Everywhere I went, I saw people donning purple hats and jackets and shirts. Once I arrived at the J.C. Penney’s in Eastpoint Mall – the official headquarters of Edwin Mulitalo’s “Festivus” merchandise, I might add – there were gobs of people flooding the specialty section devoted strictly to the Ravens. People were grabbing at the merchandise like it was the liquid of life. It was a most impressive selection of discounts and markdowns and shirts and hats and goodies.
A virtual sea of purple!
I found it amusing that some of these people were probably the same ones who didn’t want the Ravens to begin with, or fought the stadium’s construction, or couldn’t even name five Ravens three weeks earlier.
But, as predicted by me five years earlier – when the Orioles held the city’s imagination in a headlock – the Ravens now owned Baltimore.
Super Bowl fever and dreams of “Festivus Maximus” danced in the heads of Baltimoreans everywhere.
For my part, I dropped a hundred bucks that night, purchasing a black windbreaker, a sweatshirt and a black polo shirt. I had plenty of purple stuff, but navigating the unfriendly confines of Oakland forced a secondary, undercover plan of action.
I even dusted off my “Mean Machine” hat – the black and white, logo-less special that Jonathan Ogden and equipment manager Ed Carroll had given me in April 1996 at the Ravens’ first-ever draft in New York. It even had a hint of silver in it. Perfect for the occasion and symbolic as well – the hat had come full circle.
The locals would never spot me as a Ravens fan!
In the words of that stupid bear from the television commercials, “Safety First!”
Of course, upon my arrival in San Francisco on Thursday night, standing in line to check into my downtown hotel, even in my all-black disguise, a Raider fan, spotting the purple bird on my shirt, bluntly informed me, “We’re going to kick your asses all day on Sunday!”
Well, so much for me going into Oakland incognito.
On game day, it wasn’t as bad as I had been warned.
It was far worse.
Pulling up to the Coliseum around 9 a.m. PST, more than four hours prior to game time, I believed our passage into the stadium would be made easier by an early entry.
Perusing the parking lot, which was already completely full, it was easy to believe that these freaks had arrived sometime on Friday and had partied all weekend. The carnage, trash and smell emanating from the parking lot stirred up images of post-Preakness infield photos. It looked like a filthier version of Woodstock.
“When the buses pulled up I was on the lead bus,” Billick said. “Instead of pulling the bus underneath the stadium, I told the bus driver, ‘You can stop and let us out at the front gate about 150 yards before the tunnel. We’re going to walk the rest of the way, get a feel for the crowd.’ He looked at me like I was nuts. I smiled and said, ‘Keep going.’ I didn’t want to wreck a good suit.”
As the Ravens’ buses pulled in, they were pelted with insults, eggs and debris.
“I knew when I saw an 80-year-old grandmother flipping us off that it was not going to be a friendly crowd,” Billick said.
I got inside quickly and was scheduled to do J.T. “The Brick’s” radio show before game time. After getting a variety of dirty looks from the Raiders’ people in the press lounge – and I was dressed as conservatively as I’ve ever been for a Ravens game, home or away – I decided that going anywhere near that crowd before I had to would be a mistake. “The Brick” would have to understand my absence.
Instead, I sat glued to a television monitor, watching the Giants’ 41-0 pasting of the Vikings from the Meadowlands in the NFC Championship Game.
Just before game time, I emerged from the bowels of the stadium, searching for a safe place to watch the game. Inside the stadium bowl for warm-ups, it was every bit as menacing as promised. Beer flowed in the stands. The smell of freshly burning marijuana was in the air. Much of the green of the seats was covered in a sea of black apparel. Metallica blared on the sound system. It was as if the NFL had moved the AFC Championship Game to hell, and Raiders’ owner Al Davis was the gatekeeper.
I came in on the Raiders’ home side, around the 10-yard line. I quickly scanned the stadium for any swath of fandom where I could see any purple.
Right away, I saw Jamal Lewis’ purple No. 31 jersey on the club level at the far end zone. Looking more closely, I saw several purple jerseys in a club box. My mission was to get there and get there quickly.
After traversing the stadium for 15 minutes, I finally found the box and was welcomed in by Dave Rather, a guy I knew who happened to own Mother’s Bar and Grille in Federal Hill. The box was primitive by today’s lofty standards. Just some padded chairs and a waitress bringing drinks. No private bathroom. No special perks or frills. No hors d’oeuvres or chardonnay.
I didn’t need anything special, just the safest place I could find in Oakland that afternoon.
