Ramsey: Raiders' Davis still scary, but lacks fire

I was sitting at a football game, minding my business, when a man a few feet away slammed his fist on a table and cussed at the limits of his lungs.

I looked over — we all looked over — to see a man with a greasy ducktail hairdo and a face filled with homicidal rage.

We were looking at Al Davis, emperor of the Raiders. This was an October afternoon in 1990, and Al’s Raiders were getting pounded by the Buffalo Bills on the edge of Lake Erie.

In those days, Davis remained scary good. He had built one of the most successful franchises in sports history, and there’s no doubt he did it his way.

It’s been depressing to watch Davis as he tumbles. He’s still scary, but now he’s scary bad. The Broncos travel to Oakland on Sunday to face the Raiders, who have lost 61 of their past 82 games.

They lost the day I sat next to him. We were separated by a thin, transparent plastic wall, and he put on a great show.

The Raiders led, 24-14, heading into the fourth quarter. And then the fun began. The Bills scored 24 unanswered points to win.

After every Bills score, Davis traveled deep into the land of anger. The fist came down. The voice rose to the heights. He remained the full, frightening version of the NFL’s evil mastermind.

That seems a long time ago. Last September, I caught a glimpse of Davis at Oakland Coliseum.

Davis, who turned 80 on July 4, was moving slowly behind his walker. He was pale, and I could barely detect the seething fire that had carried him and his Raiders so far.

He had once frightened football fans all over the Front Range. It was strange to feel pity for the football’s ultimate rebel/winner.

It didn’t used to be this way.

Rich “Tombstone” Jackson is one of the Broncos all-time defensive greats. He played defensive end from 1967-72, days when Davis and the Raiders were soaring.

“I’ll tell you what,” Jackson said, “I adored Al Davis. He had that mystique that surrounded him, but I never had a problem with him.”

Before games, Jackson talked with Davis about obscure college prospects. Davis knew every one. He was, Jackson said, the game’s ultimate scout and strategist.

The Broncos’ Floyd Little, who led the NFL in rushing in 1971, has a similar view. He admired the way Davis took eccentric football outlaws — John Matuszak, Ted Hendricks, Jack Tatum — and blended them into a powerful team.

“I don’t know how Al did it,” Little said, “but he did it.”

Yes, he did. Davis guided the Raiders to five Super Bowls and three titles. For decades, Davis signed the right players, hired the right coaches.

He was the master.

He was. And that’s the problem.