I attended my first league meeting not long after joining the organization on a full-time basis. This meeting was what the league refers to as a “two-per-club meeting” and as the name suggests, clubs were allowed to be represented by no more than two attendees. In most cases, the controlling owner typically represented his club and brought with him someone he designated to also represent the club.
I was told that my attendance at that meeting marked the first time a woman unrelated to ownership had ever represented a club at, or even attended, a league meeting. I don’t know if that was the case. I also don’t care. When I was told that I was the first female executive to attend a league meeting, I accepted that it was true but I gave it no thought. Al Davis asked me to attend the meeting – and to represent the Raiders – and that was what mattered to me.
We checked into the hotel the night before the meeting. Before we walked away from the hotel front desk, Al turned to me and said, “Get the chairs.”
I was not surprised or confused by this statement; I knew to expect it. I knew what he meant and I knew what I had to do. I had been told by Jeff Birren, the organization’s senior lawyer who later became its general counsel (and the person who took me on as an intern), that it was imperative that I “get the chairs,” which Jeff explained meant the precise chairs in the precise location Al expected. Getting the chairs was not just a big deal for the Raiders; it was a big deal for all clubs.
Over the years, each club had staked out for itself a certain spot in the meeting room and well before each meeting started, a representative from each club secured the chairs associated with those spots. It was as if the spots had been assigned – but they had not been, they had been claimed. Frankly, it would have been a lot easier if the chairs were assigned.
I had been told which chairs Al wanted – no, which chairs he expected. I was focused. I was not going to screw this up. I would get the right chairs, even if I had to sleep in the hallway outside the meeting room to do so.
The next morning, having secured our chairs the night before, I arrived at the meeting room before the meeting was scheduled to begin. As I walked in, I saw a large group in the back of the room, enjoying coffee and conversing, so I walked to that area and joined the group. Almost immediately, the owner of another team asked me to get him coffee.
It took a moment for his request to sink in. When it did, I looked around the room and realized that I was the only woman there who was not part of the hotel catering staff. This man must have assumed I was part of that staff. I smiled, asked him how he’d like his coffee, and got it for him. I could have refused to do so. I could have admonished him for asking the question. Instead, I quickly decided that I would have some fun at his expense. I was delighted with the prospect that when the meeting was called to order in a matter of moments, he would realize that I did not leave the room with the hotel staff but, rather, took a seat with the other club executives and owners. I thought that would be a very funny, effective way to make a point. It certainly amused me.
This owner was in his sixties or seventies, I think. He took his coffee with a bit of cream. He thanked me, but he did not tip me.
When the meeting was called to order, I followed Al to our seats. The seats I’d staked out the night before.
As we walked to our seats, the room became very quiet and I was able to hear some of the comments. Some people were using hushed tones; others were speaking conversationally.
Is she staying in the room? Looks like she’s with Al. Is she coming to the meeting? I think she’s coming to the meeting. Figures it would be Al. She’s not leaving. Who is she? Why is she here?
I was later told by quite a few people in and around the league that many people begrudged Al for bringing a woman into that room. I suspect that many of the men who resented Al for bringing a woman into that room were the same men who resented him for being the first to hire a Latino head coach and later the first African American head coach of the modern era.
As for the owner who asked me to fetch him coffee, we became good friends, and he emerged as one of my staunchest supporters. He had no issue with my gender. He was simply surprised. The rules of the game had changed during his tenure as an owner – indeed, during his lifetime. And yes, he was mortified that he had asked me to fetch him coffee. And yes, handing this in the manner I did was effective. We laughed for decades about this and I periodically asked him if he wanted coffee, just to annoy him – and I reminded him that he should have tipped me.
* * *
It wasn’t until many years after I joined the league that it began considering the issue of diversity and inclusiveness. Welcome to the party, I thought.
I remember participating on a conference call arranged for the 32 member clubs to discuss a proposed rule that would ultimately become known as the Rooney Rule. At the conclusion of the league presentation, each club representative was asked to express his (or in my case her) thoughts and ask questions. When it was my turn, I shared my thoughts on the proposed rule and then noted that Al had hired without regard to race, ethnicity, religion, or gender for decades; that neither the league office nor any other club had our decades-long record for diversity and inclusiveness; and that Al had never needed a rule to mandate doing the right thing. I understood that this would not be well received – but it was true. I also suggested that the rule really should be called the Al Davis Rule. That was snotty.
When I told Al that I had suggested the rule be named for him, he got annoyed and told me emphatically he wasn’t interested in having a rule named for him.
To be clear: of course we supported diversity and inclusiveness, and if it took a rule to get other clubs to do the right thing, so be it. I just wanted it known that we didn’t need a rule to do the right thing. Also to be clear, I don’t begrudge the fact that the rule is named after Dan Rooney, a man I respect and who encouraged me throughout my career; I simply wanted to make the point that Al had done this for decades.
In its effort to address diversity and inclusiveness, the league at some point started including a session on this topic at most league meetings. It struck me that Raiders representatives should not have to sit through these presentations, so each time one of those sessions was about to start at a meeting at which Al was present, I turned to him and asked in a loud and childish manner, “Why do we have to sit through this? Why can’t we go to the gym?” My point was, of course, that he was the last person who needed to sit through these lessons. Each time I did this, Al told me to be quiet.
Many years after the adoption of the Rooney Rule, the league announced that it would expand the rule (or enact a similar one) to encompass women. Although I was no longer in the league when this occurred, I again suggested that the rule be named the Al Davis Rule. Were Al alive, he would have again been annoyed with my suggestion and he would have again told me emphatically that he didn’t want a rule named after him.
* * *
As I reflect on moments in which I was childish, I realize how tolerant Al was of this occasional behavior. It amused him at times, it annoyed him at times, but he allowed me to be me. He was more tolerant than anyone would have imagined he would be. He was more tolerant than I would, or should, have expected him to be. I learned a lot about life from Al. He taught me many things, some of with which I agreed with, some of with which I did not. Just as Al was always himself, he permitted me to be myself – for good and for bad. He allowed me to grow up on the job. He allowed me to grow up while a Raider.
* * *
When I joined the organization and subsequently began attending league meetings, the Raiders and the NFL were engaged in a longstanding dispute. The issue underlying the dispute, which began while I was still in college, was franchise relocation. In essence, Al wanted to move his team, the league tried to prohibit him from so doing, he did so anyway, and litigation ensued. That litigation lasted years and created tremendous enmity between Al and the league office, and between Al and almost all other club owners.
The vast majority of owners were livid with Al about the dispute, the resultant litigation and Al’s ardent refusal to engage in what they referred to as a “league first” approach. I recall listening to many owners admonish Al for his actions and for thinking only of his organization and not of the league as a whole. Of course, I thought when hearing this, it was easier to think of the league first and the league as a whole when one was treated well by the league office. We were not always treated well by the league office. Were we not treated well by the league office because Al was combative? Or was Al combative because we were not treated well? I don’t know the answer, as both the league’s disparate treatment of the Raiders and Al’s combative posture with the league predated me. My impression, though, was that it was a bit of both. In scientific terms, it was a feedback loop.
* * *
Some of the owners who were the angriest with Al were among the longest-tenured and respected owners. Yet, notwithstanding that these men had deep philosophical and business differences with Al, they were remarkably welcoming to me.
Lamar Hunt of the Kansas City Chiefs was the owner who offered me the greatest encouragement when I joined the league and for decades thereafter. Lamar vehemently disagreed with Al’s position on relocation as well as with Al’s method of doing business. Lamar certainly had no reason to extend himself or to go to the lengths he did to make me feel welcome in the league, but from the first time we met until the last time we interacted, he encouraged me. I will always have a deep and heartfelt appreciation for the support he offered me at a time he had every reason not to. Lamar’s wife, Norma, and his sons, Clark and Daniel, were equally gracious. No matter the intensity of the conflict between the Raiders and the league, they were kind and encouraging. The Hunt family represents the very best of the league.
Whenever I share my thoughts about the Hunts, people remark that it’s odd that a Raider speaks so glowingly of a Chief – or in this case Chiefs, plural. No, it’s not odd. While clubs want nothing more than to beat one another on game day, they work with one another on many other days, and in many ways. On game days, I visited with the owner and employees of the club we were to play. Prior to kickoff, we exchanged warm greetings, talked about league matters and then, laughingly, wished one another a miserable game. We wished one another the worst in terms of the outcome, but we expressed hope for an injury-free game. I wanted to win each game more than I wanted anything, but I never wanted an athlete on either team to suffer an injury.
Ralph Wilson of the Buffalo Bills was another league stalwart who welcomed me. Like Lamar, Ralph had a relationship with Al that dated back to their years in the American Football League. The AFL was a direct competitor of the NFL until the two leagues merged in 1970. Some of the owners who ran that league, like Al, Lamar, and Ralph, together battled the NFL until the merger. These three great owners were unified as AFL owners but years later, in the NFL, Lamar and Ralph opposed Al on many league matters and he opposed them. Like Lamar, Ralph nevertheless encouraged me throughout my career.
Many years into my career, during a contentious negotiation with the players, Ralph was at odds with the league and the majority of the clubs. He was forthright and firm when articulating his disagreement on the floor of the league meetings and he took tremendous heat for that. At one point, as he sat down after speaking, I whispered to him that I admired how he stood strong in the pocket in the face of tremendous pressure, and in response he asked if I would block for him. I told him that it would be my honor to do so. From that day forward – until the last time I saw him – Ralph always said to me, “I’m still standing in the pocket, are you still blocking for me?” I assured him that I was and that I always would.
The Steelers’ Dan Rooney and the Giants’ Wellington Mara, two other legendary owners who were diametrically opposed to Al’s business practices and legal positions, were also welcoming and encouraging.
Lamar was inducted into three Halls of Fame including the NFL’s. Ralph was the third-longest-tenured owner in NFL history and is also in the Hall of Fame. Dan was inducted into the Hall of Fame in 2000. Wellington is in the Hall of Fame after winning two Super Bowls.
I found it interesting four owners who were among the longest-tenured were the first to welcome me. These men provided encouragement throughout my time in the league.
We didn’t make it easy for these men to welcome or to encourage me, but they did.
Tom Benson of the New Orleans Saints, a very influential owner who for many years served as the chairman of the league’s powerful finance committee, also welcomed and encouraged me. There wasn’t a meeting I attended for over a decade in which he didn’t vehemently express his anger at Al, more so than did any other owner. And yet, at one point during a break in one of those meetings, Tom pulled me aside and shared with me a very meaningful comment: he told me that he thought it tremendously beneficial for the Raiders and thus the league as a whole that Al added me to the organization.
Pat Bowlen of the Denver Broncos was also outspoken about his disdain for Al’s business positions and practices, yet when he realized that I wished to resolve the lawsuits between the league and the Raiders, he was the first to offer me assistance.
Mike Brown of the Cincinnati Bengals is another owner who helped me. Like Al, Mike maintained and articulated positions adverse to the league and he thus understood the difficulty of so doing. When I did so on behalf of the Raiders, Mike always made a point of letting me know that he understood how difficult it was to do so and I appreciated that he did.
I share all this because I know that when I first walked into that league owners’ sanctuary, these men were surprised. After all, this was new – a woman unrelated to ownership was now behind those closed meeting room doors and representing a club.
* * *
Throughout the era in which those disputes roared, we took positions and made statements at league meetings with which I strongly disagreed. While I shared my disagreement with Al in the privacy of our offices, once at the meetings we presented our positions as those of the organization, as a united front. During this period, we also abstained when matters were voted upon by club owners. The practice of abstaining also predated my time with the organization. Initially, the organization abstained for legal reasons. Thereafter, the organization also abstained at times because Al believed the matter proposed was, to use the word he did, ludicrous. Al liked that word and he used it often, in a variety of contexts.
I joked for years that were we (Raiders employees) to play word bingo with Al’s favorite expressions, the person with “aw fuck” and “ludicrous” would be Al Bingo champion.
When I began attending meetings with Al, he abstained on the club’s behalf when matters were put to a vote. Later, I did so on behalf of the organization. This certainly didn’t endear me to anyone in the room. That our abstentions were a source of consternation was made clear to me. Every time we headed to a break after a vote from which I had abstained, at least one president or chief executive representing another team would criticize or mock me about our abstention.
Ultimately, I ended the tradition of abstaining and voted yes or no on all matters put to a vote. League officials and club owners were then annoyed in instances I voted no, as they always wanted unanimous affirmation of proposals. I would ask – in an ever-so-sweet, teasing tone of voice – whether they missed the day and age in which the Raiders would abstain and whether they would prefer that we would revert to that, rather than voting no. I stopped the practice of abstaining many years before I resigned, but our reputation for abstaining stayed with us.
* * *
Even while in the midst of the disagreements and hostilities, the Raiders and the league cooperated on a wide variety of business matters. League office employees contacted me on a regular basis and we worked on all sorts of things. On those occasions on which they asked me to do something that would benefit the league as a whole, but which was to the detriment of the Raiders, they acknowledged that they understood how difficult this would be. In one instance, league officials contacted me and requested that we drop a claim in a pending player grievance. The problem, they explained, was that the position we had advanced in our defense could result in a decision that might be harmful to all clubs. The league executives who contacted me acknowledged that they understood that I did not work on player contracts or grievances, but explained that they needed my help. They went on to explain that they understood that Al would have to agree to any change in our position and that they believed that I was the only one they could turn to who would try to, and perhaps could, convince him to do so. So, while it appeared to the public that the league and the Raiders were at odds, we found ways to work together on many league matters.
A sensational league executive with whom I worked on a regular basis once told me that he appreciated that we were able to “disagree without being disagreeable.” I thought that was a terrific manner in which to articulate a terrific goal. Reasonable minds can differ and I tried, when disagreeing, to do so agreeably. For the most part I succeeded, but not always. I improved as I matured.
I often analogized working closely with league officials on some matters, while we were battling on others, to the working relationship between two cartoon characters: Ralph E. Wolf and Sam Sheepdog. While Ralph and Sam battled fiercely over matters about which they disagreed (to wit: the sheep), they were friendly and collegial when not involved in a heated dispute (over the sheep). I shared this analogy with some league executives and after a bit of thought, they concurred. Whenever a particular league executive contacted me about league business, he asked, “Am I Ralph or Sam this time?”
Of course, not all interactions with club owners were as pleasant or invigorating as the ones previously mentioned. There was the instance at a league meeting in which a club owner stood up to respond to something I said and began his remarks with “Listen, girlie.” He actually said, “Listen, girlie.” The only other time I had heard someone use the word “girlie” was when I was a preteen and my grandma shouted, “Hey girlie!” from the car to a teenager on the street to get her attention. I was so mortified that I slid down to the floor of the car to hide.
Al wasn’t at this meeting but I believe that had he been, he would have had a terrific response. I don’t know, though, whether this owner would have called me girlie had Al been in attendance.
When this owner called me girlie, most everyone in the room looked at me to see how I would respond, while some averted their eyes. My immediate and natural reaction was to laugh loudly. A grown man, in a business meeting, in the then-20th century, referred to a female executive as girlie. And so I laughed, loudly.
A number of people I respect have suggested that I should have denounced him for his absurd comment. I think erupting in loud, spontaneous laughter and treating him dismissively in front of league officials and other club owners was an effective response. I know that I much prefer being yelled at to being dismissed or ignored.
* * *
At one two-per-club league meeting, two club executives – Steve Gutman of the New York Jets and Carmen Policy of the San Francisco 49ers – engaged in what became a heated argument on the floor of the meeting room. They were standing fairly close to and were shouting at one another. During the argument one man pointed at the other and said, “You, sir, are alarmingly disingenuous.”
Jack Donlan, the executive representing the Tampa Bay Buccaneers at the meeting, was seated immediately beside me. Upon hearing that remark, he swiveled in his chair to face me and said, “I hear you’re supposed to be pretty smart, so tell me, is calling someone alarmingly disingenuous the same thing as calling him a fucking liar?” Only, he had a thick Boston accent, so “fucking liar” sounded like “fuckin’ lyah.”
Well, I began explaining – quite precisely – that yes, calling someone alarmingly disingenuous is the same thing as calling someone a fucking liar, because if one wanted to simply call someone a liar – not a fucking liar – one would say he was being disingenuous, not alarmingly disingenuous.
At that point, Al – who was seated behind me as we faced the front of the room – poked me in the back and said, “He didn’t ask for a fuckin’ grammar lesson.” Oh.
* * *
At another two-per-club meeting I attended without Al, a club representative made an assertion – a representation – about the Raiders that was patently untrue.
As he was speaking, I did what attendees did when they wished to be heard and walked to the standing microphone nearest me, to wait my turn to speak. After this representative concluded his remarks, I began speaking. Just as I started to speak, then-commissioner Paul Tagliabue interrupted me and stated bluntly and dismissively, and in a manner suggesting that it was not open for dispute, that we needed to move on. He expected me to sit down, as did everyone else in the room. It never occurred to me to sit down, so I didn’t move. I stayed at the microphone and said, “No, I have something to say.” The room was silent. I remained standing where I was for what seemed like many moments as the silence continued. Finally, after a long pause, the commissioner said curtly, “Make it quick.”
It didn’t strike me at the time that I had done anything odd or out of the ordinary. My refusal to acquiesce to the commissioner’s direction and to sit down was not a political statement, it was not a form of protest. I had something to say and although I was told that I should sit down, I wanted to say it. I considered it my responsibility to represent the organization and I intended to do that to the best of my ability. I believed that to do so, I had to respond to the misrepresentations that were made. So, no, it didn’t strike me as odd – it struck me as appropriate. Apparently, it struck everyone else in the room as inappropriate and it struck many as offensive.
As we went to a break a bit later, one club owner walked by me as he was exiting the room, and without slowing his pace, he leaned in, ever so slightly, and whispered: “You popped my buttons.” He subsequently called Al and told him the same thing. I’d never before heard that expression and I didn’t know whether he intended it as a compliment or an insult.
It didn’t occur to me when the commissioner interrupted and tried to silence me that he did so because I was a woman. I am confident that he would have acted in precisely the same manner had I been male. It also didn’t occur to me that those who were offended by my refusal to yield to the commissioner were offended because I was a woman. They were offended because I didn’t defer to the authority of the commissioner, as others did. I believe that they would also have been offended by my action had I been a man.
Many people I respect have criticized me for not thinking the commissioner’s effort to silence me was gender based and for not responding accordingly. Well, I didn’t believe it was gender based, but let’s say for a moment that it was, and he acted as he did because I was a woman. Then wasn’t my reaction – refusing to follow his directive or to yield to pressure – the most effective response? What would have been better? If I made a speech? I was told to sit down; I refused to do so. I wanted to speak; I spoke. I believe that I did the best thing I could: I did my job.
* * *
But back to the time I was first instructed to “get the seats.”
The seating arrangements, the lengths to which people go to secure seats for their respective clubs, and the methods they employ in so doing could serve as a study in organizational and social behavior. Really, it always reminded me, from the first meeting I attended until the last, of junior high school.
Throughout my career, meeting rooms were set up with three very long tables running from and perpendicular to one long head table. Seated at the head table are the commissioner; senior league executives; and, when circumstances warrant, committee members and other speakers.
Clubs sit on both sides of the long tables, which, as noted, run perpendicular to the head table. At each and every meeting I attended for roughly a quarter of a century, the Raiders sat in the same seats at the same table, as did most every single other club. It was a stressful scramble to make sure one got the seats. Really, I found getting the seats to be more stressful than making substantive presentations or engaging in a debate on the floor of the meeting. As stressful as it was, it taught me a skill. Whenever I enter a crowded coffee place or other location, I am well equipped to “get the seats.” Friends and family marvel at what they consider my good fortune. It’s not good fortune or luck; I am an experienced seat-getter.
I was not the only club executive who rushed to get into the room the night before each meeting in order to claim desired seats. We all did this. We found a way into the meeting room and scribbled our club names down on the pads of paper set out at each place. We begged security to let us in, we found back doors when security would not let us in the front doors, we did anything we could to get the seats. We helped one another, too. There were groups who worked in concert – we had seat-getting collectives. We shared travel plans with one another to determine who among us would be the first to arrive and we updated one another about travel delays. The first to arrive would scribble not only his or her team name on the pads, but those of the other teams in our little collective.
One time, the operating head of another club that was not yet a part of our collective actually circulated to our group an email with a PDF of his artistic rendering of the tables (with club names noted at our respective seats) attached, and a request that the first of us to arrive secure seats for his club, as he and the owner of the team for which he worked would be arriving at the last minute. Think about that: a very senior executive, the operating head of a club, took the time to make and circulate a PDF with an illustration of the table, with club names noted.
We took this seriously.
On one occasion when I went to get the seats the night before a meeting, I couldn’t find a way to access the room from the lobby or any other public area, so I poked around and found a back entrance into a kitchen, which adjoined the meeting room. I then crept through the dark passages in the kitchen to gain access to the room.
The kitchen was dark and creepy. I recall thinking as I crept around that it was like something from a Nancy Drew novel. Once I made it into the meeting room, I scrawled the team names on the pads in front of the seats, and began retracing my steps as quickly as I could, through that dark, quiet, scary, creepy kitchen. I heard noises and I started moving even faster. Now it struck me as something out of a bad horror movie, not simply a Nancy Drew novel. It turned out it was an executive from another club who was doing the same thing. We scared the crap out of each other and laughed at the lengths we went to save seats.
Why have I gone to such lengths to describe the get-the-seat process? Because these are roughly billion-dollar businesses – owned by people worth a lot of money – and their most senior employees (presidents, chief executives, and general managers) expend crazy amounts of time and effort just to get the seats. Each time I did so throughout my career, I thought that fans would find this get-the-seats routine amazing, ridiculous, and perplexing. I sure did. Whenever I describe the efforts that clubs go to just to save seats, people think it’s nuts. They’re right.
And really, if we all wanted to sit in the same seats for every meeting, why was there a race to get the seats? Why didn’t we all just take those same seats for each meeting, without having to stake a claim by writing our club names on the little pads of paper? Because in some instances – particularly meetings in which three people were allowed – some clubs encroached, taking a seat from another club’s preferred position. And, when a club changed ownership, sometimes new owners or new club representatives took the “wrong” seats.
Getting the seats wasn’t about power or supremacy among clubs, it was about preference and habit and routine. I thought it more silly than anything.
I actually thought that it would be a good idea for owners and executives to sit in a new, rotating location for each meeting to facilitate or compel interaction and dialogue between and among clubs that might otherwise not occur. I thought it could lead to greater understandings and relationships. Al wouldn’t have wanted that. He liked our seats.
I suggested on a few occasions that we pass a resolution adopting a seating chart in order to save everyone from having to get into that room late at night, wake up hours early, beg and plead with security, or sneak in through scary kitchens, all in an effort to save our seats. No such resolution ever passed, so I continued to get the seats at meetings.
I wasn’t asked to get the seats because of my gender. I would have had to do that no matter my gender. In fact, before I started attending league meetings, other club executives who attended with Al – all men – got the seats. As noted, it was one of those men, Jeff, who explained to me which of the seats were ours, and the importance of securing them for the meeting. Jeff didn’t have to do this; he did so because he wanted me to succeed, he wanted me to be my best, and throughout my career he consistently and generously extended himself to help me and many others do so. That’s what good teammates do – they help their teammates be the best they can be. I had teammates who helped me be better than I otherwise would have been, and I hope that I helped my teammates be better than they otherwise would have been.
* * *
From the first league meeting I attended until the last, I noticed that most owners behaved in a deferential manner, acceding to the commissioner and the league office in almost every way. That struck me as odd. I always wondered why such wealthy, powerful men – men who were titans of business, men who were worth vast sums of money – would be so acquiescent. I don’t use the words deferential or acquiescent in a pejorative sense; perhaps cooperative is a better word. But no matter the word, the extent of the deference shown the commissioner and the league office surprised me, even once I understood the reasons for that deference.
There was only one occasion during all of my years in the league on which an owner confronted the commissioner. This owner stood up in a two-per-club meeting, loomed over and pointed at then-commissioner Tagliabue and in a loud, authoritative voice said, “Hey pal, you work for me.” As I sat next to Al in our seats all the way on the other side of the room, I started squirming, trying not to jump from my chair and throw my arms overhead in a victory sign, and I was practically cheering. “Calm down,” Al said.
This occasion aside, owners were consistently deferential and acquiescent. I eventually concluded that this is because clubs understand the power of the league office. The league office controls scheduling. The league office can and does direct enormous amounts of money (via sponsors, advertisers, or otherwise) to clubs it selects or to effectuate business ends it desires, or both. The league office highlights and promotes preferred clubs in programming and advertising campaigns. The league office can and does dispense or withhold a myriad of favors.
After Hurricane Katrina, when there were rumblings that the Saints were considering moving to San Antonio, the league directed substantial amounts of sponsorship money and advertising resources to the Saints to make it financially palatable for them to remain in New Orleans. Was this wrong? No. I thought it was the right thing to do for many reasons. My point is that the league is able to direct substantial revenues to clubs of its choosing, for any number of reasons, commendable or otherwise.
There was one owner who was never deferential. It was Al.
* * *
A senior league executive once recounted this story to me: one spring, when the schedule for the upcoming season had been all but finalized and was presented to the commissioner for his ultimate approval, the commissioner was informed the schedule was fair with one exception. The Raiders’ schedule, this executive explained to the commissioner, included a disproportionate number of rough patches (back-to-back long-distance road trips and long-distance road trips on short weeks, among other things), considerably more than that of any other team. The commissioner’s response: “This schedule is fine, release it.”
The commissioner’s proclamation may not have signaled that he wanted the Raiders to have – or didn’t care if the Raiders had – the worst schedule. The commissioner’s decision may have simply reflected his view that the proposed schedule was the best for the league as a whole, that all teams cannot be made happy, or that no team will ever be entirely happy with its schedule. Did it bother him or did he affirmatively like that the team that had the disproportionate amount of rough patches in its schedule was the Raiders? I don’t know. I know only that this was called to the commissioner’s attention and that he approved the schedule. I wondered if he would have done so had the team with that schedule been owned by one of the more agreeable, deferential owners. I don’t know the answer to that, either. I don’t, however, believe that he would have approved that schedule if it had been for a team owned by one of the powerful owners.
So Al wasn’t deferential, acquiescent, or particularly cooperative. That schedule was approved. Conclude what you’d like.
* * *
On many occasions, Al cautioned me about what he believed to be the tremendous power of the league office. A few times, when we were poised to take a position adverse to the league, when we were in the midst of our disputes with the league, when we defied the league, Al warned me: “The league is powerful, baby, it’s powerful. It’s the most powerful organization in the world.” I recall him musing that he could not think of anyone with more power than the commissioner. “Not anyone?” I asked sarcastically. He gave my question serious and considerable thought, and offered his view that maybe the president of the United States or the pope were as powerful. No, not the pope, he decided, maybe though, the president. Only on rare occasions did Al acknowledge that we needed to expect that such power would be wielded to our detriment.
I know that other club owners were wary of the power of the league office. Over the years I asked a number of them why they voted in favor of a proposed matter when they had shared with me that they were staunchly opposed to it. In response to my question, they referenced that power.
Of course, there are many reasons that owners may defer to the league office. Certainly, owners are fully capable of taking charge and have every right to change league management and policy if and as they wish. After all, and as that one owner noted, the commissioner works (and in fact, all league employees work) for the owners. That they have not done so suggests that they – or at least the owners who are powerful or influential and thus able to effectuate change – are pleased, or at least content, with the status quo.
From the time I started attending league meetings, I observed that there were owners who appeared to hold and to exert more influence than other owners. These owners are appointed to more committees than are less powerful owners and they are appointed to the most significant committees. Thus, it may be that what appears to be deference to the league office by all owners is in fact be deference only by those owners with less power than others. The more powerful owners direct league policy; the less powerful owners acquiesce to it. It was my observation that these owners with less power and influence feared trying to effectuate change, as a failed attempt to do so may have resulted in retaliatory action or unfavorable treatment. Of course, none of this is atypical of many businesses and organizations.
Al was not a powerful owner, but that didn’t bother him. He didn’t care about fitting in; he wasn’t interested in being one of the boys or being part of any sort of inner circle. He wasn’t interested in being on league committees and agreed to serve on only one that I can recall, and he did that only for a discrete period of time. Interestingly, Al wasn’t bothered that the commissioner appointed me to several committees – it just wasn’t something he wished to do.
Al was an iconoclast – not in every way, but in most ways. In other ways, he was quite traditional. Al cannot be easily or breezily described.
* * *
A discussion of power reminds me of one of my favorite photographs of Al. It shows him on the sideline before a game shaking hands with Darth Vader.
For this particular game, we had arranged a sponsorship that included as one of its elements Darth’s attendance at a game.
I approached Al on the sideline during warmups and asked him to greet Darth.
“Who the fuck is Darth Vader?” Al responded, annoyed that I was asking him to interact with someone pregame.
Al never wished to interact with sponsors, whether on game day or otherwise, and he almost always refused. In this instance, he agreed to walk a few steps and greet Darth, noting in an annoyed tone that he was doing so for me. Okay, I thought, this sponsorship is for the benefit of the organization, but you’re greeting Darth Vader for me.
Al politely extended his hand. The expression on his face was magnificent, as was the gracious greeting he extended to Darth.
Al and Darth Vader – perfect. If ever there was a meeting that was meant to be, that was it, I thought.
Also at this game and on the sideline as part of this sponsorship were the Storm Troopers. I was utterly delighted, as were others to whom I eagerly pointed this out, that as the game neared a very exciting end and our fans were cheering us on, the Storm Troopers standing on the sideline were cheering too, arms in the air, waving towels.
I remember thinking, Even the Storm Troopers are happy.
* * *
Al had a lot of “fuck you” in him. He didn’t back down when he believed he was right or when he was pursuing something he wanted. There were instances in which that led to bad business decisions and bad results. Even when we warned Al that certain actions or inactions would lead to bad results, he was unmovable and unmoved. There were times when that infuriated me, frustrated me, and drove me absolutely crazy.
But that same “fuck you” in Al was part of what made him such a tremendous man. Al had the courage of his convictions. There were circumstances in which sticking to his convictions was the right thing to do – not the easy thing to do, not the popular thing to do – but the right thing to do, and Al had the courage to do it. The “fuck you” in Al made him the man he was.
I have some “fuck you” in me too. I had that “fuck you” in me before I joined the Raiders. It may have been honed while I was with the organization – certainly, the environment wasn’t such that I needed to squelch it.
Sometimes, having a bit of “fuck you” in you can be a good thing. I’d rather have it than not.
One might think that because I have some “fuck you” in me, Al would not have tolerated me or that we would not have been able to coexist, let alone work together. I actually think that Al liked that I had some “fuck you” in me and I believe that is why, although we often wanted to strangle one another, he trusted me.
I cared deeply for Al and I know that he cared for me. Our relationship worked.