Frank and Trinity Klein, Chains and Lady Chains, Malcolm, Señor Raider Man, Lee “the Flea,” “Shieldhead,” Gus Cardenas, George and Anthony, “the Raidiator,” “Skull Lady,” Raider-Gloria, Kim and Trotter, Bonnie, Robert, Dino, Jersey John, Roberto, Joyce, Ron, Pat, Beth at Rock Bottom, Mike Hardwick, Bethany, William McHugo, Charles F. Pollock, Tim Bartlett, Ron Snow, Raider John of Rhode Island, David Surpanch, Amin Badruddin, Derek Ottman, David Gramp, Dave Nesbitt, Justin Schummer, Dennis Meier, Dave Kostka, Chris Muntz, Scott Luck, Clint Hedges, James Shook, Andrew Conner, Debi, Warren, Terry Johnson, Rex Krohn Jr., Henry T. Zukowski, Brian Stransky, Steve Cilurson, Ray, Keith Kaczmarcyk, Michael Lupton, Phil Nemeth, Dave McFarlin, J.B., Jeff Sturgill, Tony Lamonica, Douglas Gordon, Rayda Joe, Scott, Anthony Penn, Donald Dold, Kenny Sapp, Mark Calet, David Schiller, Bernie “the Coach” Nace, Shawn Simpson, Josh Kitzerow, RaiderMadness, Tim Smith, Big Cory, Timothy Puett, Doug Hopkins, Steve Childers, Glen Citerony, Leon Satz, Jeff Corman, Rich Castro, Hofer, David Walsh, Corey Oliver, Mike Pulis, Rich, Jose Tolentino, Marty Rogers, Brad “Woody” Woode, Mike Reynolds, Amy Collins, Paul Garille, Mark Lawless, Angelo Bottoni, James Goodell, Yvonne Lara, Carl Scheel, LeRon Beason, Leroi Archuleta, Bobbie Joyner, Christie, Kris Olson, Dave Keys, Veronica Valdez, Brandon Castillo, Glenn Heinrich, Mary and Gary Degler, RedDog, Charles Tinsley, Richard Webb, Brad Kopp, and the hundreds of other fans who sent us e-mails and gave us anonymous interviews over the last two years.
Special thanks go to our Black Hole neighbors who tolerated our cameras and note-taking for the entire 2003 season: Al, Colleen, Carrie, Monroe, Charles, Shawn, and their friends as well as the hundreds of anonymous fans who universally responded to our requests for interviews and pictures with openness and generosity.
We are also grateful to the bartenders and wait staffs at Ricky’s, the Pacific Coast Brewing Company, the Fat Lady, Heinold’s First and Last Chance Saloon, Eli’s Mile High Club, Yoshi’s, and the bar with no name in the midst of the produce market for tolerating our turning their workplaces into interview central, letting us use the phone, and always being warm and welcoming.
Finally, we would like to thank Al Davis for over forty years of the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Notes
Preface: Paradise Lost
1 Paradise Lost, ed. M.H. Abrams et al., The Norton Anthology of English Literature, vol. 1 (New York: W.W. Norton, 1979), book 1, lines 254–63.
2 Ibid., “The Argument”; lines 106–10.
3 San Diego Union-Tribune, Jan. 17, 2003.
4 Oakland Tribune, Jan. 21, 2003.
5 San Francisco Chronicle, Jan. 20, 2003.
6 Oakland Tribune, Jan. 19, 2003; San Diego Union-Tribune, Jan. 17, 2003.
7 Song of Myself, ed. Harold W. Blodgett and Scully Bradley (New York: W.W. Norton, 1968), section 16, lines 346–49.
Introduction: Raider Nation as an Imagined Community
1 Michael Oriard, Reading Football: How the Popular Press Created an American Spectacle (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1993), 2, 34; Pete Williams, “Can Football Now Be Considered America’s Pastime,” Street and Smith’s Pro Football 2003 Yearbook, June 2003, 42; New York Times, July 10, 2003.
2 As Oriard puts it: “Imagine our receiver is black, the defender white. Or one of them from Notre Dame, the other Brigham Young; one from the Big Ten, the other from the Southeastern Conference; one a candidate for a Rhodes Scholarship, the other a known drug-user; one a street kid from the inner city, the other the son of a wealthy cardiologist; one a well-known volunteer for the Special Olympics, the other an arrogant publicist of his own athletic brilliance. Certain teams have their own distinctive images: think of the Cowboys, the Bears, the Raiders, the 49ers in the National Football League” (Oriard, Reading Football, 3).
3 Ibid.
4 One can usefully view football as an allegory of American culture in that an astute observer can read in it one of the central ideological contradictions of American society—the simultaneous embrace of the values of extreme competitive individualism emblematic of late capitalism and a utopian embrace of the very community that capitalism erodes. In his second book, King Football: Sport and Spectacle in the Golden Age of Radio and Newsreels, Movies and Magazines, the Weekly and Daily Press, Oriard himself makes a similar point as he notes football’s “simultaneously integrative and exclusive” function: “It represented the racial, class, gender, regional, and religious values and prejudices of a diverse people, while at the same time providing a common interest where those people came together, their prejudices in tow.” This is clearly not the only story that football and its fans tell, but it is a central and compelling one. In Reading Football, Oriard insists that football is a “multiply interpreted text” that is part of “a diverse, contested, yet still ideologically freighted American culture.” It tells many stories about gender, race, class, work, play, and violence. While it is about “many things,” he continues, “what precisely it says depends in part on its many interpreters: the fans or viewers.” Football can’t mean just anything because the game defines its own boundaries of meaning without determining the specific meanings within those boundaries. Its cultural power, Oriard maintains, resides in its “framing” of certain questions and not others, while the freedom of the fan depends on “interpretive possibilities.” Interestingly, after this intensive effort to negotiate between what he calls a reading of football as a mass cultural “allegory” and an impossible effort to determine the “specific interpretations of a million readers,” Oriard settles on analyzing sports writing as a mediation between the contest and its audience and leaves any serious consideration of fans behind. Importantly, Oriard completely neglects the fact that fan identity is not simply a product of how fans “read the game” but also of how they see themselves as fans and how others see them. In some ways, fan identity, particularly among the most passionate adherents, is partially autonomous from the game itself. All Oriard has to say on the matter is that it is indisputable that there is a “collective nature” to watching football and that “whether the sense of community that results in these situations is spurious or real can be endlessly debated.” It is our contention that Raider Nation is indeed a “real” community of sorts and that it is obviously tied to but not always totally dependent on the “contest.” (Michael Oriard, King Football: Sport and Spectacle in the Golden Age of Radio and Newsreels, Movies and Magazines, the Weekly, and the Daily Press [Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2001], 15; Oriard, Reading Football, 8, 16, 18, 19; Oriard, King Football, 17)
5 Dean Chadwin, Those Damn Yankees: The Secret Life of America’s Greatest Franchise (New York and London: Verso, 1999), 39, 40.
6 Ibid., 55.
7 Ibid., 57.
8 In addition to overcoming differences of social, political, or economic interest, the imagined community transcends time and space. Anderson notes that the imagined community as we know it came about in the eighteenth century with the birth of “homogenous empty time” that developed with advent of the novel and the newspaper, which allowed people to represent “the kind of imagined community that is a nation.” Central to this was the notion of simultaneity:The idea of a sociological organism moving calendrically through homogenous empty time is a precise analogue of the idea of the nation, which also is conceived as a solid community moving steadily down (or up) history. An American will never meet, or even know the names of more than a handful of his 240,000-odd fellow Americans. He has no idea of what they are up to at any one time. But he has complete confidence in their steady, anonymous, simultaneous activity. One of the factors that helped create imagined communities as we
know them was “the
almost precisely simultaneous consumption (‘imagining’) of the newspaper as fiction.” Indeed, Anderson notes Hegel’s suggestion that the morning newspaper had come to serve as a substitute for morning prayers, a meaning giving “mass ceremony” of imagining performed privately “in the lair of the skull” by millions of people: “Yet each communicant is well aware that the ceremony he performs is being replicated simultaneously by thousands (or millions) of others of whose existence he is confident, yet of whose identity he has not the slightest notion.” The incessant repetition of this ceremony created a “vivid figure for the secular, historically clocked imagined community.” In addition to the repetition of the ritual, the newspaper reader’s observation of other people sharing in the consumption of “replicas of his own paper being consumed by his subway, barbershop, or residential neighbors” continually reassured him “that the imagined world is visibly rooted in everyday life.”A final example of simultaneity points to another payoff one receives for membership in an imagined community—unisonance: “Take national anthems.... No matter how banal the words and mediocre the tunes, there is in this singing an experience of simultaneity.... At precisely such moments, people wholly unknown to each other utter the same verses to the same melody. The image—unisonance.” And the payoff of unisonance is a feeling of becoming part of something larger than oneself. This sense of harmonious connection, of belonging is perhaps the greatest pleasure of an imagined community. As Anderson puts it, “How selfless this unisonance feels! If we are aware that others are singing these songs precisely when and as we are, we have no idea who they might be, or even where, out of earshot, they are singing. Nothing connects us all but imagined sound.” And yet it connects us powerfully. (Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities [London: Verso, 1983] 5, 6, 7, 25, 26, 35, 35–6, 145)
