How Did an Introverted Kid Grow Up to Fit In So Well With the Raiders? : . . . It’s a Long Story

They want anger? We’ll give them anger. Maybe Olivier’s cold stare, as in “Richard III,” so you could see how twisted he was inside. Yeah, Olivier.

Or maybe Brando in “On the Waterfront,” innocence, betrayal, rage.

Here comes the director. We’re about to roll.

“OK, Howie, a real tough first stroke . . . and action!”

Howie Long pulls a plastic Personna razor down his cheek, finishing with a little flourish that you kids at home had better not try.

He’s sitting on a stool in a studio off Sunset Boulevard, naked to the waist, with a camera 15 inches from his nose and a crew of 12 hovering over him. This is the big time, a national spot, with the agency people in from Madison Avenue to observe.

They’re enthralled. They’ve got this tough-guy series. They’re using Jack Lambert now, but of course, Lambert’s a little passe.

And then there’s the matter of personality. Howie has tons of it; it’s busting out all over the place. He’s been charming the crew all day, which is how long it has taken to shoot a 30-second spot.

“He’s got a better temperament than an actor,” says Jane Hassler, an agency producer.

“You know what he’s great at? Mimicking. You show him what you want and he does it.

“And he’s not a ham. I thought he’d be an ultra-ham. But he’s reserved. He does what you ask. I spent a month dreading this shoot.”

Long re-lathers and re-shaves and re-lathers. The copy writer explains that the blade is coated, although Long was initially shaved with a Personna.

“Keep that mean look,” the director says. “That’s it, look tough.”

Long has a guileless, if large, face. He frowns obligingly. He looks like a little kid--OK, a giant kid--who has just had his allowance taken away.

“Keep the wrinkles . . . One last mean look.”

They break. The creative director and the copy writer look at the videotape. The camera man changes film cartridges. The makeup woman takes Long off to moisten his cheeks.

“What do you do in the off-season?” a crew member asks.

“This, hopefully,” Long says.

A sportswriter watches.

“Are you his publicist?” the makeup woman asks.

The world is blossoming for Howie Long of the Los Angeles Raiders, 25, and the most feared defensive lineman of his time, a candidate suddenly for the silver screen, the Hall of Fame and who knows what else?

He has a list of professional admirers lined up back to the East Coast.

Seattle Coach Chuck Knox, in an NFL Films feature: “He might be the most dominant force in defensive football today.”

Denver Coach Dan Reeves, in the same clip: “You take everything into consideration, both run and pass, and Howie Long is the best defensive football player today.”

Teammate Lyle Alzado: “There’s only one difference between us. Howie can be great and I never could be. I’ve been All-Pro, defensive player of the year and all that but Howie--I never thought I’d compare anyone to Dick Butkus, but I’d compare Howie to him as far as bringing the knowledgeability, the fury, the intensity that Dick Butkus did.”

Long is animated and colorful, a raconteur on the field who once walked into a Seattle timeout huddle and told the Seahawk water boys to give him the drink, since their guys weren’t doing anything.

In an exhibition this season, he got mad at the 49ers’ Bubba Paris and swatted his helmet off. Paris just chased it down. After the regular-season meeting, Long confronted 49er offensive line coach Bobb McKittrick and accused him of teaching leg-whipping. McKittrick hurried off in case Long wanted to do more than snarl.

A couple of weeks ago, Long enlivened some down time with a critique of Cincinnati center Dave Rimington.

“I told Rimington he was a bridge troll,” Long said. “He didn’t laugh. They were in their huddle. He turned around and his linemen were laughing at him. I’d never seen anything like him. This guy’s 5-9, 290.”

And then, there is his entire series on Alzado, his friend and former roommate.

He said at a recent Raider media breakfast:

“Lyle, you know, he’s on his own island. He’s nuts. I could have him locked up tomorrow.

“I mean, he’s 36, he’s got all the money in the world and he’s still playing defensive end in the NFL. He’s either stupid or insane.

“He could be poolside in Palos Verdes, up there at his house. What’s that gangster movie? (Scarface). Lyle’s going to be like that. He’ll be up there with his Uzis and M-16s and guys coming over the walls. He’s going to die up there. I know he is. I’m not psychic, but that’s an easy one. That’s like the sun coming up. He’s going to die hard, no doubt about it.”

Answered Alzado, who is used to kidding with Long through the papers: “He lives for it. If it wasn’t for me, he’d have nothing to talk about.”

Long’s sense of humor can get pretty rollicking, but in less robust company, he’s softer-spoken and eager to put people at ease. He wants to be liked.

People are always saying they’re surprised that he could do this or that.

But, perhaps not as surprised as Howie Long.

You’re waiting for the clock to strike 12 and turn into a pumpkin. --Howie Long The clock is only up to 3 or 4. Sunrise is a few hours off and offensive linemen are chasing Long through the back end of another Sunday night. They’re sucking him in and trapping him, or worse, diving at his legs, and he’s letting everyone down again. . . .

Or maybe it’s the AFC West race, or that rematch in Denver, or what they’re saying in the papers. . . .

Long worries constantly. He learned how long ago, and it isn’t anything you forget.

Ten years ago, he was a shy kid in Charlestown, a blue-collar section of Boston. He was about to get kicked out of the high school for applied truancy.

His parents had divorced, angrily and messily. He lived with his grandmother, to whom he is devoted. He calls her Ma.

“My grandmother is the type of person, I’d be down playing cards in the park, and she’d take the dog and walk down to the park, like 10:30 or 11 at night,” he said. “I was 12 years old. She’d come down yelling for me. I’d be embarrassed in front of my friends. She’d grab me by the hair on my head.

“I was a quiet kid. I was very introverted, believe it or not. I never spoke above a whisper. I was always, ‘Yes sir.’ I was raised that way.

“I was a big kid who never played any organized sports. You played a lot of sports in the streets and I excelled at that, but I was never confident enough to go out for Little League. I was afraid I might get cut, or I might not be able to hit the ball.

“I was uncontrollable. I didn’t like school. I was younger than everyone in my class by two years. I had few friends. I never had a girlfriend. I was kind of a grandmother’s boy.

“The family had a meeting of my uncles to decide what was best for me. One of them was going to take me. My Uncle Billy had lived the American dream and moved out to the suburbs and I went out there.”

At suburban Milford High, he was spotted by the football coach, who encouraged him to come out. In his only full season, he made the Coaches Scholastic All-American team. He was offered a one-year scholarship at Boston College, which was nearby and high powered.

Instead, he took a four-year offer from Villanova, which was farther away and lower powered.

“I went down to BC to look at the school,” he said. “They wanted me to play offensive line. I worked out, I was in the shower and their offensive linemen came in. They all had tattoos of eagles on their rear ends. They looked like they were 28.

“They had mustaches. I had just started shaving two years ago, right? I asked myself, I’m going to be an offensive lineman with these guys? No way.”

Sooner or later, though, he was going to try fast company. It turned out to be the Blue-Gray game after his senior year. As usual, he wasn’t there in a featured role.

“There were a lot of scouts there, talking to players, yukking it up,” Long said. “Nobody said two words to me.

“I was going to play against this guy, Zach Guthrie. I’ll remember that name forever. He was a big guy from Texas A&M;, about 6-5, 6-6, 290 pounds. He had a cap, a toothpick in his mouth all the time and never said two words. I called home and said, ‘Ma, I’m going to get killed.’

“We go to the pregame banquet and they’re introducing each player. I’m trying to look real inconspicuous. They introduce Zach Guthrie, and Frank Howard, the Clemson coach, points to me and says, ‘That’s you, boy. That’s the boy that’s gonna whip your butt this weekend.’

“I’m saying to myself, shoot. . . .

“The first play, I think it was a sweep to my side and I just stuffed him. It was an amazing feeling. I’m saying to myself, ‘Gee, I’m just as strong as this guy is.’ I strung him out, threw him on the ground and made the tackle.”

Long blocked a kick, got a couple of sacks and, to his surprise, was named most valuable player. He rode the bus back to the hotel with the rest of the players looking at him, wondering how this nobody could have become MVP. He says it was the greatest moment in his life.

Long had moved up from also-ran to dark horse. The Eagles invited him to work out, two days before the NFL draft.

Long said he did well on their tests and was introduced to Coach Dick Vermeil, who said they weren’t interested.

“He denies it, but let me tell you something, it’s a fact,” Long said. “I heard the words come out of his mouth.

“I worked out for everyone, like three-four times a day. I had to. Other players at bigger schools would say, ‘Hey I’m working out on Wednesday. If you want to see me, y’all be there.’

“I remember one time I worked out on a Sunday. The scout from Baltimore knocked on my door in the dorm. I worked out on the front lawn in my sneakers. I was desperate. I was willing to do anything.

“I remember Earl (Leggett, Raider defensive line coach) coming. There was this big red-neck 300-pound guy. He didn’t say much of anything and I didn’t say much. He had me run two 20-yard dashes and he had me get in my stance, take one step upfield, plant and come inside. And then he left.

“I said, ‘Well, they’re not going to draft me.’ I went inside and watched ‘Leave it to Beaver.’ ”

Leggett had also seen the Blue-Gray film, however, and had watched another coach work Long out. He was interested, all right.

“I liked him a lot,” Leggett said. “There wasn’t any doubt. You could just feel the power and the strength.

“Raw? Oh, was he raw. He really was. He was very eager, though.”

He really was. On his dorm wall, Long had pictures of Penn State’s Matt Millen and Bruce Clark. He also had another of Joe Klecko, the Temple star who’d made the Jets. He saw Klecko that summer at a local weightlifting meet but was too shy to introduce himself.

This was the young man who reported to Santa Rosa, a surprise second-round draft pick, to join the famous Raiders.

“Worried is not the word,” Long says. “I didn’t know a No. 2 pick was going to make the team.

“I was Earl’s draft pick. He took a big chance recommending that Mr. (Al) Davis draft me. He was on me constantly. I mean, he was on me. Everything I did was wrong, films, steps, hitting the sled, everything.

“I learned the game from the ground up. I had no technique. I tried to run everybody over. I was terrible.

“I’d sit in the film room and they’d go over formation tendencies and give out the computer sheets with all the plays. I didn’t know what they were--16 BTO, counter 68 toss tag.

“I didn’t know what they were talking about, but I didn’t say anything. I was embarrassed. So I took it home and I studied even harder. I got to know it better than anybody.

“My teammates? They loved me. I was like 52-0 my rookie year in training camp. I got in 52 fights. I knew how to fight. I could always fight.

“Characters? Let’s talk about the defensive line. Dave Pear--nuts. Joe Campbell--crazy. Dave Browning--not all there.

“Ted Hendricks--a raving maniac. One night I saw him in a bar and he had a blowup doll on the stool next to him. He says (dropping into a basso profundo), ‘Ho-wie! This is my date for training camp! Sit down! Have a drink! This is Martha!’

“One time in Denver I got knocked out. I was on the bench, looking up at the Rocky Mountains, wondering where I was. There was a turnover and our defense went back out. They came out over the ball, Ted looked next to him said, ‘Time out! Time out! I’m not playing without Howie!’

“And they had to get me back in because he wouldn’t play without me.

“As a rookie, I led the team in sacks. All I did, I’d come in third and 7. They told me, ‘Go hard and get to the quarterback.’ ”

He did both. He got better, game after game, season after season. Here he is, world.

This is what success looks like close up: a lovely wife named Diane who’s a law student at USC; a 7-month-old son named Christopher whose size, says Long, “is off the charts”; an attractive, Spanish-style home in Redondo Beach.

How does it feel?

Like he’s got it made?

Or like somebody out there is trying to take it away?

Some days it’s one. Some day it’s the other. Lots of days, it’s both.

“The first time I saw him, I saw a lighter version of me,” Alzado said. “I’m dark-complected, he’s light. He’s very insecure, as I am. He worries, as I do. He wants to be as good as he can possibly be. He doesn’t take criticism well. Neither do I. He’s defensive with it. He’s able to use it to his advantage, the way I do.

“Howie will be everything he wants to be as long as he maintains the fury inside him. I believe once you lose the fury, you lose yourself. Howie’s a furious man inside.”

Leggett said: “Does he ever have an off-day? Yeah, but I’ll tell you, most of the time, that son of a gun’s pretty solid in there. He’s pretty solid.

“He’s still very insecure. That’s his driving force. I would hope it doesn’t temper. He has a chance to really be a heck of a player. But that’s measured over a period of years.”

Rest assured, Long’s driving force is still driving.

Rest, however, can be another problem.

“I lie in bed at night,” Long said. “I envision what they’re going to run at me. Other people count sheep. I envision blocking combinations.

“By the time I see the film of a game, I’ve seen it in my mind 30-40 times at 2, 2:30, 3 in the morning. I never remember the good plays. Let’s say I had two, three bad plays? I’ll rehash those over and over. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and I’ll say, ‘Jeez, you’re so stupid!’ Why didn’t you see that coming out of that formation?’

“Or I took the wrong step. Or I got mentally lazy. That really bothers me, when I get lazy. I hate being lazy.

“There’s no joy in being called No. 1. It doesn’t matter on Sunday. I’ve got a bunch of people after me.”

Highly aware of the perils of football, he gets furious when blockers get close to his legs. His household was devastated the night Joe Theismann got hurt during a Monday night game on TV. Long was talking to his father on the telephone and had to hang up. Diane started crying, and Howie had to take the baby.

“There was this fantasy I had,” he said. “I get hit in the knee and my leg breaks in half.”

Football contracts, unlike those in baseball, are rarely guaranteed. Long has taken out his own insurance policy with Lloyd’s of London. If he gets hurt and has to quit tomorrow, he collects $1.5 million.

He is out to get hold of all the money he can, and says so. He has already started a trust fund for Christopher.

Sports Illustrated’s Paul Zimmerman, who did the definitive profile, noted an “undercurrent of despair.” Long had that SI cover blown up, framed and hung in his recreation room, but suggests he doesn’t feel that much despair.

It’s not a bad life at all. The honors are still flowing in, and the offers. A director named Roman Van Roop called the Raider office the other day.

“Roman Van Roop,” Long said, laughing. “Is that a director’s name or what?

“This is my childhood. I’m living my childhood right now. I don’t ever want to grow up.”