| | | Betting against the Oakland Raiders is always risky, but betting against them on Sunday night against the Indianapolis Colts was flat-out stupid. The game was close for the first 20 minutes or so, but when Peyton Manning threw his first interception and saw it run back for a Raiders touchdown, I abandoned all hope and called Colts owner James Irsay and cursed him for lying to me.
"You must have been out of your mind when you called me this morning, James," I said. "You told me it was going to be a high-scoring shootout with a combined score of more than 100 points."
"Oh, no," he said quickly. "I may have said 70 or 80, but never 100. That's impossible. The Raiders could never score 50 against us.."
"Maybe not," I said. "But so far you've only scored three! What's going on?"
"It's a disaster," he said weakly. "That interception return killed us. I'm feeling sick."
"Me too," I told him. "I warned you not to let that geek throw any more interceptions. If he does it again you're finished. You might as well sell the team and move to Afghanistan."
"Please," he moaned, "don't say that. We still have time. What should we do?"
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"Score!" I said. "Throw short. They can't cover Edge coming out of the backfield."
"Of course," he said happily. "Why didn't Mora think of that? I'll call him right now."
The crowd was beginning to get ugly, and Irsay was getting the fear. "I don't think they can get to me up here," he said. "But you never know. I'm hiding up here with Leigh Steinberg in a little tiny box on the top of the stadium. If I had any sense, I would have stayed at home. This is a nightmare."
Just then I heard a sound like wood splintering. Irsay was screeching at somebody: "No! Get out of my box, you bastard! I'll have you arrested!" I heard sounds of scuffling, then a voice shouted, "Hit him! Hit him! Put him over the rail!" And then the phone went dead.
The Raiders did win, just as I predicted, but my heart was foul. I had switched my bets at the last minute to the Colts, dumping the Raiders just in time to be whacked with my first big loss of the season. People sneered at me and called me an airhead. I looked across the lounge and saw Anita giggling.
I was shocked. They were acting like a family of hyenas, snatching up my money and waving it into my face. It was horrible. "Why do you keep betting on the Colts?" the Sheriff taunted. "They are flaky, they are weak. The Colts won't beat Oakland for the next 100 years."
I ignored him and went about my solemn business of paying off. They had all beaten me, but so what? It was only one game out of 13, and I had already won nine. The 49ers kept rolling, the Packers derailed Baltimore, Denver lost, the Giants covered against St. Louis. There is nothing shameful about losing to Oakland, as long as you don't mind being jeered in public. Even my mother called me a fool when I bet against Oakland. On any given Sunday, the Raiders are far more likely to win or at least cover the spread than any other team in recent NFL history except the Cowboys and the 49ers in their Super Bowl years.
|  | | Rich Gannon and the Raiders spoiled James Irsay's and Hunter S. Thompson's Sunday. |
In truth I am afraid to bet against the Raiders. I don't need the pain.
But look at the bright side. It was another slow Sunday in America, we had survived another 24 hours without being vaporized. The only sanctioned violence of the day occurred on professional football fields, where no more crippling or disfiguring injuries than normal were reported.
"I feel lucky to be alive on a day like this," said the Sheriff. "I'm almost embarrassed to say this, but it was pretty calm in the cop-shop -- no murders, no bombings, no fire-fights at the airport. I feel almost normal."
"Good," I told him. "Now we can worship football and gamble without guilt.
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson's books include Hell's Angels, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72, The Proud Highway, Better Than Sex and The Rum Diary. His new book, Fear and Loathing in America, has just been released. A regular contributor to various national and international publications, Thompson now lives in a fortified compound near Aspen, Colo. His column, "Hey, Rube," appears each Monday on Page 2.
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