The Greatest of All Raider Haters Has a One-Track Mind

Remember the days when the Raiders were about as welcome in San Diego as a motorcycle gang in a beachfront saloon? Remember the days when Raiders fans in the stadium parking lot would be hit by epithets, or worse? Remember the days when women and children could be found cowering under their beds when the Raiders were in town?

Those were good old days hereabouts, because the local football heroes were capable of battling facemask to eye patch with those villainous marauders from various points to the north.

However, things have changed. In fact, Raiders fans have dared make their presence known in our midst without being accused of being trained in Libya.

It has gotten to the point that the Chargers’ owner, of all people, actually likes Al Davis. This is certainly a bizarre state of affairs.

I contemplated this strange form of detente as I read accounts of the Raiders’ pratfall Sunday against the New England Patriots. The game was rather humiliating by itself, but there was also that stormy aftermath. In the annals of fisticuffs, Howie Long and Matt Millen vs. any general manager is about as even as a collision between Amtrak and a bicycle.

This was called losing ugly, though it might be said that the loudmouthed Patriots general manager went about winning in a rather ugly way.

Regardless, the Raiders had made their departure in a most embarrassing and graceless manner.

All of this brought to mind a fellow named Eugene V. Klein.

During his tenure as the Chargers’ owner, Gene Klein was the greatest of the Raider Haters. He once berated Al Davis for close to an hour with nary a mention of the Raiders managing general partner’s name, lest it somehow foul his lips. He once filed a $33 million suit against Davis, specifically suing Davis for having sued him.

Davis was the Raiders and the Raiders were Davis, and Klein’s blood pressure boiled out of control at the mention of either.

This was a chap who had to view the Raiders’ downfall with a giant smirk on his craggy face. For a man whose latest avocation is the racing of thoroughbred horses, this had to be like winning the Triple Crown--in one afternoon.

However, Klein was more understated than I expected. He did not seem inclined to gloat at his long-time adversaries’ misfortune.

I was to learn much later that he and his wife Joyce had been unofficially informed that they had won the Eclipse award as the thoroughbred owners of the year. What’s more, Klein’s horse Family Style was voted best 2-year-old filly and Life’s Magic was picked as best older filly or mare. Gene Klein could gloat regardless of what had happened to those dastardly Raiders.

At the time, though, I thought he would be inclined to extract some satisfaction from the Raiders’ unruly demise.

“The Raiders’ winning or losing is their problem,” he said. “Certainly not mine. It was entirely their piece of work. I have my own fish to fry.”

But Gene, I insisted, the Raiders got their fish fried on Sunday.

“They sure did it in a gentlemanly way,” Klein said. “That was a marvelous little gesture after the game. Take a guy who probably weighs 130 pounds and bang a helmet off his head. That’s typical, but it’s their business--not mine.”

Aha, I thought. He is warming to the task. It would not be too long before he was accusing Al Davis of paying his players bonuses for post-game altercations in the Memorial Coliseum tunnel. You know, so much for hitting a general manager with a helmet and so much for spitting in an opponent’s face.

Not this Gene Klein.

“Really,” he said, “all I want to do is tend to my farm and my horses.”

This was a mellow Gene Klein, gentleman farmer. Forget the Raiders. Klein would rather talk about horse racing.

“It’s a lot different than football,” he said. “You can do your own thing much more in racing than you can in football, and you have the ability to choose your own partners and associates. . . . “

Good, Gene, now I know you’re getting to Al Davis.

” . . . You’ve got to obey the rules in racing,” he said. “Everyone starts on the same basis. There’s no bending or breaking rules.”

I knew for sure he was closing in on the subject. Bending rules. Obeying rules. Breaking rules. This would get him back to those incorrigible Raiders.

“Another thing about racing,” he continued, “is that you’re more the master of your own destiny than in any organized sport. You can pick and choose any thoroughbred you want. You have complete and absolute control. And, once you’ve picked a horse, you don’t have to wait 28 shots to pick another one.”

Obviously, this conversation was straying far out to pasture. Maybe I should advise him that Al Davis was going to buy the Kentucky Derby and move it to Hollywood Park. Maybe that would get us back onto the straightaway.

Meanwhile . . .

“Thoroughbred racing is a wonderful sport,” Klein said, “and it’s been a wonderful sport for a long time.”

And he galloped on about how wonderful the sport has been to him. Indeed, Klein has done marvelously well in the short period of time in which he has been racing thoroughbreds.

But football . . .

“Football is wonderful,” Klein said. “It’s very enjoyable to sit by the tube and watch.”

That’s right, Gene, but wasn’t it just a little bit more enjoyable to watch You-Know-What-Guys lose with such a lack of dignity?

However, Klein was back on his horses again. He was explaining the chart on the wall, and how every horse was recorded in his computer. This most tempestuous man was regaling in pastoral splendor.

I figured there was one more opportunity. He was talking about the “100 and some” horses on his farm and the “70 to 80” horses campaigning at tracks.

Come on, Gene, tell me you have 180 horses and every one of them has an Al Davis. This has to be your moment.

Not Gentleman Gene. He never mentioned Al Davis. He hardly mentioned the Raiders. It was almost as if they no longer existed. In his world, they probably don’t. Not any more. And he likely considers his world to be much the better for it. Eugene V. Klein had won a triple crown of sorts, a Super Bowl, if you will. It was a nice day.

Too bad, Al.