Oakland is a lonely place for a Raiders fan who just can’t seem to fit in.
I haven’t missed a single home game since I moved to this shithole, almost two years ago. Every Sunday, I’m at one of two places: McAfee Coliseum or The Hooters on Montgomery Ave.
You would be hard-pressed to find a bigger, more loyal fan. Yet, I find myself alone, week after week. Shunned by the very dirtbags whose passion for this great team I share.
I don’t know why it is that I paint my face and support my team the way they all do, yet they never invite me over to their trucks to tailgate in the parking lot.
I’ve tried being subtle.
I’ve sat there, looking sad. They ignored me.
I’ve had the fake cell phone conversations within earshot, where I’ve pretended that “my buddies” couldn’t make it and now I had all this extra beer, yet no one to share it with. They just rolled their eyes.
So when I pulled into the parking lot that glorious Sunday morning, my jeep outfitted in full New England Patriots’ regalia, I knew the time for subtlety was over.
There were a few stray comments and some cold stares, but I didn’t seriously fear for my life until I walked towards the stadium in my Tom Brady jersey. I slipped into an empty stall in one of the ground floor mens’ rooms and changed into my Raiders gear.
It was still pretty early, so nobody was around to notice that the scumbag Pats fan who entered the john, came out as a diehard member of the Raiders Nation.
I returned to the parking lot to find the pre-game festivities that I was never invited to were in full swing. As I strode up to my car, I could see that a few people had spit on it already. Amateurs.
I looked it over for a few more moments, took a deep breath and addressed the group who shunned me on a weekly basis.
“What the fuck is this piece of shit doing here?” I asked them.
I could see they were weighing their skepticism in my authenticity as a Raiders fan against our shared hatred of New England.
“Some stupid douchebag had the balls to park that here,” spoke the leader; the guy who would probably be my new best friend in just a few hours.
“No shit?” I asked, clearly galled, “Doesn’t he know this ain’t Beantown? Can’t he tell by the lack of dude-on-dude dick sucking?”
Their laughter was the sweetest song I have ever heard. I knew, in that instant, I was accepted.
They chimed in with their approval of this statement. “Yeah, no shit! Someone outta teach that fag a lesson!”
Well if it was lessons that needed to be taught, I guess Professor Raiders Fan was just in time!
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, fellas, I need to hit the head.” I turned and proceeded to urinate all over my own car, to thunderous applause.
As I zipped up and saw the looks of admiration on their faces, I knew I needed but one more act to cement my reputation in their minds forever.
They invited me over and handed me a beer. I’ve never been to Germany, but that’s how I imagine beer tastes over there during that Oktoberfest thing they have: crisp and clean. Like victory over Poland.
They informed me that James Hatfield, the lead singer of some band named Metallical or something and himself a huge Raiders fan, would be joining us pretty soon. I raised my beer and said, “Awesome!” As if I knew who that was.
I was about to toss the empty beer in the garbage cans the city of Oakland provided for the stadium-goers, when divine inspiration struck. I walked over to my jeep, intending to open the back door of my hardshell tonneau, when I realized, with horror, that I must have locked it, purely out of habit.
I struggled with the door, immediately wiping away most of my cool points.
“What the hell are you doing?” One of them asked.
“Um, I was gonna throw my beer can in there, I guess it’s locked,” I said, lamely.
“No shit it’s locked, dipshit. Don’t you think we tried that already?” They were all laughing at me now.
Well, they weren’t laughing when, in the most decisive moment of my life, I kicked in the back window of my own truck. I’d write off the $500 for the new window as a “coolness deduction”, because I was the shit right now!
I threw my empty beer can into the gaping hole where my rear window had been and turned, expecting to see their admiring faces, but instead, saw only the grim looks of the two police officers, fingering their batons.
I told them I could explain, if they would just step over behind the truck, out of range of my new best friends. They humored me, probably hoping I would give them an opportunity to use those batons or something and I explained to them that it was, in fact, my own jeep which I had just vandalized.
I begged them not to tell. They could give me a warning and walk away heroes in the eyes of the several hundred working class Oaklanders who had gathered around the crime scene at this point.
They seemed sympathetic, but informed me I was still looking at a charge of disturbing the peace. That is, unless I wanted to make a generous donation to the Policemen’s Fund, that they would be sure to hand-deliver for me.
$200 later, we all walked from behind the jeep, back into the crowd, who were anxiously waiting to see what the verdict would be.
Well, kicking in a window in front of two policemen and walking away with just a warning is a pretty bad ass thing to do. Unless, of course, the policemen decide to be dicks and tell the gathered throngs the truth: that it was all a pathetic rouse by a lonely loser looking to drum up some friends.
It also doesn’t help when, after these policemen do this and the crowd starts laughing at you, you immediately start crying and piss your pants.
I guess it’s time to move again.