Committed to Excellence

The NFL lost a legend today.

The Oakland Raiders lost an owner.

I lost a piece of my life.

Al Davis, who led the Raiders through good.

And into bad.

Passed away this morning.

I’m not sure exactly when my dad first met Al Davis.

But they first worked together in 1966 when Mr. Davis was the Commissioner of the AFL.

Over the years they remained close friends.

And when the Raiders moved to Los Angeles in 1982, Davis brought my dad in to work for the team.

That was quite the move for my dad.

As he was working for the New York Yankees at the time.

Steinbrenner to Davis.

Frying Pan to Fryer.

Both owners had quite a bit in common.

They both LOVED winning.

Both HATED losing.

And both were born on the 4th of July.

One year apart.

Davis was older.

There was a lot that people thought they knew about these two men.

But my dad lived it.

And I think he genuinely loved almost every minute of it.

He certainly loved being part of a World Series team in 1981.

And a Super Bowl team in 1983.

I have the rings to prove it.

But neither one of those moments would’ve happened without the owner.

What made Al Davis different is that he was not just the man in charge of the team.

He was the man in charge.

Off the field and on it.

At the age of 33, the Raiders hired Davis to become their head coach and general manager.

With that, he became the youngest person in professional football history to hold those two positions.

Now there are plenty of bosses, in every business, who think they know everything.

But Al did.

He became the principal owner of the Raiders in 1972 and held that position.

Until 7:44 this morning.

Under Davis, the team won three Super Bowls.

That’s the stuff the people know.

Or the stuff you can read at wikipedia.

But thanks to my dad, I was brought into a world of Al Davis that most people never knew.

Some of it Raiders related.

Some not.

For example, when the Raiders moved to LA, they put a bunch of posters on the side of city buses.

The posters had catch phrases.

Like “Commitment to Excellence.”

Or “Pride and Poise.”

Or something catchy like that.

But no phone number.

When my dad asked his boss why that was he said, “if we win they will find us.”

I guess it was his version of “if you build it, he will come.”

Or a pre-cursor to “just win baby.”

The words that Davis uttered when we won our last Super Bowl in 1984.

The moniker that will be Davis’ legacy.

Al Davis was a very public figure, but he lived a plenty private life too.

One thing people may not know about the Raiders owner is that he was Jewish.

Like my dad.

Maybe that’s why they got along so well.

I’m sure Al did his fair share of praying in private.

But when it came to the holiest of the Jewish High Holidays, he did his praying with us.

At a tiny orthodox synagogue in the heart of LA’s most Jewish neighborhood.

A black town car would pull up to the front of the temple at the beginning of the service.

And a man would come out of the back seat and strut into the building.

That man was Al Davis.

Inside the building there were no more than 200 people. 

More than half of which were men.

Old Jewish men.

These old Jewish men had no idea who Al Davis was.

No idea who the Raiders were.

And no idea what they were missing.

But they knew he was special. 

They just didn’t know how special.

He would always sit in the front row.

Do his own praying.

Presumably for a Raiders win.

Shake a few hands.

And get back in his town car.

Until the next holiday.

There is certainly a hidden irony here for me that the passing of Al Davis came on October 8, 2011.

The same day as Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement.

The holiest day of the Jewish year.

I’m not sure exactly how religious Al Davis was.

But there is no doubt he was looking for any advantage he could get.

I always knew he respected my dad.

But I didn’t know just how much until the early morning of June 30, 2002.

That’s when I picked up the phone and called Mr. Davis at home.

I informed him that my dad died.

Suddenly.

From a massive heart attack.

The only thing I could hear on the other end of the line was crying.

“No. No. No.”

It’s a moment I will never forget.

Unfortunately I had to share this terrible news with many people.

But nobody reacted the way that Al Davis did.

We spoke for what felt like forever.

Even though it was probably closer to ten minutes.

And he ended by saying if there is anything you need, let me know.

It was a nice offer, but I didn’t expect it to go anywhere.

I was wrong.

A few weeks later I got a call from a high ranking person in the Raiders organization.

He said they wanted to talk to me about a job.

I wasn’t sure what kind of job they were talking about.

But they flew me up to Oakland and interviewed me.

Even after the interview, I still wasn’t sure what kind of job they were talking about.

In hindsight, I’m not sure there really was a job.

But Mr. Davis was just trying to do whatever he could.

He wasn’t done there. 

There was an amazing memorial service for my dad, attended by more than 500 people.

Including Mr. Davis.

Paid for by Mr. Davis.

All of it.

I’m not sure he wanted anybody to know that.

So I didn’t say anything.

Until now.

I hope that’s ok.

Mr. Davis spoke at the service and shared stories about my dad (and me) that entertained the crowd.

And eased the pain of our loss.

That was the last day that Mr. Davis and I spoke.

I still watch every Raiders game.

Religiously.

And I have passed on my undying love for the Raiders to my son.

Just as Al Davis is passing on the ownership of the Raiders to his son.

RIP Mr. Davis.

Mission Accomplished

It wasn’t quite like inviting a Red Sox fan to Yankee Stadium.

Or Michele Bachmann to an ACLU convention.

But I got quite the invite on Thursday night.

Let me take a step back.

So there we were.

At a neighborhood gathering.

When one of the dads came up to me.

I've known this dad for about five years.

And we’ve spoken many times.

About life.

Parenthood.

Bob Dylan.

Religion.

Not necessarily in that order.

Sometimes we've even mixed two of those ingredients.

Like the time I sang him the lyrics to Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited:

Oh God said to Abraham, "Kill me a son"

Abe says, "Man, you must be puttin' me on"

God say, "No." Abe say, "What ?"

God say, "You can do what you want Abe, but

The next time you see me comin' you better run"

Well Abe says, "Where do you want this killin' done ?"

God says. "Out on Highway 61".

We both love that song.

For different reasons.

I love Dylan.

He loves the Bible.

I love the band Genesis.

He loves the book of Genesis.

Hey whatever works.

He is what I would call a VERY religious man.

Notice the CAPS.

His choice of religion is Christianity.

Now just in case the CAPS didn’t convince you.

Here’s some backup.

Every Sunday morning he teaches a class.

A Bible class.

Attended by about 500 people.

Sold yet?

Well he is well aware of my Jewish heritage.

And my Korean Catholic wife.

And he is also aware that we have taken the fifth when it comes to raising our kids under a certain religion.

What's the rush -- my oldest daughter is only 14.

Now growing up I went to synagogue every Saturday.

Went.

Past tense.

I don't go anymore.

In fact, the last time I was in a house of worship was April 15, 2009.

It was the L.A. Sports Arena.

For a Bruce Springsteen concert.

Now don't get me wrong.

I believe in God.

And I love religion.

Or at least the idea of religion.

Any religion.

As long as it works for you.

But it really caught me off guard when my friend threw this proposal at me: 

“What do you think about coming to our church sometime?”

Say what?

Considering the time and the place of the question, it came more out of left field than Matt Holliday.

Now before my sarcasm leaves you with the wrong impression.

Let me say that not only did I truly respect what he was saying.

But I honestly appreciated the thought.

Now I'm not big on being preached to.

None of us are.

But I think waiting five plus years to ask that question.

A question he probably wanted to ask on day 1.

I think he waited long enough.

But still the question caught me way off guard.

Did he just ask a Jewish guy to join a Christian church?

At a BBQ?

By God he did.

No pun intended.

But I took a deep breath.

Gathered my thoughts.

And fumbled my way through the answer.

Like I was Wendell Tyler.

I certainly didn’t want to come off as being disrespectful.

And while attending a church is not important to me.

It is to him.

So I said things like.

“My wife and I have never really put a major emphasis on any one religion in our house.”

Duh?

“And we approach faith from a different perspective.”

Whatever that means.

“And I don’t think that’s for us right now.”

Oh, that was a good one.

Based on my brilliant answers, I think he got the idea that his offer was one I could refuse.

At least for now.

He made one last ditch effort.

Saying that not only could I bring my own Starbucks into the church.

But there is actually a Starbucks in their church.

Now he’s getting dirty.

He really knows that straight line to my heart.

But somehow I resisted the offer.

For now.

But it definitely made me think.

And maybe just for that reason, asking the question served its purpose.

For now.

Oy Tannenbaum

When it comes to religion, my Jewish ancestors got a whole bunch of things right.

Matzo ball soup.

Fiddler on the Roof.

Rod Carew.

But nobody is perfect.

Who in the world signed off on making bacon illegal?

Now when it comes to creating a winter holiday for all the people to celebrate...

Advantage Christians.

Sure, Chanukah is fun.

Adam Sandler’s song is a classic.

I love them Potato Latkes.

And the idea of getting gifts on eight consecutive nights is a great concept.

Especially for a kid.

But nothing compares to Christmas.

The music.

The tree.

The bearded superhero.

Sure, my people have tried to ride the coat tails of the Christians.

Introducing Hanukkah Harry and the Chanuka Bush to the young kids of today.

But we can’t even agree on how to spell our holiday.

According to something called joemaller.com, there are 16 ways to spell the festival of lights.

Clearly we need a new marketing firm.

Not to mention, every time I light the menorah, I feel like I am going to burn down the house.

Christmas, on the other hand, is as simple as they come.

Shop for presents.   Wrap the presents.   Open the presents.


Done.


I've never been to Midnight, Mass.


But my dad was born in Worcester.


Growing up in Southern California, we would always spend Christmas with some friends in the San Fernando Valley.

Like us, they had a Jewish father and a non-Jewish mother.

Although, mine converted.

So we would always pretend to celebrate both occasions.

But there was no doubt what the headlining holiday was.

Each year, us kids would wait at the top of the steps at 6:30 on Christmas morning.

Waiting for the ok to go downstairs to see what Santa brought us.

Santa?

Believe?

Hellz ya!

I never once questioned Santa.

I never once questioned Santa bringing me presents.

I never once questioned why Santa would bring presents to a Jewish kid from the San Diego Hebrew Day School.

And neither would you.

It’s all about the presents, right?

And the children of today are no different.

My kids have no idea what the nativity scene means.

But they sure know how to build a Gingerbread house.

My kids have no idea where the city of Bethlehem is located.

But they know exactly where to find their stocking.

My kids have no idea who Jesus is.

But my son can name the other Alou brothers.

Call me a traitor.

Call me a phony.

Call me anything you want, but I LOVE CHRISTMAS.

And I always will.

I love the lights.

I love the songs.

I love the gifts.

Ok, that last part has changed.

I used to love getting the gifts.

What kid doesn’t.

Now I love giving the gifts.

And I especially love the mystery surrounding it.

I love the idea that my three kids are sleeping in a room tonight with their three cousins.

And all they can do is talk, think and dream about what presents they are going to get in the morning.

And let’s not forget the annual traditions.

The egg nog.

The spiked egg nog.

The Lakers game.

As the great Apostle Zero Mostel once said...

“Tradition, Tradition!”

Wait a minute.

Advantage Jews.

Growing up, we NEVER opened a gift before Christmas morning.

It was torture as a kid, but that is one rule I won’t bend on.

How funny is that, the Orthodox Jewish kid won’t let his half-Jewish, half-Korean kids open up their Christmas gifts until Christmas morning.

And it’s not even my holiday.

Every year, they pretty much beg me to open one gift on Christmas Eve.

And every year, I say no.

Now there is a part of this holiday season that we can all agree to.

And that is the day after Christmas.

As in, the day after Christmas sales.

Or as I call it, the Jewish Christmas.

Nobody likes a deal more than us.

Merry Christmas to all.