Oakland Raiders owner Al Davis shuffled into the room. This was July 2007. He was emaciated and he had open sores on his face, partly hidden by Band-Aids. He was in his late seventies and his body was breaking down. He would openly complain to anyone who would listen that he could not dominate death. Who could? Dominate was a significant word in his lexicon along with cocksucker. In four years, he’d be dead.
He wanted to talk about Bill Walsh’s recent death. Davis was sore at Walsh for not fighting harder against death. He would tell reporters that Walsh -- who finally gave up treatment for leukemia, who didn’t want to live a life like that – gave up too soon. “Bill was preparing for something that I thought could be forestalled,” Davis said. Davis would have fought like hell.
Davis was a crude man and Walsh was not. Walsh admired Davis’ crudeness but was also appalled by it. I think Davis liked Walsh more than Walsh liked Davis. Walsh once told me he and Davis were having dinner at a fancy place and some fan, obviously drunk, walked over to them, said it was amazing to see these two giants of football together. Davis and Walsh shook his hand, but the man didn’t leave.
“Did you get what you need?” Davis finally asked.
“Yes,” the fan said
“Then get the fuck out of here.”
Walsh laughed telling me that story. He admired that Davis took no shit. But in certain ways, Davis was a phony. He wanted people to believe he had been a first-rate athlete. Not true. He was a reasonable junior-varsity athlete in basketball and football, never more than that. Yet in high school and college at Syracuse he managed to insert himself into team photos. He was Zelig. He hung around with real athletes, created the illusion he was one of them.
So, in July 2007 Davis shuffled into the large conference room at the Napa Marriott where the Raiders held their preseason camp. He saw me and winced. I criticized his team. I wasn’t loyal, although loyalty is not a relevant concept for a journalist. And he didn’t like that I called him “Al.” Most of the media called him Mr. Davis, a man with a title. But I had called Bill Walsh “Bill” and Carmen Policy “Carmen” and Ed DeBartolo “Eddie,” and they didn’t take offense. So, what was this Mr. Davis stuff?
There was something else. We were two Jewish guys from Flatbush, Brooklyn. We knew each other’s neighborhoods, talked with the same accent, yet we never had been close. From his point of view, my fault.
He had attended Erasmus Hall High School. I went to Midwood. Rival schools. Erasmus’ list of attendees is startling: Bobby Fischer, Bernard Malamud, Barbra Streisand, Bob Arum, Clara Bow, Billy Cunningham, Jerry Reinsdorf, Beverly Sills, Mickey Spillane, Barbara Stanwyck, Eli Wallach, Mae West.
At Midwood we had Woody Allen. Period. Erasmus was the school with the rich history and Al knew it. As he carefully made his way into the conference room, he spotted me sitting front row center, and said, “Lowell Cohn,” his tone acid.
“Hi, Al,” I said.
He proceeded to tell me and everyone in the room that he had recently been with Bill Walsh at Walsh’s deathbed, keeping the death vigil. He told Walsh he finally had figured out why Lowell Cohn doesn’t like him.
Walsh asked why.
“Because my high school always kicked his high school’s ass in football.”
I stared at Al. Was he serious?
Here are the problems I have with Al’s story.
He really, honestly, sincerely talked to Walsh about me and Midwood High School football with Walsh just hours away from death? Doubtful.
And Walsh, who was about to meet his maker or go to heaven or solve life’s greatest mystery, was actually interested in the Midwood-Erasmus rivalry – two schools he knew nothing about. This was what Walsh’s life came down to, Midwood-Erasmus?
Al expected me, a man in his sixties at the time, someone who had lived in California more than forty years, to care about Erasmus kicking Midwood’s ass. For real?
Out of curiosity, I looked up the Midwood-Erasmus rivalry my three years at Midwood. For some reason, I couldn’t find the scores, but I found Erasmus’ record: 0-6 in 1959, 2-5 in 1960, and 3-4 in 1961, so Erasmus wasn’t kicking anyone’s ass back then.
Neither was Al in 2007 and after.
I have thought about that day over the years. Thought about what Al did, really did. He had called a news conference to talk about Walsh’s death, the death of a great man in his world and in the entire sports world. But Al made the day about himself, something he always managed to do. Walsh, who was the center of the story, moved to the periphery in Al’s narration to us. It was all about Al: Al had been on Walsh’s deathwatch; Al encouraged Walsh to fight harder against death; Al got credit for being the loyal friend; Al had initiated the conversation about high school football, which clearly was about him and not about Walsh. Walsh, the dying man, became Al’s audience. Al was the star in the story of Walsh’s life and death, and Walsh became a supporting character.
Al already was suffering from muscular degeneration, which would kill him. He told us the condition was minor. He was lying to himself. Walsh’s death frightened him. “My contemporaries are just leaving me,” Al often said in a sad voice. That was the real meaning of his speech that day. He was scared for himself. As he stared at me and talked nonsense about high school, talked about kicking Midwood’s ass and by implication my ass, he knew the truth. He would never kick death’s ass. Walsh had proved that. Al looked into the room of reporters and saw his train coming, coming toward him, saw his name and death date inscribed on the locomotive, saw it roaring down the track.
Excerpted from my book Gloves Off: 40 Years of Unfiltered Sports Writing
I'm thrilled that you are writing columns again, Lowell. I live in the Philippines now but lived in the Bay area from 1975-1992. I enjoyed your columns and followed you whenever and wherever I could once I left the Bay area. Thank God for the internet! I enjoy Grant's YouTube links and especially LOVE the Cohn Zohn (sp?) with the two of you. Thank you for many years of keeping me informed in the most humane way! Take care and say hello to Grant. The love that you two have for each other is obvious.
Great observations about Al Davis and Brooklyn. My HS Brooklyn Tech was the football powerhouse in Brooklyn and NYC in my days - late 50s early 60s. My sister and Friends attended Midwood and Erasmus. Never heard a peep about football. Which current delusional public New Yorker reminds you of Al?