He Wants the Defense to Have It His Way

Nolan Harrison personifies the hunger of the Raiders. He is a huge man with a stovepipe neck who occupies the right tackle position, sandwiched in between the brawny likes of Greg Townsend and Howie Long on the defensive line, where together at today’s AFC playoff game they will go stomping and clomping toward Buffalo’s quarterbacks and halfbacks the way dinosaurs once went after dinner.

One recent morning, when the stomach of the 6-foot-5, 285-pound Harrison began rumbling before the rest of him did, he was preparing to devour a number of those slapped-together breakfast creations they sell at a popular quick-fix restaurant better known for its burgers, when on impulse he volunteered: “I can eat 10 of these.”

“Can not,” Raider defensive end Anthony Smith said.

“Can, too,” Harrison insisted.

So, the bet was on. Before witnesses, Harrison would wolf down 10 of these thick and chewy patties. Smith and others would observe. It was reminiscent of the scene from that chain-gang movie where Paul Newman proposed that he could swallow 50 hard-boiled eggs inside of an hour. Newman’s character won the wager, though not before his belly swelled like the membrane on a bongo.

Harrison dug in. One breakfast patty. Two patties. Three patties. Patty cake, patty cake, Raiders’ man. Digging into the paper sack, Smith handed over one after another, then watched with amazement and amusement. Chomp, chomp, gone. Chomp, chomp, gone. Harrison was putting those patties away like a porpoise at Sea World being rewarded with tiny treats, barely coming up for air. The man had a hollow gut.

He was too busy chewing, meanwhile, to keep count. In his gluttony, what Harrison never realized was that the naughty Smith had actually ordered more than 10 of the breakfast delights. He kept force-feeding Harrison even after his teammate had won the bet. Eleven patties. Twelve patties. Harrison washed them down, wiped his mouth and said please, sir, may I have another? He became the Oliver Twist of Burger King. And happily, biting his lip to keep from laughing, Smith obliged his friend, until finally there was nothing remaining of 14 or 15 snacks but an empty sack.

“I won,” Harrison said.

If only the Buffalo Bills would go down as easily. To say that Harrison and his companions are win-starved would be inane but accurate, particularly since Nolan played his college football at Indiana and therefore has never known the satisfaction of vying for a championship. This appointment of his today, coming as it does 10 days before his 25th birthday, is of considerable importance to Harrison, despite the age difference between him and the senior NFL citizens who line up by his side.

Harrison has become one of the most vocal spokesmen of the Raiders, perhaps their most voluble player. His corner locker in the clubhouse, first one by the door, draws crowds the way Bob Golic’s once did. It is Harrison who hectored not only opponents but his own team’s fans, openly disparaging them for failing to turn out in greater numbers. At one point he all but wailed: “We’re such a good team--where the hell is everybody?”

He was as ecstatic as anyone last Sunday when the joint was jumping.

“Now that’s what I call ‘fans!’ ” Nolan said afterward. “Those people didn’t have to be asked to make noise. They came to make noise. They did their part and, hey, we did our part.”

Such a shame that there will be no more home games this season for the Raiders, just when their own arena had become as much a factor as Denver’s snowball-throwers or Houston’s house of pain or Cleveland’s rabid dog pound. After experiencing the Coliseum last week, one newspaper columnist from Harrison’s hometown of Chicago wrote that it made that dog pound look like a petting zoo. Small wonder there was such a big grin creasing Harrison’s face.

He was a suburban kid, actually, whose high school was archrival to that of one of America’s less witty newspaper columnists. (Ahem.) Harrison’s school, Homewood-Flossmoor, has always been known for its outstanding academics as well as athletics, and much of its student body hails from families that could fairly be labeled upper-middle class. Suffice to say, no student from H-F has to endure graffiti-marred hallways or radiator steam heat.

So versatile was Harrison when he enrolled there that not only did his exceptional upper-body strength serve him as a two-way lineman and championship wrestler, but his legs earned him a letter in track and field--not in the shotput or discus but in the 400-meter run. He took pride in his naturally achieved strength and took umbrage at the publicity given steroid-developed monsters.

Harrison does have a temper. Away from the game he can be clever and charming, but beware of those moments when he is not. He uprooted an automated teller machine from a bank once, in anger. Harrison got so hot at work one afternoon, he hurled an opponent’s helmet a good 20 yards. And when an acquaintance chanced to encounter Harrison at a recent New Year’s Eve party, he couldn’t help but notice that before the night was over, Nolan had gotten himself into another nasty quarrel.

Yet you can’t expect the Raiders to employ librarians. Harrison has entrenched himself in defensive coach Ray Hamilton’s front four because of his ferocity and fire. Although he has never been confused with, say, Bruce Smith of the Bills, and during the last two weeks against Denver made fewer tackles than usual, Harrison has excelled this season at rushing the passer. He hopes to size up Jim Kelly today like an hors d’oeuvre.

“This is a game where we’ve got to give everything we have,” Harrison said. “We don’t have our home field. We don’t have our home fans. We don’t have our home sunshine. If our defense doesn’t put pressure on Jim Kelly, we could be in for a long day. If our defense puts pressure on Jim Kelly the way we’re capable of putting pressure on Jim Kelly, then he could be in for a long day.”

Additional pressure is Harrison’s today because the junior partner of his front four, Chester McGlockton, has a broken leg and comparatively inexperienced Willie Broughton will occupy the left defensive tackle hole in his stead. So overanxious was Broughton when pressed into service last weekend that afterward he admitted to nearly having hyperventilated. But Harrison has faith in his linemate and says, “Don’t worry about Willie, because he’s going to do fine.”

There will be 11 men lined up across from them today, 11 blue-plate specials. Anthony Smith munched on small “Buffalo” chicken wings after a Raider practice the other day, merely to whet his appetite for things to come. And back in the suburbs of Chicago, where guys with guts have been known to boast that they could eat any number of brownie-sized White Castle hamburgers in a single setting, Harrison, too, learned how to fuel himself for a big game.

“Half the battle is how much you want it,” he says.

And the other half?

“Finishing it.”