You're in the middle of nowhere, a sort of wasteland in between various civilizations. You've traveled far to reach this final destination, and prepared long: You've created your own costume and your own character — a portable personality that traveled here via truck, caravan, or RV. You're here to be among members of your own tribe, to pay homage, and to do a bit of unholy worship before you must shed the layers you've carefully assembled and return to the working world, all the better for this uncommon and excellent commitment. Yes, going to the Oakland Coliseum when the Raiders are in town isn't unlike going off somewhere in the desert — minus the billionaires wearing goggles and top hats getting waited on hand-and-foot by hired servants while the latest dust storm settles. Being a Raider fan is akin to adhering to a religion — and in America, where church is observed by kneeling in front of the television every Sunday, the Raiders are the last holy tribe left in town. (Where is Santa Clara, again?) The Raiders may also relocate to Nevada. But until they do, an industrial area of far East Oakland is where the unique and distinct Bay Area flavors of obsession, character-driven costume drama, and reckless abandon meld. And, for the first time in a few years, there's actually some decent football being played.