The Cobos family is a minority among Nebraska football fans. Originally, we hailed from a small town in Northern California, where an Oakland Raider fan is truly among his own kind. Migrating east, the only chance we ever had of seeing Raider football was on the rare occasion when local television stations didn�t show the Broncos.
My father had lived in the Bay Area for years, and had been a Raider fan since before I was born. His first encounter with our beloved team was interesting enough: He saw the logo stuck to the window of a car in San Jose. His immediate guess was that the Raider emblem was the logo of a local pest exterminator company. Soon after, he was informed who the Raiders were and he rapidly grew fond of them.
They were unlike any football team he had ever witnessed. They seemed so sinister and brutish, quite a shocking image in the day and age of clean cut, All-American, choirboy football icons. Even to this day, the Raiders and their fanatical supporters seem to represent a kind of criminal element in the NFL. True or not, the Cobos family always liked an underdog and the Raiders were perfect.
Shortly after marrying the woman of his dreams, the oldest son of the clan, yours truly, decided to move to Phoenix, Arizona to see a bigger piece of the world. The change of scenery was refreshing and there was always that remote chance of occasionally seeing the Raiders play the Cardinals in Sun Devil Stadium. The Raiders never came to town during brief stay, regrettably, but a football fan is a football fan.
The Denver Broncos made their way to Arizona that year, to play the lowly Cardinals in a preseason game. It was the exhibition game of the year, and Cardinal fans were eager to get their first glimpse of the team they loved. Sadly, an equal and arrogant number of Denver fans made it to the game as well.
Being the good nature chap that I am, I decided to wear Cardinal team colors to cheer for Denver�s adversary. Though a proud Raider fan, I felt that wishing evil to fall upon our hated rival was an appropriate course of action, regardless of what colors I was wearing.
I learned a dismal reality that day: The Arizona Cardinal breed of football fan is a peculiar one indeed. Jake Plummer scored a quick touchdown in the first quarter, sending half of Sun Devil Stadium into an uproar. I joined them, for this was my first professional football game, and I was excited to see the Broncos get what was coming to them.
Much to my dismay, Denver tore the Cardinals apart the rest of the game, and people started to head home by halftime. The experience was decent enough: This was my first NFL game. I enjoyed shouting at Terrell Davis, who warmed up on the field below me, that Oakland would soon end his career. Despite wearing my newly-purchased Cardinal gear, however, I didn�t feel part of something special.
There were plenty of fans about, but it seemed as though no one was willing to converse with or even acknowledge their fellow football fans around them. For all practical purposes, it had the bashful atmosphere of a junior high dance.
A lonely month or so afterward, in October, my father called me from Nebraska. He and the rest of my family planned on driving to San Jose to spend a week with relatives. Immediately, I told my father I would call him back and grabbed the nearest copy of the Raiders� 2000 schedule.
Seattle! Oakland was playing Seattle at home on the very week that my family would be there. Immediately, I went online and purchased two of the best seats the website had to offer. Unfortunately, it was on the very top row of the end zone opposite to The Black Hole. Nevertheless, the pilgrimage to Raider Mecca had to be made. I was about to take my father, who has been a loyal fan since the late Sixties, to our very first Oakland Raider game.
When the news of our Sunday activity reached my father�s ears, he was absolutely speechless. Years of watching silver and black images on the television were suddenly about to come to life. Our dream of watching the Raiders, in the house of Lamonica, the house of Stabler, the house of Plunkett, was about to come true.
Upon arriving at the HoT, we tailgated with my cousin Joey, a season ticket holder. I watched the black-clad football fans walk past, in amazement. Most were smiling. Many of the misfits glanced our way, and nodded in private (almost loving) approval. To my absolute disbelief, I started recognizing some of the faces that walked by.
Darth Raider, in full gear, strode past our tailgate, shouting something inaudible through his stifling mask. Another fan carried what looked like a severed leg, still clothed in what I can assume were Seahawk pants. There was an electricity in the air�.one that was conspicuously absent during the Cardinal game. This was no ordinary venue of professional football fans. I was home.
We were impatient to see the Coliseum, so we left the company of my cousin and made our way into the Net. We were dizzy with anticipation while walking through the corridors, until finally, opening before us, was the field. We were immediately facing the end zone, and the first thing I saw was Lechler�s practice punt sailing high into the air, while the rest of the Raiders were busy warming up.
From our vantage point, we could see the entire field, and once the game began, nearly every seat, save the nosebleeds on Mount Davis, were filled. The stadium looked like a swarming mass of silver and black. On the other end of the field, a restless ocean of chaos, was The Black Hole. To this day, I swear that I could hear them from where I sat.
It was the noisiest place I ever heard. We were in the top row, and around the entire perimeter of the Coliseum, people were yelling and stomping with ear-splitting consistency. Those standing on the top row were fiercely banging on the metal fence that separated the seats from a deadly fall to the parking lot. The place shook with fury and I loved every minute of it.
The Raiders ripped the Seahawks to pieces that day, 31-3. With two minutes to go in this massacre of a game, people began filing out of the stadium. Around that time, we dared to venture to the lower seats to get a better look. By the time we made it down, we were disappointed to find that most of the Raiders have headed into the locker room. Among the last players to depart was Greg Biekert, and I enthusiastically shouted his name after him. I couldn�t be entirely sure, but I think he looked my way.
As we headed out of the stadium, we spotted another celebrity: The Violator. Not able to help myself, I swallowed my innate shyness and confronted him. �Hey Violator! Great game, eh?� He seemed such a genuinely nice person and much larger than I ever anticipated. He jawed with us for a few minutes, sharing his enthusiasm with my father and I. To this day, I grind my teeth in anger for not bringing a camera to the game.
Throughout the pilgrimage, I was a myriad of emotions. My voice was stripped bare. I had spent the last three hours hugging complete strangers and giving a lifetime�s worth of high-fives. Had I been anywhere else in the world, I would have certainly made a fool of myself.
I will always carry the memory of striding on the lower deck path around the field, with thousands of Raider fans directly above me. Looking up, with a crazed look in my eye, I wondered how many people noticed us walking here during a TV timeout.
�RAIDERS!� I insanely shouted at the top of my lungs, addressing the people directly above me.
�RAIDERS!!� was the overwhelming answer from the crowd. It was one of the most exhilarating moments in my life.
While my sentiments were vocal, my father had a strange smile on his face. It was one of pride and gratitude for a team that embodied the underdog. In four different decades, he had cheered on the Silver and Black, never seeing, in person, the heroes that he talked about so passionately. Surrounded by thousands of Raider fans, Richard Cobos was finally among his own. When the moment arose, he didn�t have to utter a word: His face said it all.
�I�ll never forget this day.�
And neither will I.
-Eastbay