Back in the day, when his NFL franchise was scary instead of satire, Al Davis sat so close behind me at old Mile High Stadium I could feel the spittle on the back of my neck when he cursed.
During games in Denver, Davis refused the kindness of an owner’s box, so he sat alongside the ink-stained wretches in the press box, always a row in back of me. I called him Darth Raider. It was a term of endearment.
When the Broncos scored, the mood of Davis turned as black his team’s uniforms, and he offered an unrelenting stream of colorful commentary.