SAN LEANDRO, Calif. – They filed into the war room at 6:30 a.m. After months of planning, weeks of deliberation and endless debate, here they were, less than three hours before they'd be on the clock with the first pick of the 2007 NFL draft. So they got down to business.
Someone welcomed the security guards. Someone else tapped the kegs. And at 8:01 a.m. sharp, a bartender served the first drink – a Bloody Mary, spicy, double vodka.
Al Davis, owner of the Oakland Raiders, could have probably used a triple vodka, but he was nowhere to be found. Neither was Lane Kiffin or the rest of the Raiders' new coaching staff.
No, this was the team's "unofficial" war room. The big orange sign out front says "Ricky's," but it might as well say "Raiders Nation." On Saturday, the bar and grill looked like a reunion of the cast from "Mad Max," with more black leather, metal spikes and tattoos than you'd find at a Dominatrix convention. With a silver and black motif, of course.
They fortified the joint with extra security, extra help and extra booze, because one never knows what to expect when the likes of Spike, Voodoo Man and Skull Lady show up for the annual draft day party. Maybe they figured the alcohol intake would be up with the Raiders coming off another dismal season, though the consolation of going 2-14 and having the worst record of the league was the coveted No. 1 pick.
As the fateful decision neared, the credo "Just win, baby," gave way to "Just drink, baby."
A man who looked straight out of the Stone Age extended his right paw. He bore a resemblance to the late Lyle Alzado, the scraggly-bearded and crazed Raiders defensive end.
"I'm Barbarian, and that's Destroyer," the man said, pointing at his 19-year-old son, wearing his father's old Raiders' jersey. "My wife is Mrs. B." As in Mrs. Barbarian.
No one outside the Raiders' brain trust was allowed in the team's war room, and the event at Ricky's was almost as exclusive. At about 8:15 a.m., Larry Leon and his son Raymond loitered outside the fenced off parking lot asking passersby, "Got any extra tickets?" They finally gave up and headed for a nearby bar.
But no one was giving up their tickets. They cost just $15 apiece, but the only way to get them was to be a card-carrying member of the Raiders booster club, with the dues-paying faithful coming from as far as Carson City, Nevada, Denver and York, Pa.
With a jolt, Barbarian announced, "We're on the clock."
Fifteen minutes and counting. Would it be JaMarcus Russell? Would it be Calvin Johnson? Or would it be a wild trade?
"With all this, we'll probably get a kicker," cracked Denise Browne, and the notion must have felt like a kick to the crotch for most Raiders fans.
Inside the bar, they gathered around the 75 television sets. Framed jerseys of George Blanda, Kenny Stabler and Jim Plunkett and other memorabilia conjured up memories of sweeter times for Raider Nation. Outside the bar, Barbarian and dozens of others in a crowd that would grow to more than 400 gathered around the two flat screen TVs and watched the draft broadcast.
An image of wide receiver Randy Moss flashed on the screen. You would've thought it was a picture of Bin Laden. The crowd around the TV hissed, still livid about Moss blaming dropped passes last season on the fact he was not happy, despite his multimillion-dollar salary.
"I don't ever want to see Randy Moss in silver and black again," the Barbarian growled. "Kick the punk to the curb. If you paid me half of what he makes, I'd never drop a pass."
On the screen crawl, a graphic listed each team's key losses. Under the Raiders, quarterback Aaron Brooks was listed. Shag Rhoades, a member of the "Insane Raiders Posse," almost choked on his Jack Daniels.
"That ain't a key loss," he shouted at the TV screen. "That's a positive."
Last year, Brooks earned boos only slightly less derisive than the ones reserved for Moss. After the season ended, the Raiders released him, and Brooks left town before the Raiders mob could chase him out.
Without Brooks around and only the image of Moss, the most restless Raiders fans took out their aggravation on the ESPN commentators – in particular Steve Young, who used to play quarterback for the hated San Francisco 49ers.
"Aw, shut up," a member of the Insane Raider Posse blurted out every time Young opened his mouth.
Then restlessness gave way to suspense as the 15 minutes allotted before the Raiders had to name their pick was ticking down. Roger Goodell, NFL commissioner, strode to the lectern. The clock stopped. The crowd at Ricky's grew silent. Well, almost.
"With the first pick of the 2007 NFL draft, the Oakland Raiders select …"
The Barbarian actually looked frightened, as if he had returned to his cave and come face-to-face with a Mastadon.
"… JaMarcus Russell."
Cheers erupted, and the Barbarian roared, Spike shook his leather covered fist and somewhere the Voodoo Man was sticking pins in a 49ers doll. They celebrated as if they had just witnessed something truly extraordinary, such as a Raiders touchdown. (Last year Oakland's offense scored all of 12.)
Something strange was happening here at the "unofficial war room." Maybe it had something to do with the liquor. Maybe it had something to do with the rising temperatures. Maybe it had something to do with blind faith. But the Raider Nation exuded optimism.
OK, so not everybody was cheering.
"If he eats a few more cheeseburgers, he can play tackle," someone muttered about Russell, who's 6-foot-6 and a Whopper shy of 260 pounds.
But then ESPN played footage of Russell throwing the ball from his knees, a spiral that sailed 62 yards.
"It's hard to argue with that," someone else said, and no one else said another thing about cheeseburgers or Russell's thick build. Yeah, maybe Calvin Johnson will catch 20 touchdown passes next season and end up in the Pro Bowl, and maybe Brady Quinn will prove he was better prepared for the NFL than Russell and lead the Cleveland Browns to the playoffs. But now Russell was theirs, no matter how many cheeseburgers he ate and even if he ended up flipping them at Ricky's.
Some people think Raiders fans are insane. But on Saturday, they came across as insanely loyal. Take Ricky Ricardo, the owner of the joint that serves as home of Raider Nation. Even when the Raiders bolted Oakland for Los Angeles in 1982, he continued to show the Raiders game at his bar every Sunday they played. His place wasn't just the heart of Raider Nation, it was the aorta.
Ricardo loves to tell about the time he ran into Al Davis in London before the Raiders played an exhibition game there against the New Orleans Saints.
"We've still got the torch burning for you," Ricardo said.
Davis shook his fist.
"Keep it burning," he said.
In 1995, the Raiders were back. And even now, after four dreadful seasons with only 15 victories in 64 games, the torch was burning strong at Ricky's. Two Raider cheerleaders showed up. The players came next, 10 in all. Fans lined up for autographs, and Barbarian wrapped his meaty hands around the shoulders of each player as he posed for pictures and asked them what they thought of the Raiders' draft choice.
"It's official," Barbarian roared, "We're going to the Super Bowl."
No one, not even the security guards, dared suggest otherwise. But most everybody knew better. With a thin offensive line, moody receivers and a few other question marks, the Raiders will face serious problems. But none as serious as the one Ricardo faced in the Raiders' "unofficial" war room.
Things looked as desperate as Brooks did last year dropping back on third-and-long.
By 1:30 p.m., before the Raiders had even made their second pick, he was already running out of beer.
