We were unwinding after having taken in some of the sights in Denver over the weekend. We boarded the capital city’s light rail toward our destination, which is about as close to the center of town as one can get.
Benji, our youngest son, and his family put us up for the night in a 24-story apartment house that places Ben a short block from where he works. And what is that work? Doing computers or something. What else does anyone his age do for a living nowadays?
It was a fine reunion, as we got together with our oldest son, Stan Adam, his wife and two young daughters. They came from a bit farther away: Denmark, as it was their turn to head west.
Around 9:30 p.m., we were the only rail passengers — until groups of noisy young adults boarded and sat in the car we had occupied. I enjoyed listening in on their chats. It seemed that each one increased his or her volume to make a point. Remember: In today’s society, the louder and more emphatic you are, the more veracity your comments carry.
We found the 12 to 15 boarders to be intelligent, well informed, respectful of one another — and strongly opinionated. But before revealing more of their speech contributions, let me stress that I’m constantly assessing others, wondering whether these Denver college students speak the way we do in Las Vegas. Except for the fact that any point of contention meant that one or two — or several of them — increased their volume to help them slap on the exclamation point.
I tuned in to the group discussion because one of them had mentioned the Oakland (soon to be Las Vegas, Nevada) Raiders, in the context of the coming football season. Let me also stress that it’s heresy if someone says anything unkind about my Raiders, who sometimes even manage to beat their intra-conference rivals.
A longtime Raider fan, I was asked by one of my sons why I backed our car into the driveway of a motel we stayed at while in Denver some 20 years ago. Well, it turns out that right next to our car was another car with an Oakland Raider license plate frame that had practically been wrenched out of place. Apparently it’s quite all right to use this kind of welcome, as long as the cars belong to the other team’s fans. So we backed in our car and suffered no damage, no Mile-High greeting card.
Surprisingly, my sons are free to follow teams of their choice. Stan has no favorite; Diego likes the Tennessee Titans and Ben is a Giants fan. Why am I a Raider fan? Because many of us, in the ‘60s marveled at the skills of Highlands Cowboys running back Carl Garrett. He’s the one who beat out O.J. Simpson as Rookie of the Year in a Sporting News poll. Teamed with Las Vegas’ own Ben Cortez, the Cowboy backfield was formidable.
Regrettably, years later Garrett served time in prison after being convicted of a sex crime.
But Garrett or not, I have always loved the Oakland Raiders. On the opening page of my personal laptop, there’s an image of a Raider sweatshirt with the words: “God first; family second; Oakland Raiders third.”
A former Highlands student and Luna Community College employee, Tom Herrera, once said he believed I would root for the Raiders even if they became the Ayatollah Khomeini Raiders.
Tom is correct.
The college crew that hopped our train chose the one topic — the Oakland Raiders — that cemented my attention. In their let’s-see-who’s-the-loudest manner, they dared criticize the team I love. And, obviously being Denver students, they said only nice things about Oakland’s biggest rivals.
Being outnumbered, we Trujillos obviously listened in but didn’t chip in. It was nevertheless interesting to feel and hear the vitriol the Denverites spewed.
One of them, a shirtless young man with wall-to-wall tattoos, corrected a young lady’s pronunciation of the team from Oakland. She had said “Raiders,” but the tattooed male pronounced it “Rrrraiders,” making the repeated consonants sound like a primeval roar. Soon anybody’s mention of the great team from the Bay Area came with an exaggerated repetition of the letter “r,” but not intended as a compliment.
It was a long train ride whose sole topic was the fierce rivalry between the two West Coast Conference teams. I’d either never known, or maybe I had forgotten incidents in which fans had been beaten up by the other team’s supporters, just for wearing a jacket or jersey representing the other side. It’s happened both ways, often in the parking lot, long after the game has been settled.
The tattooed youth referred to incidents that occurred long before he had been born.
My son Ben asked later if I’d join him at an upcoming Bronco-Raider game. How much, Ben? “Oh, I think we could get some pretty good tickets for about $250 apiece,” he answered. Could that be true? I don’t have the energy or desire to check ticket prices, possibly because paying that much to watch a game we could catch on TV seems obscene. Yet a number of Las Vegas acquaintances have shelled out big bucks to watch the Dallas Cowboys or Arizona Cardinals. I choose to remain uninformed as to the prices people pay to augment the salaries of those multi-millionaires of the turf.
As the train ride ended, at Lincoln Station, miles from our starting point, one of the students apologized to us “for making so much noise on the train and talking only about football.”
I replied that I had enjoyed every word of it, but the way I said that might have also implied that I would soon be in Mile High Stadium, cheering on — the Broncos.
And that, dear readers, is not going to happen.