From Boston Herald
Raider Nation take note
by Gerry Callahan
Friday, November 15, 2002
To: Mommy.
From: Your loser son, the Vice President of the Oakland Raider fan club.
Re: Sunday night's game.
First, let me just say something that is long overdue: You are a wonderful mother. You have been so nice to me for more than 40 years and I want you to know that I appreciate all the little things you do: make my bed; bake me peanut butter cookies; wash and iron my Ted Hendricks jersey; tuck me in at night.
I mean it when I say I don't care if I ever meet a girl. I'm perfectly content living in your basement, playing video games, polishing my Raiders helmet nightly, and watching ``Becker'' with you and Dad every Sunday night. Truly, it's one of the highlights of my sad, empty life, and I know you enjoy it, too. That's why it's not easy for me to ask a very special favor of you this week. I need to borrow the Buick, Mom. Please, please, please! There's a big, big Raiders game Sunday night, and my friends from the fan club are counting on me.
I'm just warning you now, Mommy: I'm painting my face; I'm borrowing our poodle's spiked collar and I'm staying out past curfew. If that's OK with you, I mean. You have to understand that this week is special in the lives of pathetic Raiders fans like me: The New England Patriots are coming to town, and we owe those guys, big time. We've got a score to settle.
You probably don't remember because you and Dad were sleeping on the couch, but last year we got robbed. We got screwed. We got ripped off. We went to New England for a playoff game, and they literally stole away our ticket to the Super Bowl. I cried so much that night I almost woke you.
It has been 10 months since the infamous snow job in Foxboro, and at our meetings every week we bat around the same nagging questions: How does Al Davis manage to stay so young-looking? How can we get Sebastian Janikowski to slip us the date-rape drug? And how badly are we going to beat those lucky bums from New England when we get them in the Black Hole?
It just wasn't right, Momma. All the citizens of Raider Nation are still angry about the so-called tuck rule - not the same as the one in our house where you promise to tuck me in if I brush properly - and one of the oldest members of our fan club put it best. He's a nice old man named Ben Dreith and he said it doesn't matter what the rules say. That stupid ref Walt Coleman should have called it a fumble because, well, you know, it looked like a fumble, didn't it? And the Raiders have always gotten the benefit of the doubt from wobbly officials in the NFL. Why was this guy Coleman such a stickler for the rules? It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, and finally we get our chance at revenge.
I know you think my obsession with the Silver and Black is just something to do between Star Trek conventions, but it's much more than that. It's my chance to dress like some of my heroes in Dungeons and Dragons and pretend I'm a bad-ass. It's like being in a motorcycle gang, without having to ask your permission to ride a motorcycle. I know you'd never say yes to that. Put it this way: If I had a life, the Raiders would be my life. That's why I got the skull and crossbones temporarily tattooed on the doughy underside of my love handle.
You may not believe it, Mommy, but most people actually buy my act: They see me wearing my funny helmet, and they actually think I'm not a complete nerd. I mean, it's amazing: We're basically the same guys who made up the audio-visual club in high school, but now we dress like the Village People and no one messes with us! Can you believe it? Sometimes I wear the same Darth Vader costume that I wore while waiting in line for 12 hours on the opening night of Phantom Menace. The only difference is the little kids in the neighborhood don't beat me up. They think I'm cool!
Do you remember the time we saw William Shatner at the airport and he treated me like dirt? Well, my guy Sea Bass doesn't do that. No way. If I see Sebastian out at one of the local restaurants, all I have to do is buy him a couple dozen drinks, help him steer the key into the ignition of his car, and he treats me like one of his old buddies. What a guy. And how about the new guy? All I did was fill one lousy prescription for Bill Romanowski, and Romo shook my hand, looked me in the eye, and said, ``Thanks, loser.'' I don't know how he knew my nickname, but it was a nice touch.
And this might be hard to believe, but some people in the media think we actually give our team an edge on the field. They put the TV camera on us, we make scary faces, and they say we intimidate the opposing teams. It's almost as if they're expecting us to jump out of the stands like those lunatics at Comiskey Park and beat up a coach or something. Maybe I'll do that this weekend. Maybe I'll run down on the sideline and slap around that guy Pepper Johnson.
I'm like all the crazies from Raider Nation, Mom: I'm bad; I'm mad and I'm capable of anything. As long as you lend me your car for this one big night, I'll do whatever you ask. I'll clean my room, I'll get a job, I'll even try to stop polishing my Raiders helmet so often. It won't be easy, but I'll do anything for my Raiders.
Raider Nation take note
by Gerry Callahan
Friday, November 15, 2002
To: Mommy.
From: Your loser son, the Vice President of the Oakland Raider fan club.
Re: Sunday night's game.
First, let me just say something that is long overdue: You are a wonderful mother. You have been so nice to me for more than 40 years and I want you to know that I appreciate all the little things you do: make my bed; bake me peanut butter cookies; wash and iron my Ted Hendricks jersey; tuck me in at night.
I mean it when I say I don't care if I ever meet a girl. I'm perfectly content living in your basement, playing video games, polishing my Raiders helmet nightly, and watching ``Becker'' with you and Dad every Sunday night. Truly, it's one of the highlights of my sad, empty life, and I know you enjoy it, too. That's why it's not easy for me to ask a very special favor of you this week. I need to borrow the Buick, Mom. Please, please, please! There's a big, big Raiders game Sunday night, and my friends from the fan club are counting on me.
I'm just warning you now, Mommy: I'm painting my face; I'm borrowing our poodle's spiked collar and I'm staying out past curfew. If that's OK with you, I mean. You have to understand that this week is special in the lives of pathetic Raiders fans like me: The New England Patriots are coming to town, and we owe those guys, big time. We've got a score to settle.
You probably don't remember because you and Dad were sleeping on the couch, but last year we got robbed. We got screwed. We got ripped off. We went to New England for a playoff game, and they literally stole away our ticket to the Super Bowl. I cried so much that night I almost woke you.
It has been 10 months since the infamous snow job in Foxboro, and at our meetings every week we bat around the same nagging questions: How does Al Davis manage to stay so young-looking? How can we get Sebastian Janikowski to slip us the date-rape drug? And how badly are we going to beat those lucky bums from New England when we get them in the Black Hole?
It just wasn't right, Momma. All the citizens of Raider Nation are still angry about the so-called tuck rule - not the same as the one in our house where you promise to tuck me in if I brush properly - and one of the oldest members of our fan club put it best. He's a nice old man named Ben Dreith and he said it doesn't matter what the rules say. That stupid ref Walt Coleman should have called it a fumble because, well, you know, it looked like a fumble, didn't it? And the Raiders have always gotten the benefit of the doubt from wobbly officials in the NFL. Why was this guy Coleman such a stickler for the rules? It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, and finally we get our chance at revenge.
I know you think my obsession with the Silver and Black is just something to do between Star Trek conventions, but it's much more than that. It's my chance to dress like some of my heroes in Dungeons and Dragons and pretend I'm a bad-ass. It's like being in a motorcycle gang, without having to ask your permission to ride a motorcycle. I know you'd never say yes to that. Put it this way: If I had a life, the Raiders would be my life. That's why I got the skull and crossbones temporarily tattooed on the doughy underside of my love handle.
You may not believe it, Mommy, but most people actually buy my act: They see me wearing my funny helmet, and they actually think I'm not a complete nerd. I mean, it's amazing: We're basically the same guys who made up the audio-visual club in high school, but now we dress like the Village People and no one messes with us! Can you believe it? Sometimes I wear the same Darth Vader costume that I wore while waiting in line for 12 hours on the opening night of Phantom Menace. The only difference is the little kids in the neighborhood don't beat me up. They think I'm cool!
Do you remember the time we saw William Shatner at the airport and he treated me like dirt? Well, my guy Sea Bass doesn't do that. No way. If I see Sebastian out at one of the local restaurants, all I have to do is buy him a couple dozen drinks, help him steer the key into the ignition of his car, and he treats me like one of his old buddies. What a guy. And how about the new guy? All I did was fill one lousy prescription for Bill Romanowski, and Romo shook my hand, looked me in the eye, and said, ``Thanks, loser.'' I don't know how he knew my nickname, but it was a nice touch.
And this might be hard to believe, but some people in the media think we actually give our team an edge on the field. They put the TV camera on us, we make scary faces, and they say we intimidate the opposing teams. It's almost as if they're expecting us to jump out of the stands like those lunatics at Comiskey Park and beat up a coach or something. Maybe I'll do that this weekend. Maybe I'll run down on the sideline and slap around that guy Pepper Johnson.
I'm like all the crazies from Raider Nation, Mom: I'm bad; I'm mad and I'm capable of anything. As long as you lend me your car for this one big night, I'll do whatever you ask. I'll clean my room, I'll get a job, I'll even try to stop polishing my Raiders helmet so often. It won't be easy, but I'll do anything for my Raiders.
