Turn Out The Lights, The Party's Over

Dandy Don Meredith used to sing that song, sometime around that point in the fourth quarter of a Monday Night Football game where all hopes had been abandoned for a comeback and one of the teams would be throwing in the towel. Except this was professional football and, as Yogi Berra put it so eloquently, it ain't over til the fat lady sings. First of all, who knew Yogi Berra was a fan of opera? But more currently, who would have expected the Raiders' stay in Oakland would end any other way than when the curtain came down last Sunday?
Bottles, cans and debris were thrown. Additional security, on hand to control the boisterous crowd at the last "home game" in this city by the bay, were pressed into service when that crowd turned mob and began to rush the field. Not out of joy, but from frustration. And loss.
The Oakland Raiders lost the last football game to be played in the Oakland Alameda County Coliseum in truly heartbreaking fashion. Not only would it have been a shot in the arm to a tired and beleaguered franchise, the city could have used some holiday joy. Having only recently lost the Golden State Warriors from the arena across the parking lot, Oakland was about to lose its National Football League franchise. For the second time. Back in 1982, the team high-tailed it down to Los Angeles in search of sunnier climes and a bigger fan base. They played down there for a dozen years and came limping back up the coast in the mid-nineties to return to glory or at least to the rabid fan base that had been the envy of organized football for all those years.
The Black Hole, they called it. That spot in the end zone where the most enthusiastic and decorated fans would assemble to cheer on their team. An appropriately named spot for a vortex into which not even light could escape. After a flirtation with success in 2001 and 2002, the wins became fewer and further between. The question mark that seemed to hang at the end of the team's motto, "Commitment To Excellence" began to loom larger. The desperation in their dearly departed owner's rallying cry, "Just win, baby!" was never more apparent.
So a couple years ago, it was decided that the Raiders would up and move again. This time to Las Vegas. Never mind the generations of silver and black clad fans who never fully gave up hope of another championship season. The opportunity to be the only team to play in Sin City was too great to pass up. Except they didn't have things as nailed down as they thought, and eventually had to come back to play one more season in Oakland.
This one started promisingly enough, but quickly turned to that hard luck storyline to which Raider fans were all too familiar. A week after the team had essentially handed their playoff season away to the Tennessee Titans, the full house slavered in anticipation of taking one watching one last win inside one of the oldest stadiums in the NFL.
Taking a thirteen point lead into the fourth quarter, the Raiders managed to fritter away that last victory and lose in the final seconds. That's when things got ugly. Garbage, including glass Snapple bottles and half-full cans of beer, rained down from the stands. Cheers were covered up by boos, and the proud tradition of the Oakland Raiders was sealed.
Until sometime in the next dozen years or so, when they come back, helmet in hands, looking for a place to play. Just leave, baby.