The Hylton Memoirs

I’m a grown ass man and that means a few things.

I will not attend any party where the beverage of choice is Keystone Light, I’m not going to date the ugly friend of a buddy’s girlfriend just so he can get some action (you relinquish your right to a wingman as soon as your Facebook status reads “In a relationship…”), and I’m not going to clean my house – it’s actually an apartment (OK, it’s a bedroom above my parent’s dining room) – if I don’t feel like it.

Mostly, though, I’m not going to wear another man’s name on my back.

That’s right, men, take off that damn sports jersey and put it back in the closet. Unless you are a child or a hot chick (see the difference?), slapping that name across your back shows you are more concerned about the accomplishments of other men than you are with your own. Grow up (or grow boobs) and have some dignity.

But while adult-man-jersey-wearing betrays the very essence of what it means to be a man and should thus be outlawed, there are a handful of exceptions:

1. Non-named jerseys are allowed. That means blank Major League Baseball uniforms, college jerseys, hockey sweaters and soccer shirts are allowed, but no NFL or NBA.

2. You may wear the name of another man on your back if you are intimately involved with that man. And no, stalking doesn’t count. The relationship has to be mutual. But since there are less open gays in professional sports than in the military – in compliance with rule 3, section 7 of the Grunt-Grunt-I Neanderthal-Grunt code of 28,453 B.C. – this one’s not really applicable.

3. Michael Jordan. You are allowed to mimic any person who does their job better than anybody does anything on the planet. That means you can wear a red Nike polo shirt on the golf course, a NASA-approved Speedo in the pool, a black mock turtleneck with a smug look on your face while operating a Mac, a pocket protector in honor of Gary from Accounting, and, finally, a Chicago Bulls basketball jersey that says “Jordan” on the back. No Wizards or White Sox crap.

4. Bo Jackson jerseys of any kind are allowed because, well, he’s more man than any of us will ever be and there’s no point in trying to argue.

For the entirety of my adult life – a term applied very lightly and which arguably covers six years – those have been the only exceptions to this holy doctrine, a steel set of infallible law.

But now I am ready to add another.

In defiance of every principle I hold dear, I am willing to waive this man jersey rule in honor of any Oakland Raider who can begin to clean the filth off of the organization’s once great crest and restore my faith in being a fan of the worst organization in professional sport.

I’m not really sure how it happened, or why, but the Raiders were the team that started me down this long, winding, horrible path into the world of sports and sports journalism.

At first, everything was fine – they had Jackson and Tim Brown, their colors and uniforms were (and remain) classics, and, most importantly, they carried a mystique and “Commitment to Excellence” that made the organization the successful renegade of the sports world.

After the Super Bowl That Wasn’t, however, all that changed.

The Raiders have been terrible for the last six-plus seasons. Their 24-72 record is the worst in the NFL over that span thanks to five coaching changes, stupid spending, and a bunch of really, really bad play.

And, unimaginably, it gets worse.

The Raiders are the least valuable organization in sports, their drafts are more futile than those of the Swiss, and Al Davis, the owner, is officially bat shit crazy, senile and obviously not hip to the fact that track suits and members club jackets have become more a symbol for pedophilia than gridiron excellence.

In short, the Raiders are an embarrassing joke whose stink has come to saturate every single facet of the organization. It’s an all-consuming seediness rivaled only by the Church of Scientology.

And I’ve finally had enough.

This epic suckdom for the better part of a decade exceeds all precedents of loyalty and I have the right to emancipate myself from the Raider Nation and pick a new team. I can legally walk away from the Black Hole with no fear of retribution or feeling of treachery.

With so much history, though, I can’t just make a clean break and move on. I don’t want to leave the Raiders. I look really good in black.

So I’m giving the team one more season to turn the tide and convince me to stay. After two weeks, the Raiders are 1-1 and, for the most part, they’ve played real, actual football. I’m not convinced, but, for the first time in a long time, I’m watching with caution and a little optimism.

If any player can bring me back, I will own one of these with their name on it.

And I, a grown ass man, will wear it proudly.

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