Post by TheShadow on Dec 25, 2007 8:52:35 GMT -5
www.insidebayarea.com
Official outpost in New Jersey gathers to cheer each game day
By Angela Woodall, STAFF WRITER
LAKE COMO, N.J. — "I think this qualifies as an ass-whooping. We've been raked over the coals and so has the team."
Such was the opinion forcefully offered by Gary Brown, president and founder of the Jersey Shore Raiders Boosters Club. Officially recognized Oakland Raiders booster club, that is.
The burly Brown was referring to the Dec. 9 Raiders vs. Green Bay Packers game that assorted members of the club had gathered to watch on a cold New Jersey day — Allan the wise-cracking Canadian, Frank in a high-end wheelchair, Art and his 13-year-old daughter, Cassandra.
There was even a 49ers fan dressed in a red Frank Gore No. 21 jersey by the name of Jason and a rogue Packers fan, both adding a splash of color to the group assembled at Bar Anticipation in Lake Como.
It is a palace among sports bars, where bands with names like The Amish Outlaws play weekends in Springsteen (as in Bruce) territory. The New Jersey rocker started his career four miles away in Asbury Park, the Jersey Shore equivalent of our East Oakland, according to Frank.
The Raiders booster club commanded a back room of their own lined with at least a half-dozen TVs, away from the swelling crowd gathered in the cavernous main bar.
Few TV screens get so much attention as those did during the game.
"It's agony for three quarters and ecstasy when we win. I'm biting my nails even when we're 10 points ahead at the end," Brown said.
It's kind of hard to imagine the burly Brown nervous about anything.
But Brown, who works testing water for the municipal water district of nearby Neptune, talks about love affairs when it comes to his team, which he pronounces "Raidehs" in his deep, husky New Jersey voice.
His love affair with the Silver and Black began when Brown saw Ben Davidson with his mustache hanging out of his helmet, chasing down Joe Namath and tackling him hard. And he loved the emblem — the one-eyed pirate framed by swords and looking at once sinister and friendly.
"I saw all that and said this is a cool team. They played overly aggressive; that's how it was started," Brown said.
That was'68 or'69. He started the booster club in 1992, with the encouragement of Raiders legend Phil Villapiano.
Brown and his fellow boosters have seen the team go from three-time Super Bowl champions to one of the gloomiest records in the NFL.
Agony has been the name of the game for much of a decade, breeding a sort of fatalism among fans.
"We're a second-half team," said Allan Paziglianiti, a wise-cracking indie-film buff. "Obviously, we're not a first-half team. And just wait'til the third half. We kill'em."
The well-traveled Paziglianiti said he intended to be a Titans fan, but he turned the TV channel during a game, saw the silver and black and "the rest is history" — about four decades of history.
"You know what the worst thing a sadist can do to a masochist?" Paziglianiti asked, a tuft of hair sticking up on the top of his head growing more unruly. "Nothing."
"So you're saying our defense is doing nothing?" Brown queried.
"It appears that way, but just wait'til the fifth quarter," Paziglianiti replied. "Next year we're going to look back on this and cry."
Turnout was mild that Sunday, in contrast to the packs that usually crowd into the covered outside bar to cheer their team as well as jeer, complain and ridicule referees' decisions that fans swear are intentionally aimed at thwarting the underdog Raiders.
A string of profanities rang out from a far corner of the bar in response to a call against Oakland.
"Are you kiddin' me? You hate the Raiders!" someone else added.
"All we're asking for is fair! We're not begging. We just want fair, you know?" Brown yelled at the TV, adding, "I just don't know anymore."
Along with the underdog favoritism comes an old-school sense of masculinity among followers of the Raiders, who were loved for being a rebellious pack of men who played hard on and off the field. They looked like bad boys — and often really were bona fide bad boys — but played like angels.
Well, like rough angels who had been kicked out of Heaven.
Frank Jenkins Jr. has been a fan since 1968, when he was lured in by the silver and black uniforms and the team philosophy instilled by Raiders owner Al Davis: "Just win, baby."
Davis' only rules, so the legend goes, were that they show up at every practice and play like hell on Sundays.
"There are adults who believe it doesn't matter what happens during the week — it's Sunday that's important," Frank said from his $43,000 wheelchair equipped with headlights, turn signals and a high-decibel horn that he honks when the team scores a touchdown, bringing the halftime score to 14-7.
The Raiders were trailing.
The team still has an aura of being renegades among a billion dollar (at least), hyper-commercial industry where players can command salaries that make movie stars drool.
"The Raiders were almost like Marilyn Monroe, the first beautiful blond to expose herself," said Villapiano, gently quieting his dog yelping at friends who had just arrived on his New Jersey doorstep.
The legendary Raiders linebacker, who wreaked havoc against opponents from 1971-79, said his team was the first to expose football for what it was — an ugly, rotten, nasty game. "They played it that way. They were the first beautiful football team."
Times have changed, Villapiano said. But the Raiders always carry a mystique with them because Davis — one of the last sole, non-corporate owners — is a "mysterious guy," he added. That rubs off on the team's image. "He keeps everyone on their toes. You never know what they're going to do," Villapiano said.
Added to each Jersey Shore club member's reason for becoming a fan is a sense of camaraderie and belonging to a network of people who will take care of each other no matter which state (or country) they find themselves in.
The more than 40 officially recognized booster clubs "all bounce off each other" and perform a bounty of charity work, Brown said. They have a code of conduct they adhere to. The impression they make reflects on their team.
It really is the Raider Nation.
Official outpost in New Jersey gathers to cheer each game day
By Angela Woodall, STAFF WRITER
LAKE COMO, N.J. — "I think this qualifies as an ass-whooping. We've been raked over the coals and so has the team."
Such was the opinion forcefully offered by Gary Brown, president and founder of the Jersey Shore Raiders Boosters Club. Officially recognized Oakland Raiders booster club, that is.
The burly Brown was referring to the Dec. 9 Raiders vs. Green Bay Packers game that assorted members of the club had gathered to watch on a cold New Jersey day — Allan the wise-cracking Canadian, Frank in a high-end wheelchair, Art and his 13-year-old daughter, Cassandra.
There was even a 49ers fan dressed in a red Frank Gore No. 21 jersey by the name of Jason and a rogue Packers fan, both adding a splash of color to the group assembled at Bar Anticipation in Lake Como.
It is a palace among sports bars, where bands with names like The Amish Outlaws play weekends in Springsteen (as in Bruce) territory. The New Jersey rocker started his career four miles away in Asbury Park, the Jersey Shore equivalent of our East Oakland, according to Frank.
The Raiders booster club commanded a back room of their own lined with at least a half-dozen TVs, away from the swelling crowd gathered in the cavernous main bar.
Few TV screens get so much attention as those did during the game.
"It's agony for three quarters and ecstasy when we win. I'm biting my nails even when we're 10 points ahead at the end," Brown said.
It's kind of hard to imagine the burly Brown nervous about anything.
But Brown, who works testing water for the municipal water district of nearby Neptune, talks about love affairs when it comes to his team, which he pronounces "Raidehs" in his deep, husky New Jersey voice.
His love affair with the Silver and Black began when Brown saw Ben Davidson with his mustache hanging out of his helmet, chasing down Joe Namath and tackling him hard. And he loved the emblem — the one-eyed pirate framed by swords and looking at once sinister and friendly.
"I saw all that and said this is a cool team. They played overly aggressive; that's how it was started," Brown said.
That was'68 or'69. He started the booster club in 1992, with the encouragement of Raiders legend Phil Villapiano.
Brown and his fellow boosters have seen the team go from three-time Super Bowl champions to one of the gloomiest records in the NFL.
Agony has been the name of the game for much of a decade, breeding a sort of fatalism among fans.
"We're a second-half team," said Allan Paziglianiti, a wise-cracking indie-film buff. "Obviously, we're not a first-half team. And just wait'til the third half. We kill'em."
The well-traveled Paziglianiti said he intended to be a Titans fan, but he turned the TV channel during a game, saw the silver and black and "the rest is history" — about four decades of history.
"You know what the worst thing a sadist can do to a masochist?" Paziglianiti asked, a tuft of hair sticking up on the top of his head growing more unruly. "Nothing."
"So you're saying our defense is doing nothing?" Brown queried.
"It appears that way, but just wait'til the fifth quarter," Paziglianiti replied. "Next year we're going to look back on this and cry."
Turnout was mild that Sunday, in contrast to the packs that usually crowd into the covered outside bar to cheer their team as well as jeer, complain and ridicule referees' decisions that fans swear are intentionally aimed at thwarting the underdog Raiders.
A string of profanities rang out from a far corner of the bar in response to a call against Oakland.
"Are you kiddin' me? You hate the Raiders!" someone else added.
"All we're asking for is fair! We're not begging. We just want fair, you know?" Brown yelled at the TV, adding, "I just don't know anymore."
Along with the underdog favoritism comes an old-school sense of masculinity among followers of the Raiders, who were loved for being a rebellious pack of men who played hard on and off the field. They looked like bad boys — and often really were bona fide bad boys — but played like angels.
Well, like rough angels who had been kicked out of Heaven.
Frank Jenkins Jr. has been a fan since 1968, when he was lured in by the silver and black uniforms and the team philosophy instilled by Raiders owner Al Davis: "Just win, baby."
Davis' only rules, so the legend goes, were that they show up at every practice and play like hell on Sundays.
"There are adults who believe it doesn't matter what happens during the week — it's Sunday that's important," Frank said from his $43,000 wheelchair equipped with headlights, turn signals and a high-decibel horn that he honks when the team scores a touchdown, bringing the halftime score to 14-7.
The Raiders were trailing.
The team still has an aura of being renegades among a billion dollar (at least), hyper-commercial industry where players can command salaries that make movie stars drool.
"The Raiders were almost like Marilyn Monroe, the first beautiful blond to expose herself," said Villapiano, gently quieting his dog yelping at friends who had just arrived on his New Jersey doorstep.
The legendary Raiders linebacker, who wreaked havoc against opponents from 1971-79, said his team was the first to expose football for what it was — an ugly, rotten, nasty game. "They played it that way. They were the first beautiful football team."
Times have changed, Villapiano said. But the Raiders always carry a mystique with them because Davis — one of the last sole, non-corporate owners — is a "mysterious guy," he added. That rubs off on the team's image. "He keeps everyone on their toes. You never know what they're going to do," Villapiano said.
Added to each Jersey Shore club member's reason for becoming a fan is a sense of camaraderie and belonging to a network of people who will take care of each other no matter which state (or country) they find themselves in.
The more than 40 officially recognized booster clubs "all bounce off each other" and perform a bounty of charity work, Brown said. They have a code of conduct they adhere to. The impression they make reflects on their team.
It really is the Raider Nation.