Raiders Becoming the Silver and Pink

To reward themselves after a rugged weekend of football, Marcus Allen and Frank Hawkins, the Raider running backs, sometimes like to get manicures. They have their fingernails trimmed, then emery-boarded, then painted various colors.

In the old days, after football games, guys who played football for the Raiders would have had their heads manicured. They would have shaved their hair into Mohawks, or filled their mouths with gold teeth, or had themselves fitted for eye patches, or had their noses pierced.

What ever happened to the old Raiders? Who are these impostors who show up on Sunday afternoons? What ever happened to the football team that used to look tough, talk tough, act tough and smell tough?

Lyle Alzado and John Matuszak and Ben Davidson and Jack Tatum must look at these guys and weep. Kenny Stabler must look at these guys and wonder if they all go out together after a big game to celebrate with an ice-cold keg of Bartles & Jaymes.

Maybe the move down the freeway from Oakland to Los Angeles has finally taken its toll. Maybe these guys have, indeed, become the Hollywood Raiders. Maybe they shouldn’t be permitted to wear silver and black and crossbones anymore until they prove themselves worthy. Maybe they should be forced to wear silver and pink.

When was the last time these Raiders got into a really good fight? When linebacker Matt Millen gave a pop in the chops to a wimpy little New England Patriot executive who couldn’t go five rounds with Felix Unger, that’s when. The old Raiders rarely let a Sunday go by without doing their impersonation of Swiss-watch repairmen--cleaning a few clocks. The silver and black used to leave opponents black and blue. Their positions on defense were tackle, linebacker, cornerback and armed robber. Not only were their bites worse than their barks, they also could kill with their breath.

Mean. The Raiders stood for mean. They scared people. Little children ran away from them. They had horns and tails. They were the kinds of guys who would beat up motorcycle gangs. Any football opponent who tried to get to their quarterback would have to go through Hell, high water and deep you-know-what.

And today’s Raiders? They lose to the Philadelphia Eagles, which is the NFL equivalent of losing a baseball game to Charlie Brown and Lucy. On their home field, yet. When the old Raiders played the Eagles in a Super Bowl game, they mopped up Bourbon Street with them, then drank the bourbon, then ate the glass.

The Eagles sacked the Raider quarterback six times. Aaaargh. Imagine that, the Eagles overpowering the Raiders. It’s sort of like “Revenge of the Nerds.” The least the Raiders could have done is bushwhack Buddy Ryan after the game and break his glasses.

The old Raiders represented and reflected Oakland. They were tough in the daytime, tougher at night and a little bit filthy. They were so tough that their coach, John Madden, was the sort of guy who crashed through walls. Their boss, Al Davis, was the sort of guy other owners accused of causing heart attacks.

The new Raiders are beginning to resemble their new town. A little soft, a little pretty, and more smoggy than filthy. Boy, do they miss Alzado. Even Howie Long acknowledged the other day that he hasn’t been able to work up a real good wild-man act out on the field this season, now that Alzado’s not there to play Iron Sheik to Long’s Hulk Hogan.

The Raiders are (gulp) getting to be like the Lakers, a team with a reputation for being talented but not tough. Two of the running backs get manicures. Another one is a sailor who calls everybody sir. Lester Hayes did get accused of trying to poke a Denver Bronco’s eye out, but that’s the last good news we’ve heard.

Even the coach, Tom Flores, is a perfect gentleman. Sam Wyche kicks doors and slaps little radio reporters in the face. Mike Ditka yells back at hecklers. Rowdy Ruddy Ryan calls his Eagles every name in the book. Come on, Tom. Smash a clipboard. Kick a yard marker. Trip a cheerleader.

When followers of the NFL think of tough these days, they think of Green Bay’s Charles Martin treating Chicago’s Jim McMahon like a jackhammer, or Chicago’s Otis Wilson elbowing Pittsburgh’s Louis Lipps in the lips, or Refrigerator Perry picking up St. Louis’ Neil Lomax like a Burger King Whopper. The Raiders? They’ve become the Hollywood squares.

Next Monday night, the Raiders have to play in that round mound of sound, the Seattle Kingdome. Already we can hear the Raiders complaining about how they won’t be able to hear. Like last year, someone will suggest that they install heavy-woofing and loud-tweeting speakers at their practice field so they can become accustomed to playing with a lot of noise.

The old Raiders wouldn’t have been afraid of noise. They would have been inspired by noise. The first time those Kingdome komics started booing from the stands, some Raider would have turned to the fans and given them the Nelson Rockefeller salute. Then he’d have taken a live seahawk out of a cage and eaten it.

The old Raiders were wicked and nasty and creepy. Their receivers could catch passes in traffic, including the Santa Monica Freeway. These new 440-dash men who pass for receivers will drop passes if there’s a defensive back close enough to yell “Boo!”

Let’s see the old Raiders again. Let’s see the men who would have yanked Charles Martin’s towel off his belt and hanged him with it. Let’s see the guys who will take the Seattle Seahawks come Monday, pile on top of them, then stuff bamboo shoots under their fingernails. Now that’s what we call a manicure.