They're Loved, Baggo and Baggage

By Mike Downey

Aug. 27, 1989 12 AM PT

OAKLAND —

Out of the night, when the moonlight is bright, comes the sportsman known as El Baggo.

That’s what the Oakland Raiders used to call Al Davis, Ben Davidson remembered. Right to his face, they called him that, because his clothes were so loose-fitting. Davis didn’t object a bit, Davidson said. He and the other players could call the boss anything at all, provided they won the football games.

And oh, there were some long, long airplane rides on those rare occasions when the Oakland Raiders lost the football games, Tom Keating remembered. Oh, how El Baggo hated to lose. He and the other players knew that Al Davis was one intense individual, Keating said. Still is, baby, still is.

And oh, that Al Davis was one bad guy, Gladys Valley remembered. Her late husband Wayne used to own the Oakland Raiders, even brought Davis to town to be in business together. “We sold the team because he was too disgusting to work with,” the widow said. “To us, football was a sport. To him, it was just power.”

El Baggo took over the team. Then he took away the team.

Took the Raiders out of Oakland. Took the Oakland out of the Raiders.

Never to return?

Never say never.

Parking lot, Oakland Coliseum, hours before Saturday night’s exhibition football game between the . . . uh, “host” Houston Oilers and the, uh, Los Ange. . . uh, the Oakl. . . well, the, uh, Sacram. . . no, the, uh . . . visitors.

A lot of people in the lot. Tail-gaters. Raider-waiters. Los Angeles-baiters. Vehicles spaced across every available space. Cars and trucks and RVs that began lining up at midnight, nine hours before the gates came open, 19 hours before the game kicked off.

A Winnebago:

On the roof, a life-sized John Madden, a cardboard cut-out. On the bumper, a sticker: “Bring Back the Silver and Black.” In the window, a sign: “The Only Sign of Life in Los Angeles.” The sign in question is an Interstate 5 billboard, bearing the message: Oakland 376 Miles.

A silver, ’63 Dodge Dart convertible:

Circling the lot, festooned with Raider decals, stuffed with as many as 23 people, riding in the seats and on the hood and on the trunk. Some of them wear T-shirts with John Matuszak’s picture and the words: “Remember the Tooz.” One shouts out: “Come back, Al! All is forgiven!”

And then, all of a sudden, a black stretch limo with a Raider insignia taped to its side:

Could this be him?

“Al!”

He must be inside.

“Al! It’s Al! Hey, Al!”

Is it?

It’s Al, all right.

“Yo, Al!”

Oaklanders come running now. Al Davis strides toward the pass gate. He is hailed. He is well met. He is cheered. It is the triumphant return of El Baggo.

“Al! Bring our team back, Al!”

Davis thrusts up a fist, gives ‘em what they want, tells ‘em what they want to hear.

“I hope so!” he yells.

Then enters the arena.

Uh.

Make that re-enters the arena.

What a weekend it has been for the Oakl. . . uh, you know, the Raiders. The welcome mat is out. The red carpet is out.

The chairman of the Oakland Coliseum commission, George Vukasin, is happy to have the team back in town, even throws a formal dinner attended by practically everyone but Al Davis, who begs off, Vukasin says, to spare himself “the emotion of the occasion.”

Meanwhile, back at that other Coliseum, the welcome mat is all but withdrawn. The president of the Los Angeles Coliseum commission, Richard Riordan, is quoted to the effect that if Oakland (gulp) or Sacramento (double gulp) can deliver on the $30 million to $50 million they reportedly are dangling, well then, “I think they have the Raiders.”

He thinks they have the Raiders.

Not for a night.

Forever.

Or whatever.

Never say forever.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer announces, “welcome to tonight’s game between the Houston Oilers and the Raiders.”

The (this space for rent) Raiders.

A banner reads: “There’s No Place Like Home, Al.”

Another banner reads: “Look, Al, No Empty Seats!”

The crowd cheers the Raiders, jeers the Oilers.

And the Raiders score first.

And the scoreboard reads: