I’ve been asked many times to name my favorite player. I have never done so, I will not do so, and even if I were to do so, my favorite player is someone I don’t think anyone would know.
Very early in my career the then-most senior person in our player personnel department rushed into my office. He was quite flustered. He shoved a player contract towards me and pointed to a portion of it. “I need you to supersede this,” he said.
Player contracts are collectively bargained and mostly standardized. I didn’t work on player contracts and the man standing before me waving the contract knew that. “Supersede what?” I asked.
Again, he thrust the contract towards me. “We need to supersede this,” he said, “we need a supersede clause.”
“We need to supersede what?” I again asked.
“We need to supersede all of this,” he responded, shaking the page at me and pointing to a number of paragraphs.
He explained a bit more, so thinking that I understood what he wanted, I drafted an addendum, superseding the entirety of what I believed he wished me to supersede. I had myself a little supersede party.
Late that night – just before midnight – my home phone rang. It was Al. I believe that was the first time he ever called me at home. It know it was the first time he ever called me at midnight.
“Amy, this is Al Davis,” he began, as if I weren’t able to recognize his voice. He went on to ask why “the fuck” I had converted a standard player contract into a guaranteed, no-cut, no-trade contract.
We had brought the player in question in to fill an open spot at the bottom of the roster. As is said in football, he was “just a guy.” After we worked him out, we signed him to a contract. I turned that contract into a guaranteed, no-cut, no-trade contract. Oops.
I replied that I understood both the mistake that I made and the magnitude of it. Al was not impressed – in fact, he wasn’t interested. I did not explain why I did what I did and I did not belabor our discussion with an explanation of the questions I had asked when I was instructed to draft the supersede provision earlier that day. I asked Al what, if anything, I could do to fix my mistake. I was terrified that the answer would be “nothing.”
But there was a solution. The employee who had asked me to draft the supersede provision and who told Al of my error had reached the player at his hotel and requested that he rip up that contract and sign a new one. The player was flying out early the next morning, but agreed to come to our offices at 5:00 am to sign a new contract.
I got to the office at 4:00 am to await him. I almost went at midnight to just sit there and wait.
This player – this honorable, ethical, wonderful man – may well have saved my job and I may well have gone on to have the career I did because he bailed me out. To others he may have been “just a guy.” Well, to me, he wasn’t just a guy. He was then, he still is, and he shall always be to me in my personal hall of fame. He’s my favorite player. I thanked him profusely. I think I hugged him – it certainly would have been in character for me to do so.
That was my first late-night call with Al. Looking back on it years later, I could not – and I still cannot – believe that he when he spoke to me, he was as controlled and patient as he was. Perhaps this interaction suggested to Al that I would not recoil when he very directly pointed out mistakes, that I would not worry about who was at fault but instead, would work to fix problems as best I could.
Another player who has a very special place in my heart and my marriage is Greg Townsend.
My husband and I were married after I completed my internship but before I joined the organization on a full-time basis. Although I was not employed by the Raiders at the time, I did consider the football schedule when selecting the date and time for our wedding.
We chose a Sunday night in December – back then, there was no Sunday night football and our wedding was to begin well after the team’s game in Denver concluded. I didn’t count on overtime.
We were at the wedding venue and I was in a room with our matron of honor, bridesmaids, and other family and friends. They were all urging me to get ready – to do my hair, do my makeup, and get dressed. Well, I was watching the game and I refused to get ready until it ended. The game was tied at 14 at the end of regulation. I still refused to do hair and makeup. The game wasn’t over – I wanted to watch overtime.
In overtime, Greg recovered a John Elway fumble, and the Raiders kicked a field goal and won the game. Game over – time to get married. At this point, there really wasn’t time for a whole lot of attention to hair and makeup – so I ran a brush through my hair; put on mascara, lipstick, and my dress; and walked down the aisle.
For years, a story circulated that I was late for my own wedding so that I could watch a game. That’s not true. I was not late for the wedding. I was perfectly on time walking down the aisle. I was, however, a bride without fancy hair and makeup – but I was in an especially happy mood, as the Raiders won the game. I shared this story with Greg, and we had fun over the years referring to it. At one big event at which I introduced Greg, I did so by saying that I was proud and pleased to introduce “a man who had a very special role in making me very happy on my wedding night.” The looks on the audience’s faces when I then called Greg up to the stage were priceless. I went on to share the story and to explain why both my husband and I appreciated Greg’s role in winning that game.
* * *
I earlier recounted a story in which someone in the league office referenced circus animals when discussing our organization. That analogy was not intended as a compliment, but was in many respects fair. There were, however, times when we were a circus in the best sense of that word: we were a lot of fun and we could be entertaining.
On one instance, I was traveling to a league meeting with two others on Raiders staff, one of whom was the most senior executive in our player personnel department, the other in our finance department. We were on a flight to New York and after finishing a few work projects, I decided to watch a movie: Free Willy.
At the end of the movie, when Willy (the whale) leapt over the rock wall separating him from the ocean, I started crying. Well not just crying, sobbing.
The personnel executive who was seated a few rows behind me and on the opposite side of the plane stood up and yelled to our other colleague, “Hey, look at fuckin’ Amy, she’s crying.”
His tone was lighthearted and he sounded both surprised and amused. I remember thinking: I’m sure everyone sitting anywhere near us wants to listen to his commentary; it’s bad enough that they’ve had to listen to me sobbing.
I wasn’t embarrassed. I remember thinking, though, that we were a pretty entertaining or, to those wishing to work or to sleep, annoying traveling group.
Another in-flight movie moment may have also entertained some passengers. I was traveling with Al to a league meeting and after finishing something we were working on partway into the flight, I decided to watch The Jungle Book. I didn’t hear Al trying to get my attention, so he asked the man in the row between us for assistance. When that man tapped me on the shoulder, he pointed to Al, and said “I told him you were watching The Jungle Book, but he wants to speak to you anyway,” I remember thinking: You didn’t really have to tell him it was The Jungle Book, did you? Then, I heard Al say, “Fuck, she’s watching the fuckin’ Jungle Book.” He sounded perplexed.
Al was perplexed and concerned on another cross-country flight as four of us traveled home from the league office. The trip had been stressful, particularly for our lead lawyer, Jeff. To unwind, he decided to watch Home Alone 2 and I joined him. The movie wasn’t that great but the two of us giggled uncontrollably, like elementary school kids at a sleepover. So much so that Al told the fourth person in our traveling party to go check on us, explaining to him that “something’s wrong with them.”
Al was an easy traveler in many regards. When traveling up and down the state of California, for example, he chose to fly a commuter airline – it had no first class – and, in fact, no assigned seats. The airline let Al board first and he always chose to sit in the first row. He brought his own lunch in a brown paper bag (most frequently, a tuna sandwich). One time, Snoop Dogg’s father boarded and, upon seeing Al in his seat, extended his hand and introduced himself by his first name. Al immediately extended his hand and very politely said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Dogg.” Seated immediately behind him, I kicked his chair and hissed: “It’s not Mr. Dogg. Snoop’s last name isn’t even Dogg, it’s Broadus, this is not ‘Mr. Dogg.’”
We were an entertaining travel group.
* * *
I’ve noted several times that Al giggled. And he did. He also sang. Al loved a certain genre of music – not the genre one would normally associate with football – and not the genre one might associate with Al. Gloria Loring was one of his favorites, as was Ann Margret. Each season, Al wanted to be sure that we extended an invitation to Gloria and Ann to sing the anthem at a game. He loved it when they did. Each season, young employees flocked to my office to plead with me not to extend the invitations to those women. I said: “they’re singing.”
One of Al’s favorite songs was by Frank Sinatra: “My Way.” Al sang that refrain often. Sometimes, he’d sing it just because he was relaxed and in the mood to sing. Sometimes, he’d sing it as I sat in his office, wondering how the hell I could get him to focus on the topic at hand, instead of singing. Sometimes, he’d sing it after we had disagreed about something, as I was walking out of his office. He did it in a silly manner – to tease me – to let me know in a warm way that we were going to do something his way.
“Yes, I get it. We’ll do it your way,” I’d respond. And then, while walking out, I’d mutter (loudly, so that Al would hear), “As usual.”
That song was perfect for Al. Al did it his way when on two occasions he refused to allow his team to play in the segregated South. His refusal to participate in those games resulted in them being moved to cities that were not segregated and in which all players could stay in the same hotel. He did it his way when he hired Tom Flores, and then me, and then Art Shell. He did a lot of things his way to which many people objected. He should be remembered for the groundbreaking things he did his way.
Al wasn’t someone who just talked about equality. He demonstrated his beliefs with actions, over decades.
Periodically, I’d suggest to Al that we let the public know more about the instances in which he moved those games from segregated cities and that we let the public know more about his decades-long practice of diverse and inclusive hiring. But he refused to discuss – or to allow me to discuss – these things publicly. Each time I suggested we do so, he sternly admonished me. “Hey, lemme get something straight with you, young lady” he’d say. “I didn’t do it for publicity.”
“I know you didn’t do it for publicity,” I’d groan. “That’s the point.” I went on to note that it was precisely because he did these things for all the right reasons, that it was so important. Then I’d plead, “But can’t we get just a little bit of positive recognition for you? That would really help,” I would moan.
He’d refuse again. No matter how often I suggested this – pleaded with him about this – he refused.
Although his refusal to allow me to garner some positive attention for his lifelong commitment to diversity and inclusiveness frustrated me to no end during my years with the team, I realized that this too was what made Al, Al. He did it; he did not want to talk about it. That’s rare.
* * *
Early in my career, the organization was involved in some routine insurance litigation. It wasn’t sexy or interesting and I wasn’t particularly involved but on the day Al was to be deposed, as he began walking toward his car to head to that deposition, he said to me: “Let’s go, Trask.”
It had never occurred to me that he would want me with him, but he did. I grabbed my things and joined the group headed to the deposition, which was to be conducted at a law firm.
The deposition had been underway for several hours when the lawyer deposing Al asked him if he wanted to break for lunch. Al responded no, he had things to do and wanted to work through lunch but if others wanted to eat, someone could bring sandwiches in, and they could eat while they continued the deposition.
The lawyer’s response: “Oh, good idea. Amy can get the sandwiches.”
Al immediately banged his hand down on the table, his pinky ring clanging loudly. “Did you hear that? Did you hear that?” he said, looking up and down the long conference table, addressing everyone in attendance. “There’s one woman in this room and this guy says, ‘Amy can get the sandwiches.’ Did you hear that? This guy is really something.”
This wasn’t for show. Al was really angry. At the other end of the table, I sat there with a big smile on my face.
Al then said to my supervisor, the man who had hired me, the organization’s chief lawyer who ultimately became its general counsel: “Jeff, get the sandwiches.” To this day, Jeff and I love to laugh about this, and we periodically say to one another, “Jeff, get the sandwiches” as a wonderful tribute to Al.
I recognize that I had the privilege of working for a man who was not only unconcerned with my gender, but who spoke up and criticized others when he thought that they were too concerned with it. I realize that not all women have this privilege or this luxury. Did Al’s lack of concern with my gender – and his defense of me when he believed it was of concern to others – shape my views on comporting myself without regard to gender? No, it did not shape them. But Al’s views did create an environment which made it far easier for me to conduct myself as I wished than would have been the case elsewhere. Of course I understand that.
* * *
A humorous deposition moment occurred when Al was called upon to testify in a case about a game-day slip-and-fall matter. Again, I wasn’t planning to attend but again, on his way to the deposition, he said “Trask, let’s go,” so I did. When we sat down to begin the deposition, I noticed two very young men in the room and I asked who they were. The lawyer who was to depose Al explained that one was his son, and another was his son’s friend. “Are you kidding?” I asked. “Did you sell tickets?” I went on to pitch a bit of a fit, noting that his right to depose Al did not give him the right to use the deposition to entertain family and friends. Al was not as bothered as I was – he was more tolerant of such things, which was interesting – and he told me to calm down. Once the kids were gone, the lawyer began the deposition and one of the first things he asked Al was whether he had ever been seen in the presence of large men in sweat pants. Al looked at Jeff, who was defending him in this deposition, and said, “Does this guy know what I do?”
* * *
While on the topic of litigation, I will note that although I attended law school, I did so with the express, stated intent of never practicing law. I wanted a legal education and a law degree for a number of reasons, but not so that I could be a lawyer. I pledged that not only wouldn’t I ever see the inside of a courtroom, I wouldn’t even know how to find the courthouse.
Upon graduation, I did join a law firm and I practiced transactional law (to wit: not litigation) for a short period of time but I still proclaimed that I would never see the inside of a courtroom or even be able to find the courthouse. That changed, of course, when I joined the Raiders.
The organization was embroiled in litigation well before I joined it and remained involved in litigation for a number of years thereafter. Although I never represented the organization in these matters or otherwise served as a litigator, I did attend some hearings to observe and in some matters, I was called as a witness. So, although I vowed that I would never find or enter that courthouse, I did.
On one occasion, without considering what I was about to do, I actually acted as a trial lawyer. We were in trial with the NFL and it was my turn on the witness stand. The lawyer for the league had been questioning me for a quite awhile, and then said: “I want to ask you a question.” What a stupid thing to say, I thought. I’m on the witness stand; the only reason I’m here is so that you can ask me questions; you’ve been questioning me for some time; you don’t need to tell me that you want to ask me a question. Then, he asked his question, only it was two questions in one. I responded instinctively and said, “Actually, that was two questions, not one.” I hadn’t intended to pose an objection or to pretend I was a trial lawyer; I said what I did because he was annoying me and he said something I thought was dumb. The judge immediately said, “Objection sustained.” Hey, look at me, I thought; I just made my very first (and I hope only) objection and it was sustained. I am sure I was smiling broadly. I looked into the audience where Al and my husband were sitting and they were both doing all they could to keep from laughing too hard – but they were laughing pretty hard.
* * *
I noted earlier that my first late-night call from Al came when I turned a standard player contract into a guaranteed, no-cut, no-trade contract. Another of what were many middle-of-the-night calls concerned Beavis and Butt-head, the MTV cartoon.
One night, after my husband and I had gone to bed and were well on our way to falling asleep, the phone rang. It was after midnight and we looked at one another knowingly – it was Al. My husband recalls my end of the conversation like this:
“No…Beavis. BEE–VIS. No. Beavis. Like beaver, only Beavis. Mmm hmm. Beavis. Yes, Butt-head. BUTT HEAD. Like two words – butt and head – only one – Butt-head. That’s right” Then, just for fun and added effect, I then intoned, “heh, heh, heh, heh” just the way Beavis or Butt-head said it.
Well at this point, my husband looked at me like I lost my mind, rolled over, and went to sleep. Fortunately, he can sleep through anything.
We had received in discovery in our litigation with the league a copy of a league memorandum in which a very senior league executive referred to a group of team owners as “Beavis and Butt-head owners.” So, I had to explain to Al who Beavis and Butt-head were and that this was not a compliment (which, really, one should have understood from the name Butt-head). That week, I bought a VHS of Beavis and Butt-head and gave it Al. I don’t think he ever watched it.
* * *
Not all midnight calls were as humorous as the one in which I explained Beavis and Butt-head to Al.
Throughout my career, Al began each of what I call his midnight calls by saying “Amy, this is Al,” or “Amy, this is Al Davis,” as if I wouldn’t recognize his voice. I could tell by the tone he used when he did so what the tenor of the call would be.
Sometimes, Al called simply to catch up, discuss business, or have a conversation. I enjoyed these calls; they were relaxed and enjoyable. On those calls, we often talked about football – player personnel, game matchups, play calling, his theories of football. Also on those calls, we discussed world affairs and current events. I recall once discussing with him at length the funeral of Yasser Arafat and what impact his death would have on the world.
Most often, though, when Al called me late at night it was because he was concerned about something, focused on something, working on a matter of importance to the club, angry about something or at someone, or mad at me. Quite often, he was already angry when he called. Other times, he was not angry when he called, but by the time we were done he sure was. We discussed transactions we were working on, deals we were negotiating, financial matters, and other significant business issues, and we often disagreed as to how address these matters. Al motherfucked me a lot during these calls. Sometimes he directed his motherfucking at others, like coaches and league executives. But even in those instances in which his motherfucking was directed at others, he made sure to include me as well.
One night, during a particularly stressful time when Al’s middle of the night motherfuckings were more frequent than usual, I recall walking into our kitchen and seeing my husband reading a 10-K. I crinkled my nose and told him that I didn’t understand how he could do that, noting that reading regulatory filings is “boring.” He responded by waving the document in the air and noting that 10-Ks didn’t call him in the middle of the night and motherfuck him. I acknowledged that he had a good point.
* * *
Just as Al stood up for me when it was suggested that I get the sandwiches, he defended me in other ways.
One notable moment came after an incident that occurred at what the league calls a “small group owners meeting.” In this instance, the small group owners’ meeting was the night before a two-per-club meeting scheduled for the following day. Small group owners meetings are designed to foster intimate conversations between owners on sensitive issues. I always found the mixture of clubs assigned to each small group owners meetings interesting. Sometimes clubs were grouped by division or geography, but on other occasions the groupings were not divisional or geographic but, rather, intended to be strategic.
Over the course of my career, Al increasingly chose not to attend league meetings and sent me in his place. In instances in which more than one representative per club was permitted, I most often brought a coworker with me. Small group owners meetings were limited to one participant per club. For most clubs, that participant was the owner.
At this particular meeting, an owner leveled some false and troubling accusations and launched an ad hominem attack.
Look, I have no aversion to arguments. Arguments can be productive. Arguments can help solve problems. Sharing views in a forthright, honest, direct manner, in an animated, spirited, or heated fashion, can lead to good results. It’s okay to be loud; it’s okay to get angry. People should feel welcome to argue. If at the end of an argument an agreement or understanding hasn’t been reached, then agree to disagree, understanding that reasonable minds can differ.
As one Raiders coach once told the media when they asked him about an argument on our sideline during a game: “There’s no sign on our sideline that says no yelling.” I loved that. I think that approach should apply in business environments too.
Reasoned and reasonable arguments intended to problem solve can be valuable. I don’t believe, however, that such arguments should ever include ad hominem attacks.
Did I argue during my career? You bet I did. Did I raise my voice and share my views in a loud and heated manner? I sure did. Did I argue more than some would have liked or more than some thought appropriate? I am sure that I did. Looking back, do I think that there were times that a less argumentative approach may have been better? Sure. But I never attacked anyone on a personal level.
The argument at this small group owners meeting wasn’t really an argument; it was something different.
This owner’s rage was palpable. I remember actually thinking at one point while he was at full throttle that he might pop a blood vessel.
He criticized the organization for not doing all that it could, or even taking reasonable steps, to maximize revenues and for making business decisions without regard to the financial ramifications thereof, all the while accepting – indeed, relying upon – a revenue sharing subsidy from those clubs which did those things and thus maximized their revenues. He was right. I agreed with his assessment in its entirety and I had argued with Al about these very things for decades.
I had tried repeatedly and unsuccessfully to convince Al over the course of many years that it was intellectually dishonest to refuse to engage in business practices designed to increase our revenues – like opening training camp to ticket holders, providing sponsors and other business partners access to him, providing access to coaches and players – all the while accepting and relying upon a subsidy from those clubs that were doing the very things he refused to do. I explained again and again that it was disingenuous to refuse to engage in certain marketing activities because he believed that they were bad for our football team, and yet take money from clubs that engaged in those activities. After all, I’d point out, according to his logic, the organizations engaging in those business practices were doing so to the detriment of their football teams in order to maximize their revenues and although he refused to do the same, he accepted and relied upon a subsidy from them. We fought about this for years. Al never offered what I considered a reasonable response.
Had this shouting owner been willing to listen to me – had he been willing to engage in a dialogue and to exchange thoughts and ideas (whether in raised tones or not) – he would have learned that I agreed with him, that I had articulated those very criticisms to Al, and that I had told Al that other owners were right to be angry.
The whole time that owner was screaming at me, none of the league executives intervened – and they shouldn’t have. I don’t believe that they would have intervened were I male, so good for them that they didn’t. I’m glad no one assisted me. That’s how it should have been.
But then, this owner leveled one accusation which was wrong and which infuriated me: he declared that I forced Al to do things, that I controlled Al. Had I not been rendered speechless by his absurd accusation and the fury in his voice when he expressed them – I may well have simply laughed at him. Al was a lot of things – controllable was not one of them.
This owner asserted that I was responsible for all of Al’s bad decisions. “You made Al move the team back to Oakland,” he yelled at one point. I made Al move the team? Wow. He sure thought I was powerful. In hindsight, I decided that perhaps I should have been flattered that he thought I had such power over a man everyone knew couldn’t be controlled.
This owner never asked me anything about the move back to Oakland – he simply shrieked that I “made Al” move the team. But he had absolutely no idea what I had advised Al on this or on any other topic. He never asked me, nor had I ever shared with him, my thoughts about the move or or the advice I provided Al. I know also that Al had not shared that information with him, as Al told me that he had never shared with anyone what advice and recommendation I had given him with respect to his decision to move the team back to Oakland or with respect to a number of other matters. Many people, including this owner, would have been very surprised if they knew what I had advised Al on any number of issues over the course of my career.
I know exactly where this owner got those ideas. I know exactly who told him that I “forced Al” to do things and that I was to blame for all of the Raiders’ bad decisions and I know why this person did this. If this ranting owner was going to take this guy seriously, I thought, then good luck to him.
This person had for years asserted to the media, to league officials, and to officials with other clubs that I was responsible for all that ailed the Raiders. He thought that they kept his comments confidential, but they did not.
In fact, at one lunch break at a league meeting, while seated with a handful of people from the league office and a couple of other clubs, I learned that this was “a thing” and that people had been laughing about this for years. At this lunch, conversation had turned to world events and we were discussing some ongoing turmoil in another part of the world. A league executive at the table mused aloud – in a humorous tone – “How will (this club executive) blame this on Amy?” Everyone laughed, including me.
This small group owners’ meeting was not, by the way, the first occasion on which I had heard that people thought that I controlled Al. There were a number of people from whom Al had distanced himself over the years who claimed I had forced him to do so. When Al distanced himself from people, he usually told me why. Sometimes I agreed with his reasoning, sometimes I did not. There were also instances in which I thought Al should (and wished he would) distance himself from people, when he did not. Al decided with whom he would or would not associate.
Similarly, there were a fair number of people who were angered by our business decisions who claimed that I dictated such decisions to Al. I recall one elected city official who accused me of controlling Al and dictating all of Al’s decisions, all the while ranting and raving that he had never met anyone who was harder to influence or to sway.
There’s an obvious and interesting intellectual inconsistency in all of this. Some of the very people who complained that Al could not be controlled also complained that I controlled him. Some of the very people who threw up their hands, distancing themselves from Al’s decisions, asserting that they couldn’t influence those decisions, accused me of making his decisions for him. To assert that I controlled Al was not only intellectually dishonest, it was absurd, but it happened often, most particularly when people did not want to accept that Al made decisions they didn’t like.
All of that said, there were a lot of times that I wished I could control Al.
Ironically, there was an instance when Al accused me of “thought control,” not of him, but of others. He accused me of inserting my doubts about and objections to our negotiating positions into the minds of those with whom we were negotiating. On this occasion, when articulating to Al my disagreement with a position he wanted me to take in a negotiation, he fired back: “There you go again; you think of these things and that puts them in their minds, they wouldn’t think of them otherwise.”
“Oh, I can mind meld…is that what you’re suggesting?” I asked. “I must be pretty powerful,” I added, thinking that there were plenty of times I wished I could “mind meld” him. Al responded, “Aw fuck,” and hung up.
At the conclusion of the formal portion of the small group owner’s meeting, those of us in attendance sat down for dinner in an adjacent room. I sensed that the dinner was strained, but I do not know if that was the sense of others in attendance.
After that dinner, I went to my hotel room and called Al to give him an update, as I often did after meetings. As I began telling him what happened, I started crying. I think it was because I was stunned by the level of intensity of the invective.
I wasn’t horrified that I was crying. Neither was Al. I am strong and tough, yet I cried. Al is strong and tough, yet he didn’t care that I cried. I wasn’t embarrassed that I cried. Al wasn’t bothered that I cried. It did not affect our relationship.
I cried on one other occasion during my career – also while on a phone call with Al. Al had directed two of us on staff to do something that I thought was idiotic and that quite obviously was going to be very hard to do.
Al had instructed us to articulate to an absolutely spectacular, tremendously respected broadcaster with the television network that would be broadcasting our upcoming game something that I thought was absurd and offensive. I tried everything I could to convince Al that this was a really bad idea. I told him it was dumb and that it would be to our decided detriment, but I couldn’t convince him that we shouldn’t do it.
Although Al had instructed two of us to deliver this message to this sensational broadcaster, my coworker disappeared when the moment to do so arose. He didn’t tell Al that he wouldn’t participate; he simply made himself scarce.
So I handled it. I shared Al’s point of view. Of course, I didn’t articulate that it was Al’s view and I didn’t blame Al. I stated the view as that of the organization and did so as diplomatically as I could. I tried to make the best of a wretched situation, but sometimes, when a position is ridiculous, any effort at diplomacy falls short.
When I was done, I went up to my office and I called Al, and I started crying. I cried because I was furious with him and with myself and with the whole situation.
Al told me that he felt badly and that it was his fault that this had happened. After we finished our conversation, and unbeknownst to me, Al called my husband and asked him to drive to the office, pick me up, and drive me home that night, explaining that he didn’t believe I should drive myself home. He was worried.
I know this, because my husband called me in my office and said: “Al Davis just called me, he’s worried about you, and he wants me to come pick you up and drive you home – he doesn’t think you should drive yourself.” I remember asking: “How did he get your office number?” My husband wondered the same. I later learned that Al asked one of my coworkers for it.
While Al felt badly that I was upset, he was not bothered that I cried, just as he wasn’t in the instance after the small group owners meeting.
Decades later, I apologized to the tremendous broadcaster and gentleman to whom I addressed our remarks and he could not have been more gracious and understanding when I did.
I didn’t share these stories about crying in a work environment because I believe that crying should be used as strategy in business or because I am proud that I cried. I did so because I believe they’re instructive.
Common thought is that women must never cry on the job. We’re told it is the worst thing that we can do, that it shows weakness and unsuitability for working in a “man’s world.” We’re told that it shows that we can’t handle pressure or the challenges of the business. We’re told that women who cry in business won’t succeed. And yet, in my case, this gender-based tautology was disproved.
On two occasions, I cried to a man (my boss and the controlling owner of the organization for which I worked) who was as strong and tough as anyone I have ever known or can imagine. This was a man who no one would believe would tolerate crying, who no one would believe would continue to work with someone who cried, and who no one would believe would support and promote someone who cried. But he wasn’t bothered; he continued to work with me and to trust me, and and he promoted me. After all, when I cried in the first instance, I was not yet the organization’s CEO. Clearly, my so doing did not dissuade Al from naming me as such, some years later.
He didn’t care that I cried. He did care about me.
Al was incredibly unique.
(By way of note, on neither of the occasions on which I cried with Al did I cry nearly as hard as when I was watching Free Willy.)
* * *
Over the course of my career, there were a few incidents in which employees cried to me, sometimes for reasons relating to work, sometimes for reasons relating to their personal lives. In each of those instances, the employee was male. I didn’t enjoy those moments, but I did my best to act reasonably and honorably. It was the right thing to do for many reasons and it certainly would have been hypocritical if I were any less understanding and supportive than Al was with me.
And as to our conversation after the incident in the small group owners meeting – Al was magnificent. He could not have been kinder or more caring or more supportive. He was only concerned that I was okay. And I was. I was fine. Al was angry but his fury was directed at the owner who excoriated me. He noted that if anyone was to blame for the issues that bothered this owner, it was him (Al), not me. He remarked that I had been yelling at him about those same topics for years. Al made another interesting point: the owner who attacked me had never raised those issues with him – not once.
Al was incensed with this owner and called him a cocksucker a lot of times that night. (I don’t know, though, whether he used one word or two.)