A noted taskmaster, Davis would often punish clumsy receivers by having them stare
for hours on end at the quarterback’s enormous crotchbulge.

Dear Mister Al Davis,

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I second-guessed your decision to fire Lane Kiffin in 2008. “Give the guy a chance. There have been signs of possible incremental improvement in the short term,” I bleated. But you held fast—there would be no more chances for Kiffin in Oakland. I sullenly chalked your decision up to the latest in a series of ill-conceived decisions made by a doddering dodecagenarian.

But after watching the mess that has unfolded in Knoxville over the past 24 hours, I am now convinced that Kiffin lacks the temperament, dedication or attention span necessary to be an NFL coach. Less than a year and a half after dazzling the orange-clad rubes with his “Big Talk” and “Comely Wife”, Kiffin is absconding to the Trojans. Only a conniving, wet-behind-the-ears welp would treat the simple mountain folk of the Smokies with such callous disregard.

For instance, would a competent coach allow his chief lieutenant to do this:

The doors burst open, and two graduate assistants on the football team, walking like the Bushwhackers from the old WWE wrestling days, arms gesticulating awkwardly in front of them, begin madly stomping about the room.

Coach Orgeron screams, “What’s the first thing you do before you get in a fight?”

No answer.

“You take your shirt off!” he screams.

Then Coach Orgeron rips off his shirt in front of the team.

The drumbeat is incessant, loud. Players stare at one another.

Coach Orgeron begins to lead the cheer.

“ST!” he screams.

“ST,” the team responds.

“Wild boys!” Orgeron screams.

“Wild boys,” the team responds.

Clearly you recognized Kiffin’s failings before anyone else and took the only sensible course of action. What I, and many others, mistook for the senile ramblings of a bitter old martinet was actually a stern, but well-intended warning delivered by a grandfatherly sage. If, perchance, you should encounter Kiffin, perhaps while strolling the grounds at the Raiders’ once (and future???) home at the Los Angeles Coliseum, I trust you will administer a clout from your walking stick across his duplicitous backside.

So here I am, hat in hand, humbly hoping this letter finds you in magnanimous spirits. I was trying to be a “Big Shot” and acted like a “Smarty Pants” Now I am chagrined. You were right, Mister Al Davis, and I was wrong. I am through saying foolish things on the internet. I will leave that to my betters. Please forgive me.

And then sell your interest in the Raiders, so they will stop sucking ass.

Yours truly,

flub