My wife went to her first NFL game. Now she's a citizen of Raider Nation

If the intergalactic funkologist and mothership connector George Clinton had his way, America would be one nation, living under a groove, getting down just for the funk of it. Sadly, George Clinton remains criminally under-appreciated, and America continues to be a divided nation, where an ever-expanding fracas of factions, tribes, and associations compete for the spotlight. This is the story of our journey into the silver and black heart of one such group—a band apart, if you will, known as Raider Nation.

A word about your intrepid explorers

Christina and I are casual football fans, which is something of an oxymoron because there’s nothing casual about football. After all, football is a battle for dominance and a celebration of brutality masquerading as a game. It’s also America’s official religion. Technically, the Constitution says you have the freedom to abstain from worshipping at the alter of the gridiron, but a much more powerful unwritten law demands that all real Americans pay tribute to the football gods on Sundays, Mondays, Thursdays, and late in the season, on Saturdays too.

On any given Sunday, the television in our home is tuned to NFL football, unless of course, Oliver Stone’s Any Given Sunday happens to be playing. For us, football on the television is comforting background content, like a screen saver, but with ads for beer, salty snacks, and life insurance. We watch whatever games the network executives and NFL blackout rules say we can watch, although here I use “watch” in the loosest sense of the word. The game is on, but so are our phones, and maybe the record player too, and magazines are handy, and sometimes I’m in the other room doing meal prep, but—and this is important—we are “watching” as far as the Nielsen ratings and our patriotic duty to worship at the alter of the gridiron are concerned.

We are among America’s football faithful, but the way we worship America’s official religion doesn’t include a commitment to a particular fandom. We are non-denominational football fans. Promiscuous pigskin disciples. Typically, Christina roots for the team that was the subject of HBO’s current season of Hard Knocks, or the team that’s playing against Tom Brady. I root for trick plays, injury-free games, and good audio (in honor of my father, who had the bright idea to put wireless mics on NFL refs so that neophytes and drunks could better understand the game).

Christina has never been to an NFL game. I’ve been to more than a dozen Super Bowls, thanks to my father, who worked on many Super Bowls and other NFL special projects during his career. Attending an NFL game together is something Christina and I have wanted to do together for a long time.

In recent years, we made some half-hearted inquiries into securing tickets for either the Rams or the Chargers at SoFi Stadium. But if I’m being honest, the appeal of pro football in returning to Los Angeles was far greater than the appeal of rooting for the Rams or the Chargers. On a recent trip to Cleveland, we wanted to go to a game, but the Browns were on the road that week. Similar scheduling issues often plague our trips to Florida when we visit Christina’s family, and now that Tom Brady plays for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, I fear Christina’s antipathy toward number 12 could get awkward. But as luck would have it, our recent trip to Las Vegas to visit my mom coincided with a Raiders home game against the Denver Broncos. So, we bought the tickets and took the ride deep into Raider Nation.

Welcome to the NFL

The Raiders used to play in Oakland, then Los Angeles, then Oakland again. They moved around a lot because raiders pillage, and pillaging is the kind of enterprise that makes it difficult to put down roots. Also, the Raiders wanted a new stadium with luxury boxes and made-for-television visuals. For some reason that couldn’t happen in California. But in Nevada, dreams come true, as long as those dreams are financed by taxes levied on tourists. The Raiders got their new stadium, and to demonstrate to the world that it would be the classiest stadium in the NFL, they sold the naming rights to Allegiant Airlines.

Christina and I left my mom’s house in Summerlin a little before noon. We drove to the Vegas strip and parked at the Delano Hotel for $35. Then we joined thousands of Raiders fans, and about three hundred Broncos fans, for the walk across the bridge that spans I-15 and leads to Allegiant Stadium.

The scene was an immediate assault on the senses. The hot desert sun roasted the Raider faithful in their silver and black jerseys. The smell of dank weed, spilled beer, and outlaw farts hung heavy in the air. Rowdy Raiders fans—a rhetorical redundancy if ever there was one—alternated between shouting “Raaaaiders” and “fuck the donkeys.”

“Who are the donkeys?” Christina asked.

“The Broncos.”

“Fuck the donkeys,” Christina screamed.

The people around us applauded Christina’s disdain for the Broncos. I had to admire my wife. Intuitively, she had grasped the essential group dynamic of NFL fandom—loving your team isn’t nearly as important as hating your team’s rival.

“Wow, these people are intense,” Christina said. “Should we be wearing silver and black?”

“Probably. But as long as we aren’t wearing Broncos colors, we’ll be safe.”

“They’re not wearing anything at all.”

Christina pointed at two women walking ahead of us. The women weren’t wearing much: black g-strings, fishnet stalkings, and silver pasties.

“Do you think they’re strippers, or Raiders fans?” I asked.

“Who says those two things are mutually exclusive?”

(Later, on our way out of the stadium, we would see a courtesy shuttle from the Crazy Horse 3 Gentleman’s Club. I took that as a sign that even the most perverted football fans value carpooling in the fight against climate change).

Halfway across the bridge, Raider Nation ran into a snag: Jesus Christ. Actually, there were dueling Christs on that bridge, and if I’m being accurate, neither man was Jesus Christ. Rather, each man was JC’s self-appointed representative for the greater Las Vegas area. Either way, both street preacher shouted the same message through their bullhorns at the Raider faithful: REPENT!

“Fuck you!” screamed a member of Raider Nation.

“This is my Church, motherfucker!” another Raider fan said.

Then, in a demonstration of unity, a Bronco’s fan told the preacher to “eat a bag of shit.”

For one brief moment, America felt like one nation, living under a groove, getting down just for the funk of it. Or, maybe I just had a contact high. Regardless, I knew that moment wouldn’t last. And as soon as the preachers were out of earshot, the crowd resumed its “fuck the donkeys” chant.

On the other side of the bridge, we headed to our gate. But when we got there, we hit another snag: NFL rules.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t bring your purse inside the stadium,” a security guard told Christina. “It’s a safety thing.”

Christina tried to protest, but it was difficult to hear her over the shouts of nearby Raiders fans who were, at that very moment, vowing to dismember Bronco’s quarterback Russell Wilson, deep-fry his corpse, and feast on his crispy limbs with a garlic aioli dipping sauce.

“There’s a bag check where you can leave your purse,” the security guard said before letting the cannibals pass through the security checkpoint.

We thought about checking Christina’s purse, but it was a long walk to the bag check, and we didn’t want to miss the kickoff. Instead, Christina emptied the contents of her purse—phone, wallet, and a pack of gum. Then she let out a barbaric yawp, tore the purse apart with her bare hands, and set it on fire to the cheers of Raider Nation. We hadn’t even reached our seats yet, but already my wife was finding her place inside Raider Nation.

We found our seats, then I left to buy some bottled water. After waiting in a really long line, I managed to secure financing and a co-signer for the purchase. All in, I paid $8 million, including origination fees, interest, and taxes for three bottles of water. Not a bad deal in these inflationary times.

When I got back to our seats, Christina was pumped.

“The game hasn’t even started, but the energy is incredible!”

“I just hope they win,” I said.

“Just win, baby. Isn’t that quote?”

Christina had the Al Davis quote down. The thing was, the Raiders yet to win this season. Coming into today’s game against the Bronco, they were 0-3.

Inside Raider Nation

Anthropologists will tell you it takes years of field work, diligent observation, and rigorous analysis to understand a culture like Raider Nation. But I am not an anthropologist, nor am I looking to set unrealistically high expectations for a silly piece about the Raiders—a franchise that revels in defying expectations, both high and low. What I will tell you is that understanding Raider Nation is as easy as kicking an extra point inside a windless dome.

For my money, Raider Nation citizen and gonzo sheriff candidate Hunter S. Thompson nailed the Raider Nation ethos. “[Raider fans are] beyond doubt the sleaziest and rudest and most sinister mob of thugs and wackos ever assembled.” Thompson meant those words as a compliment.

It’s us against the world

The first thing to know about Raider Nation is that it demands the win, always. That’s what the Al Davis quote—just win, baby—is all about. But there’s an immediate tension there because while Raider Nation always demands the win, the Raiders often lose, and sometimes they lose in ways that boggle the mind, break the heart, and enrage the spirit. Blame for these losses can be laid at any number of feet, as there are no sacred cows in Raider Nation. Popular scapegoats include:

• Ownership

• Management

• The coaching staff

• The players

• The opposing team

• The other NFL owners who hate the Raiders so much that they’ve spent decades conspiring to undermine the silver & black at all costs

But Raider Nation’s favorite scapegoat is the referee. Inside Raider Nation, it is understood as gospel that the refs are on the take and out to get us. That’s why the Raiders are among the most-penalized franchises in NFL history.

But anti-Raiders sentiment among NFL officials goes deeper than throwing penalty flags. One example. On a snowy New England night in 2001, the refs pulled an archaic rule out of their asses that robbed the Raiders of a postseason win and sent Tom Brady, Bill Belichick, and the New England Patriots on a run of nine Super Bowl appearances with six victories. America learned about the Tuck Rule that cursed night, but Raiders fans learned nothing because they already knew that NFL refs live to murder Raider dreams.

Clearly, Raider Nation has a contentious relationship with authority figures like NFL referees. This relationship is the foundation of the us-against-the-world-mentality that defines Raider Nation. As an unknown graffiti artist who tagged the bathroom at Allegiant Stadium wrote:

“If you think the world is out to get you, you might be paranoid, but you’re definitely a Raiders fan.”

Other cultures might view that paranoia as dysfunction, but Raiders fans channel it into an identity. Case in point: the fan seated three rows behind us. Just before kickoff, he introduced himself to the ref, setting expectations for the game.

“I’m keeping my eyes on you, ref! I watch the watchers, motherfucker. I’m gonna be on you like stink on shit.”

True to his word, The Raiders Fan Who Watches the Watchers yelled at the ref the entire game. That’s sixty minutes of playing time, but it’s actually closer to three hours of yelling time. The Raiders Fan Who Watches the Watchers yelled when the ref made a bad call. He yelled when the ref failed to make a call. He even yelled at the ref when the call favored the Raiders.

“For once in your miserable life, you got one right, ref! But don’t you dare think that makes us cool. I’m still watching you, motherfucker.”

To be honest, Christina and I thought The Raiders Fan Who Watches the Watchers was a little extra. But late in the game, when the Raiders sacked the Broncos quarterback in the end zone and the ref failed to rule the play a safety, we were grateful for The Raiders Fan Who Watches the Watchers because he gave voice to our outrage.

Look like a Raider

Many fans wear their favorite player’s jersey, or a Raiders hat. This is the classic Raiders look, the Basic Raider, if you will. On an individual basis, the Basic Raider says you’re here to kick ass and buy merch. But collectively, it says, we don’t take any shit from anyone because it’s us-against-the-world.

A popular twist on the Basic Raider is to add an accessory, like a gigantic silver chain necklace. This is a real flex by Raider Nation standards because it says you’re willing to look foolish, and you’re reckless enough to ruin your posture doing it. That’s long-term commitment!

Beyond Basic Raider and Flex Raider, a more complex aesthetic emerges. Still rooted in silver and black, Cosplay Raider leverages a variety of pop culture elements: the Mad Max films, Día de los Muertos, and even the band Kiss. Cosplay Raider makes for compelling television, but inside Raider Nation, they are royalty.

From left to right: King Kong Seuss, Darth Raider, Dude drinking a Modelo

Diversity & inclusion, except for that guy

Anyone can join Raider Nation. Well, anyone except for Tom Brady. You don’t need to wear silver & black. You don’t have to paint your face. You don’t have to die your hair silver & black, put it in a mohawk, then get a tattoo on the side of your skull that reads, in perfect cursive, Raiders. You don’t have to drink Modelo, or even drink beer. All races, genders, religions, and walks of life are welcome because there’s no right way to be a Raider. You can come as you are to Raider Nation because Raider Nation has only one rule: just win, baby.

But like all cultures, Raider Nation does have unwritten rules. A lot of unwritten rules. Examples include:

• No Tom Brady

• No refs

• No long-term leases

During the second quarter, as the stadium settled into a two-minute television commercial break, one of Raider Nation’s unwritten rules was on full display. On the Jumbotron, Raider Nation welcomed rapper Too $hort with a booming cheer. As the applause for Too $hort died down, the Jumbotron cut to Flava Flav. Once again, Raider Nation cheered its approval. But then the Jumbotron cut to YouTuber Logan Paul.

The boos were relentless. To make matters worse, the Jumbotron director took their sweet time cutting away. Raider Nation used that extra time the way the citizens of Oceania in George Orwell’s novel 1984 used the “Two Minutes of Hate” to focus rage at the image of Emmanuel Goldstein.

“Why do we hate him?” asked a woman across the aisle from us.

“I don’t know,” her husband said. “We just do.”

Then they both booed. Knowing what was good for us, Christina and I booed Logan Paul too. Because everyone is welcome in Raider Nation, everyone except for Tom Brady, referees, and Logan Paul.

Raider Nation Nextdoor

The beauty and the curse of field work is that you’re down in the weeds. There are some real gems down in the weeds, but it often means you miss the stuff in the spotlight.

By way of example, I didn’t get a chance to meet the woman with the mohawk and the Raiders tattoo on her skull. Too bad because I’ll bet three bottles of Allegiant Stadium water that her story is incredible. Likewise, I didn’t get to meet Darth Raider. A shame because I would’ve gotten an amazing selfie that, if deployed correctly, might have catapulted me to viral fame on social media. The closest I came to royalty was a seeing a Leather Daddy Fireman Raider in line for tacos, but he was ten people behind me and I didn’t want to lose my place.

Down in the weeds, we met what you might call everyday Raider Nation citizens. It was more like Raider Nation Nextdoor, but without the racism, homeless-shaming, and missing pets that make the culture of the Nextdoor app such a dumpster fire.

In front of us, sat Mr. and Mrs. Margarita-Yard-Glass, a lovely couple a few years older than us. When they fumbled an attempted selfie just before kickoff, Christina picked up the ball and completed the picture for them. During the second half, as the Raiders marched toward their first victory of the season, Christina and I became high-five buddies with the Margarita-Yard-Glasses.

Next to us, sat Whispering Modelo Man and his girlfriend, Taco Aficionado. They didn’t say much, but whenever they got up to get more tacos and Modelos, he’d whisper, “excuse us.”

Behind us, sat MaddenLegend93 and his son, Mr. Questions. After every play, Mr. Questions would ask about some aspect of the game. MaddenLegend93 explained the basics—time of possession, field position, etc. But when it came to strategy, his video game roots began to show.

“Anyone who’s ever played Madden knows you run a two-minute drill here,” MaddenLegend93 told his son. “If you have the ball with a few minutes to go before the half, you have to score. Have to. Run the two-minute drill!”

“Run the two-minute drill!” Mr. Questions shouted.

“Is that true?” Christina whispered in my ear. “Should they be running the two-minute drill?”

“Yeah, that’s how you play Madden,” I said. “But the players on the field are real people, not avatars or dudes on TV. Their coach has to mange them.”

I pointed to the scoreboard. With just over three minutes to go in the first half, the score was 10-10. Of course the Raiders wanted to score, especially since they had to kickoff to start the second half. But did they need to run the risk of a two-minute drill, where speed can lead to a mistake, and mistake can lead to a pick-six?

“Coming into this game, the Raiders were 0-3,” I reminded Christina. “Going into the locker room tied at halftime has them riding high and the Broncos worried that an 0-3 team is going to beat them. Not saying what the right move is here, but the strategy isn’t as clear cut as a video game.”

As it turned out, the Raiders didn’t run a two-minute drill. MaddenLegend93, Mr. Questions, and most of Raider Nation booed. Then the Broncos took possession and started driving down the field, and the booing grew louder. There were even rumblings about firing Raiders head coach Josh McDaniels and replacing him with whoever wins the next Madden e-sports tournament.

But then the defense stepped up. Big time. Raiders cornerback Amik Robertson recovered a fumble and ran it back 68 yards for a touchdown! The crowd cheered, but the excitement was short-lived. With a little more than a minute to go, the Broncos offense came roaring back with a touchdown of their own to tie the game.

Mr. Margarita-Yard-Glass was livid. Mrs. Margarita-Yard-Glass was despondent. MaddenLegend93 blamed Raiders head coach Josh McDaniels, who he suggested, needed to “put in some work” on an Xbox. The Raiders Fan Who Watches the Watchers blamed the ref, naturally, although that particular accusation suffered from a stunning lack of proof.

“This is bullshit!” Christina yelled.

“Not so fast,” I said. “There’s still a little time left, and Raiders never say die.”

“That’s the Goonies,” Christina said. “Goonies never say die.”

“Well, they would say die if they played the Raiders.”

With about a minute to go in the half, the Raiders offense got it in gear. Combining speed with execution, the Raiders offense marched 54 yards down the field, and capped off a ten-play drive with a thirty-nine yard field goal to take the lead. The score at halftime was Denver 16, Las Vegas 19.

We just won, baby!

Astute Situation Normal readers will have noticed that I already told you the outcome of the game. Spoiler alert: the Raiders won. You probably saw it on television, or on the internet, or let’s be honest, you just don’t care who won. But if you’ve read this far, you do care about Raider Nation, at least a little. And so you might want to know how they carry themselves in victory. In a word: bedlam.

As soon as the ref blew the final whistle, the Raiders rushed the field. Raider Nation threatened to rush the field too, but security was tight, so the anarchy and ecstasy of a Raider victory was redirected away from the field. In retrospect, that was a really bad idea.

In the stands, dehydrated Raider fans drank Donkey tears, while unsupervised children flicked boogers at security. In the concessions area, ravenous Raider fans “liberated” the taco cart. But the taco cart quickly ran out of chicken and beef, prompting Raider Nation to seize the shoes of departing Broncos fans and cook their footwear over an open flame. Meanwhile, things turned ugly in the bathroom, where according to the rumor, Darth Raider used The Force to juggle urinal cakes.

“We should get out of here before the cops start shooting tear gas,” I said to Christina.

“To hell with that. I want a t-shirt.”

Using our elbows and fists, we battled our way through a series of melees. At one point, I lost an eye, but Christina assured me that I could purchase a Raiders eye patch in the gift shop.

The scene inside the gift shop was like nothing I’ve ever witnessed in my life. It was retail carnage. At one point, I witnessed a Raider fan use his black Amex card to slit the throat of another patron who made the mistake of taking the last Raiders hat.

“Get what you want, and get out!” I told Christina.

Christina looked toward the t-shirt section. A vicious mob ransacked the shelves.

“Maybe we should just order it on Amazon,” I said.

“Fuck that noise,” Christina growled.

Then she grabbed a Cosplay Raider by the spikes sticking out of his shoulder pads.

“You’re with me, Thunderdome!”

“Actually, my costume is inspired by Fury Road,” he said.

“Nice! That’s my favorite one because it’s feminist as fuck.”

“You got that right,” Fury Raider said. “What’s the play, sister?”

“Sack the t-shirt.”

A split-second later, Fury Raider charged at the mob that was ransacking the t-shirt display. Christina followed close behind, using Fury Raider as a blocker.

When they reached the dog-pile, Fury Raider launched himself, like a spear, at silver-haired old lady, who at that very moment, had just taken possession of the t-shirt Christina wanted.

With a bone-shattering crunch, Fury Raider tackled the silver-haired old lady. She screamed something about her spleen as the t-shirt flew high into the air.

Leaping over another senior citizen, Christina grabbed the t-shirt with one hand, then brought her other arm around to tuck the t-shirt close to her body. A moment later, she emerged from the dog-pile with her prize.

“Where’s the register?” I asked. “Let’s hurry up and pay so we can get out of here.”

“Raider Nation doesn’t pay, it pillages!”

I looked at my wife. She was dripping with blood that probably didn’t belong to her. In the span of ten minutes, she had committed thirty-six felonies.

“Are you a Raiders fan now?” I asked.

“Fuck yes! I literally got the t-shirt.”

Then she raised the t-shirt over her head like a trophy and shouted, “Just win, baby!”

The crowd cheered, then went right back to pillaging.

Christina’s journey to the Dark Side was complete. Raider Nation had embraced her with open arms, and she loved every minute of it.

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If you want more fun, stay and chat!

You know the drill. I’ve got questions, you may or may not have answers. (Remember, one amazing comment will be recognized next Wednesday as the Comment of the Week).

1. Have you ever been to an NFL football game? If so, what’s your story?

2. Are you a citizen of Raiders Nation, or do you belong to a different football denomination?

3. If you’re not a football fan, what on Earth do you do on Sundays?

4. A thought experiment. Suppose that America had elected George Clinton President instead of Bill Clinton. Would we be one nation, living under a groove, getting down just for the funk of it?

5. Halloween is just around the corner. You’ve decided to go as Cosplay Raider. What does your costume look like?

Finally, as tacky as it sounds, you can let me know you enjoy Situation Normal by hitting that ❤️ button 🙏👇