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.

Playing Hooky

Wednesday marks the end of baseball’s regular season.

And the end of the worst fantasy baseball season I’ve ever had.

Considering I’ve been playing that make believe sport since 1987, that’s saying something.

But as much as I love the fantasy game, there’s nothing like going to a real one.

Our local team wrapped up its home schedule last week with one of those mid-week afternoon delights.

So I did what any good father would do.

I took my son out of school at 11 in the morning.

And we headed to the stadium.

When my son saw me waiting at the front desk, he thought for sure he’d been busted.

For what, he didn’t know.

But the last thing he expected to hear out of my mouth was...

“Do you want to go to the game today?”

You should’ve seen the smile on his face.

It was like I had asked him if he wanted to leave school early to go to a baseball game.

I knew he had a science test in the morning, so before we left I asked how he did.

“104%”, he said.

What?

Does he think I was born yesterday?

Percents only goes up to 100.

Before I could complain to the principal.

My son informed me he got the extra 4% for a bonus question.

Must be the new math.

So off to the game we went.

To say my son was excited about the day’s developments would be an understatement.

104% on his science test.

And now this.

On the way to the game I shared a story with my son that my dad had shared with me when I was around 12.

It went a little something like this.

My dad was raised in Jersey City, New Jersey.

A stone’s throw from New York City.

One beautiful spring day.

“The first beautiful day of the year.”

My dad and his buddies were walking to school.

As they got closer, one of the boys had a brilliant idea.

“Today is way too beautiful to go to school.  How ‘bout we play hooky and go to the Yankees game?”

What boy could say no to that?

So they zigged instead of zagging.

And headed towards the train station.

As the story goes, on their way there they ran into their teacher.

It was pretty obvious these boys were not headed to school.

But away from it.

So when the teacher said, “where are you going?”

The answer “school” wasn’t really an option.

So they took the leap of faith.

And told him the truth.

The teacher took a long pause.

Then said, “would you mind if I went with you?”

SAY HEY WHAT?

And off they went.

My dad said he treated them like kings.

Bought them peanuts.

AND cracker jacks.

Of course, everyone was sworn to secrecy.

Which my dad honored.

Until the time was right to share it with me.

I think my son loved that story as much as I did.

For our day of hooky, we got to the stadium more than an hour before the first pitch.

Unheard of for me.

But a perfect time to get him some autographs.

We worked our way down to the first base area where the home team comes out to the field.

And we waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

There must’ve been 372 people just like us.

Waiting for autographs.

Finally 31 minutes before the game, a handful of players came out to do their stretching.

May not have been all starting nine.

But there were at least seven.

Including the hot shot center-fielder who was greeted by a rousing cheer.

A cheer he didn’t even acknowledge.

Maybe he had his iPod in.

The multi-gazillionaire infielder followed him.

Now I realize that every second is precious.

But this was “fan appreciation day”.

I’m sure you could find a few seconds to make the day of a 12-year-old.

Even if it wasn’t my 12-year-old.

After all, you make 17 cents every second.

$10.46 a minute.

$627 an hour.

$15,068 a day.

$105,769 a week.

All guaranteed, whether he gives 104% or not.

He got on the field at 12:39.

Left at 12:57.

Never said a word.

Never looked our way.

“Did he sign an autograph?”, you say.

HA!

And neither did any of his teammates.


Not a one.


Sure my son was disappointed.

But nothing a footlong hot dog couldn’t cure.

I said “when you make the major leagues I hope you don’t forget how you feel right now.”

“I hope so too,” he said.

For the next three hours we sat in a baseball stadium.

And enjoyed every pitch.

And every hit.

It was a perfect day.

And a perfect game.

Maybe someday he will share this story with his son.

The One That Got Away

Hal Newhouser was a Major League Baseball pitcher.

Well not just any Major League Baseball pitcher.

He was a Hall of Fame baseball pitcher.

Had his #16 retired by the Detroit Tigers.

Won the American League Most Valuable Player in 1944.

Did it again in 1945.

Back to back.

The only pitcher to do that.

Ever.

During those two years, he started 70 games.

And won 54 of them.

In 1945 he won the pitching triple crown.

Led the American League in wins, ERA and strikeouts.

He is considered the best pitcher of the World War II era.

The man knew baseball.

Lived baseball.

And loved baseball.

Until he passed away in 1998.

After he retired from playing, he eventually became a scout.

For four teams.

In 1992, the 71-year old Newhouser was working for the Houston Astros.

His job was to discover talent in the Great Lakes.

And that year he discovered the big one.

At Kalamazoo Central High School in Michigan.

As a sophomore, the player had a batting average of .557.

As a junior, he hit .508.

As a senior, he also hit .508.

Those are staggering numbers in little league.

Those are outrageous numbers for a high school player.

But it was not the stats that impressed Newhouser.

It was something else.

“He’s got the softest hands I’ve ever seen.”

“That kid is something special.”

So special that Newhouser recommended the Astros take the player with the first overall pick in the 1992 draft.

But instead of selecting Newhouser’s diamond in the rough.

They went with the sure thing.

A sure thing named Phil Nevin.

Nevin had just led Cal State Fullerton to a second place finish in the College World Series.

Driving in an incredible 86 runs in just 61 games.

But it wasn’t the numbers on the field that made the Astros select Nevin.

It was the numbers in the dollar column.

The Astros decided they didn’t want to spend over $700,000 on the top pick.

And they didn’t think they could sign Newhouser’s prize.

Even though their super scout said it would cost only 50 grand more than they wanted to spend.

So they passed.

As did the next four teams.

That left the New York Yankees.

The team that spends money like it is growing on Phil Rizzuto’s Money Tree.

So with the sixth pick in the 1992 draft, the Yankees selected the player that Newhouser wanted.

The player was named Derek.

Derek Sanderson Jeter.

Maybe you’ve heard of him.

Newhouser was so upset that the Astros passed on Jeter.

He quit his job.

And left baseball.

The game he loved.

And never returned.

Nevin ended up playing 12 seasons in the Major Leagues.

1217 games.

But just 18 in an Astros uniform.

He drove in 743 runs.

But just one for Houston.

Meanwhile Jeter has done nothing short of spectacular.

Rewriting the record books.

The records that matter.

Jeter has more postseason hits than anyone.

Anyone in baseball history.

More postseason at bats than any player.

Any player in baseball history.

More postseason runs scored.

12-time All-Star.

Five gold gloves.

Four time Silver Slugger Award winner.

He has played in seven World Series.

And won five of them.

Last year he became the New York Yankees all-time hits leader.

More than Lou Gehrig.

And Mickey Mantle.

And Babe Ruth.

And Joe Dimaggio.

And Mike Pagliarulo.

More than any of them.

More than all of them.

And this weekend he should become the first player in Yankees history to reach 3,000 hits.

As I type this, he is four hits short of that milestone.

And he has done this by diving into the crowd.

To make a key catch.

And running across the field.

To make a key play.

And staying out of trouble.

To keep his name clean.

All of the ingredients it takes.

To be... special.

The special Newhouser saw.

Before anyone knew his name.