Player for All Seasons : From Poetry to One-Handed Catches, Raiders’ Christensen Is Well-Versed

There are interviews, there are interviews and there is Todd Christensen, the Raiders’ award-winning tight end and a man capable of quoting Shakespeare, Andy Warhol, C. S. Lewis, the Bible, “The Big Chill” and Frank Hawkins, as he did last week within 30 minutes.

These are, respectively, a playwright, a pop painter, a British author, the basis of Judeo-Christian theology, a movie and the Raider fullback. We aren’t dealing with any ordinary award-winner here.

How best to encapsulate Christensen? Eclectic? Renaissance man? The tight end for all seasons?

“Pedantic is the word I heard,” Christensen said.

He heard others, too, after his 1983 and ’84 seasons, which included setting an NFL record for tight ends with 92 receptions (in ‘83); reading his poetry at a Super Bowl press conference; holding out the next season, which reportedly infuriated Al Davis; vowing not to speak to the press; reporting just before the opener, and then catching a team-high 80 passes (in ‘84).

He is talking enthusiastically once more and catching passes at the usual clip. His 41 receptions lead the NFL.

His touchdown catches include a work of art in Kansas City, where he tipped the ball down one-handed and then caught it. His second broke open the New England game. His third was the fourth-down game winner in Cleveland, where Tom Flores, having tried everything else, said he “gave Todd the end zone and let him get open.”

Christensen’s only question was, what took them so long?

Prepared for greatness? Christensen practices one-hand catches. Of course, assistant coaches may mutter, as one did recently, “If he’d used two hands on that one in Chicago last year, he’d have caught it, and we’d have won the game.”

It’s not always easy being Todd Christensen, but it’s loosening up. Performance counts among the Raiders. If they let Ted Hendricks ride his horse onto the practice field, the least they can do for 80-plus catches a year is let Christensen trot out his bibliography.

Christensen is sitting in the Raider press room in El Segundo, a converted grade school classroom, when Lyle Alzado walks in.

“I owe everything to Lyle Alzado,” Christensen says promptly.

“Did you tell him about me?” Alzado asks.

“I already did that part,” Christensen says.

“I just want to know, is our friendship intact?” Alzado asks.

“You ‘n’ me, Brown Derby types,” Christensen says. “I’ll have my service contact your service. We’ll do lunch. Chaka, bro.”

“Ciao,” Alzado says.

“Ciao, bella,” Christensen answers, then says: “Hollywood. It’s great.”

It’s right up there, if you’re famous, well-spoken, 6-3, handsome, possessed of a head of curly hair and a dashing mustache. You can get a lot of work, and Christensen does.

In this season’s football incarnation, he is trying to be a little more, uh, ordinary. At a recent media breakfast, he kept starting sentences, then interrupting himself to say no, he’d better not say that, that was too heavy, who cared?

He’s moving toward Everyman, but then he had some room for maneuvering.

“I had waited a long time for this moment,” Christensen said. “People just don’t seem to understand. I had been cut twice, I had waited my turn.”

Even while waiting, Christensen had shown more than the usual bomb-squadder’s personality. He had been planning to write a book about his career, titled, “The Anonymous Strain.”

That was in 1982, the Raiders’ first season in Los Angeles. The starting tight end, Derrick Ramsey, was injured in the exhibition season, and special teams captain Christensen got his break.

Suddenly, better material for the book was upon him.

“Ramsey was healthy again, and I was wondering whether I was still going to start,” Christensen says. “Oddly enough--how dramatic--we were going to play San Diego on Monday night TV. This is weird how this is deja vu -ing right now.

“That was one of those patented Raider deals. We were behind, 24-0, in the first half. I caught a TD before the half, the camera zoomed in on my face and I said, ‘We’re coming back!’ And we did. We won, 28-24, and I caught eight for almost 100.

“I had just been reading ‘Psychocybernetics,’ and I had actually visualized holding court in front of my locker. The people were going to be saying, ‘How’d you do it? You came from nowhere. Gee, riding the bench and all, what’s the deal?’

“And I’d say, ‘Well, you know, I paid the price,’ and all those well-worn cliches--but spiced up a little because it was me!

“I was really enjoying it. I was almost child-like. I was almost adolescent in my pursuit of it, a golly-gee kind of attitude. Of course, the hard-bitten sportswriters didn’t like that. Oh gee, I’d hand out poetry--isn’t this kind of cute? Let’s violate the status quo!--but it was in no way meant to flaunt my intellect.

“It’s strange to say you know your capabilities, because people don’t like to hear that. They like you to talk about your weaknesses and have someone else talk about your strengths.

“So, when someone asked, and I said, “Well, I’m quick, I get off the ball well, I have good speed, I have good moves and I catch everything,’ they said to themselves, ‘Is this guy arrogant or what?’

“As opposed to my being willing to admit, ‘Well, I’m only 225, I don’t pound people in the blocking, I get the job done but I don’t knock people off the ball like maybe some other people would do--I’m not 6-6, I don’t have ideal dimensions.’ ”

And his position among the Raiders?

“I’ve given that a lot of thought. Professional sports in general creates a group of acquaintances, not a group of friends. Not to say that there is not a certain amount of camaraderie. But I think, in the final analysis, most people go their own way.

“I think what happens, if maybe you’re getting a certain amount of attention, people say, ‘He’s trying too hard to get it.’

“But what’s too hard? Who decides? This is L.A. Everybody’s got a shot at it. Look at Lyle (Alzado), Howie (Long), Marcus (Allen). Everybody’s getting a shot at the proverbial notoriety pie.

“I have no delusions of grandeur. Although a lot of people seem to think. . . . “

In 1983, he became famous. In 1984, everyone got even.

Davis was reportedly so angered by Christensen’s holdout that he didn’t finish renegotiating the contract until just before this year’s training camp. Christensen returned to catch 80 passes and make the Pro Bowl again, but it wasn’t the same.

“In retrospect, I think my holdout did disrupt the team,” Christensen said. “I thought of all the teams--I really believed this--I thought we would be the one team it wouldn’t affect at all.

“I was told they put my jersey on a dummy. It was all pretty funny. I thought it’d be a comical kind of situation--’Hey, as long as he shows up for Houston (the opener), we’re OK.’ I showed up for Houston.”

They weren’t OK, though for more reasons than Christensen’s holdout. He was back when it counted. He caught 80 passes. The Raiders started 7-1 and then slid. They’re still digging their way out.

They’re making some headway.

Meanwhile, Christensen, his wife and their three sons have bought the house in El Segundo that used to belong to George Brett’s older brother, John. Tory Christensen gets to sleep in George’s old room, which, his father says, “thrills him to no end.”

“It’s like that Kevin Kline speech in ‘The Big Chill,’ ” Christensen said. “ ‘I’m dug in. I’ve put down roots!’ ”

In walks a quarter-ton of offensive linemen, in the persons of Henry Lawrence and Bruce Davis. They see that Christensen is being interviewed, once more.

Christensen says, laughing: “Relax. I haven’t even gotten to Socrates yet. Do you even know who Spinoza was? “

Lawrence and Davis laugh. Lawrence notes that Todd is leading the league.

What did you expect from a guy who cherry-picks in basketball, Davis says.

Christensen convulses in laughter and makes a crack about Davis’ bald head.

“We’re tight, tight,” Christensen yells, as they walk off.

“Yeah,” Davis says, laughing. “Tight.”