Just Win, Please

The gang in Oakland is creaky, confused and, worst of all, well-behaved. This isn't bad only for those crazies in the black hole-it's a disaster for Raiders haters everywhere

Don't do this to us, guys. Please.

We're just not ready for this. Don't take the fun away, the joy derived from pure, unadulterated Raiders hatred. Every NFL fan save yours needs it, you know. And it has nothing to do with Raider Nation, those freaky face-painters for whom happiness comes from turning McAfee Coliseum into some S&M gang war—colored in Randy Moss jerseys, of course. It's a self-esteem thing, as pure and ugly as the basic human need for superiority. No one hates the Texans or Packers or Lions or Titans the way they do the renegade, outlaw, overpaid, overlitigated, "Just sin, baby" Oakland Raiders.

At least that's the way it used to be. Somehow, though, the 2006 Raiders have turned an astounding trick. They've started the season 0—2 and have become a weathered and wounded NFL punch line—a team without a QB, an offense or pretty much a prayer. And in so doing, the Raiders have achieved the seemingly impossible: They've made us feel sorry for them.

Feeling something—anything—kind toward the Raiders requires a mental rewiring that is unnerving and alarming and altogether foreign, like the first time your heart goes out to a high school bully turned unemployed dishwasher. But here are the Raiders after their first two games, averaging 2.7 yards a play and two third-down conversions a game, and tied for the league lead in lost fumbles. It's enough to put a lump in our throats, man, no matter how much we hate to admit it.

Start at the top, with Al Davis, because everything with the Raiders starts with him. The legendary owner doesn't love to just win, baby; He wants to win his way. For most of his 44 years as owner or coach, he's had his fingers in the game plan. And it was kind of cute back in the John Madden and Tom Flores Super Bowl days. Because for all his micromanaging and moving the team around California and lawsuits against the NFL and legendary fits of rage, Davis is a Hall of Famer. He's been asked to induct more players and coaches into Canton (nine) than any other owner, because he actually is—or at least was—a football genius.

But since Art Shell was fired the first time, after the 1994 season, only one Raiders coach out of five—Jon Gruden—has had a winning record. Naturally, this led to Davis' dipping into game plans with increasing frequency in recent years. In 2004, he told defensive coaches that they couldn't blitz— at all—because he didn't think they had fastenough personnel. In 2005, then-QB Kerry Collins wasn't throwing deep enough for Davis' taste, so the old man crawled out to practice, stood behind Collins and yelled, "Oh, come on, Kerry! If the receiver's even, he's leavin'! Throw the deep ball!"

Age, though, is eating away at the 77-year-old Davis, who can't quite meddle the way he used to. Coaches were once required to give their boss a status report after every practice; now Davis is usually napping. In years past, Davis studied free agents with scoutlike intensity; now his staff puts together a tape of a player's 15 best plays and 15 worst plays for his review. He's always used the back entrance to the Raiders' locker room, the one that plops him in the space between the lockers and the showers, so he can harangue his players with digs like "What the hell were you doing on play No. 17?" But now Davis is slower getting to the locker room, which allows the players to skirt the confrontation.

It really is sad. See, we need Al's tirades. We need the Davis-cam catching all of his four-letter fits during games. We need him sharp enough to slap a lawsuit on Roger Goodell the moment the new commissioner missteps. That's what makes the Raiders so wonderfully despicable. How can you kick the old man when he can't kick back?

So with Davis inching toward help-I've-fallenand-I-can't-get-up status, the blame for the dysfunctional Raiders falls squarely on new (old) coach Art Shell and his offensive coordinator, Tom Walsh. But no one with a conscience wants to blame them. Shell and Walsh are generous, classy guys who had the wisdom to eventually get out of their headsets after Davis fired them 12 seasons ago. Shell bounced around as an assistant coach for six years before becoming VP of football operations with the NFL. Walsh opted for the peace of the Idaho mountains, where he was elected mayor of Swan Valley and ran the Hansen Guest Ranch B&B.

But coaches never lose that itch for playbooks and whistles and pressure. So when Davis offered Shell the gig—after the Raiders had been rejected by Ken Wisenhunt, Mike Martz, Al Saunders, Bobby Petrino, Colin Powell and Tony Kornheiser—the big man jumped. And you can't blame Shell and Walsh for wanting one more crack at the Silver and Black, even if nobody else wanted the gig.

With Davis more hands-off, Shell has a broader mandate. And that would be good if his playbook weren't the game-planning equivalent of dial-up Internet. Shell's offense calls for the deep ball—over and over and over again. That's why the Raiders signed Aaron Brooks, who, if nothing else, can wing it. But there really is nothing else. The offense is a mess. The routes the receivers are running take too long to develop, and the linemen can't hold their blocks. So far, Brooks' longest completion is 20 yards. Dick Vermeil calls it the most inept offense he's ever seen.

In their 27-0 season-opening home loss to the Chargers, the Raiders couldn't even keep their Shauns straight. They shifted the offensive line to block Shaun Phillips—a good pass-rusher who was a backup until linebacker Steve Foley was shot by an off-duty policeman in August. That left Shawne Merriman, perhaps the league's best defender at the moment, single-blocked all game.

After the Ravens knocked out Brooks on Sept. 17 (he's out for two weeks with a shoulder injury), Shell was asked why he keeps setting up his QB to get maimed. He denied that was the case and claimed the Raiders weren't even calling any seven-step drops. Not so, Ron Jaworski told the San Jose Mercury News. Jaws counted 13 such drops in the Raiders' 28-6 loss to the Ravens.

It seems as though there's not a single dumpoff play in Shell's playbook. Last year, LaMont Jordan had 70 receptions. This season, the next time any Raiders running back catches a pass will be the first time. "I don't know if the offense is outdated," says tailback Justin Fargas. "It's what they did in the past. It's a throwback offense." Or, as one GM says, "Art and Tom have been out of the league for so long for a reason."

Meanwhile, the little things Shell has done well have been overlooked. He's taken a team of Pro Bowl-caliber disruptions and turned them into a straight line of lemmings following him right over the cliff. One day during training camp, when the players grew sick of Shell's full-contact practices, they defied his orders by walking onto the field in just shorts and jerseys. Shell had only to point to the locker room for these players—these alleged "personalities" he can't control—to turn around and get suited up. Name a Raiders starter who's appeared in the police blotter since Shell arrived last February. There isn't one.

And Randy Moss? After making his living as an All-Pro enigma, he's now neither. Moss doesn't skip plays anymore, nor does he give traffic cops a lift down the street. He's a model citizen. Of course, when bar conversations shift to the game's great wideouts, Moss' name doesn't come up, not even from the drunks. Enigmas are supposed to thrive in Oakland. But in 18 games as a Raider, Moss has caught only 66 passes and scored just eight touchdowns. And when he tries to pop off, tries to be a distraction, tries to be, you know, a Raider, he says something so nonsensical—"It's crazy around here, man. It's something that we're trying to hold on to, man, and, hopefully, Coach Art can move us in the right direction, man, so I'm just trying to stay away from all of that stuff this year, like I did last year, and hopefully, we can win some games"—that it falls flat. "I'm really not sure what he was intending with that," says guard Barry Sims.

That's okay, Barry; no one else knows either.

If you feel sorry for Shell, if you ache for the old Moss, then you surely can sign a Get Well Soon card for left tackle Robert Gallery, the second-overall pick in the 2004 draft who enters stadiums to the chant of "Man-da-rich! Man-da-rich!" He's out two to four weeks with a calf injury, but whenever he plays, the Raiders faithful want to know why he stinks. Here are some reasons: He's had five different position coaches in the past three years: Aaron
Kromer, Jim Colletto and the trio of Jackie Slater, Irv Eatman and occasionally Shell, a Hall of Fame left tackle. This is Slater's first coaching job. Ever. Mix in the fact that Gallery has played right guard, right tackle and left tackle in three years for two different offensive schemes, and it's no wonder that he looks, as one rival scout says, "like he's lost, like something's missing." Consistency, maybe?

Even the Raiders' cost of ineptitude is higher than it is for other teams. Oakland has spent a league-high 61% of its cap space on offense. That's not solely out of desperation. Some agents jack up their clients' contract demands when dealing with Oakland, under the theory that if players are going to jump into the abyss, they might as well be well-compensated.

See, there's no joy in wishing ill will on a team that's gone 13—37 in its past 50 games. It feels like piling on to derive pleasure from Shell's daze during postgame press conferences. Hell, if the zebras are finding a soft spot for Oakland—its total of 26 penalties isn't even close to the league's top spot—is it any wonder we are too?

And maybe there's hope for all of us. The Monday after losing to the Ravens, Raiders safety Jarrod Cooper stood before his teammates with a simple plea: "We're going around the room, and I want everyone to say two things about what they like about this team." Believe it or not, every player pulled it off. When the meeting adjourned, says defensive end Grant Irons, "We not only felt like we could win, but win together."

Please do. We really miss hating you.

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