Death of rival/friend Walsh deeply touches tough-guy Al Davis

NAPA - Al Davis was endearing. He would hate that word, endearing. Too sentimental, mushy, touchy-feely. He's a guy who'll punch you in the nose for looking at him cross. Or he would have in the old days.

But he was endearing on Wednesday when he made his way into a ballroom at the Napa Marriott using a walker -- yes, a walker -- and when he sat behind three microphones at a table covered with a white cloth and when he began to talk, a kind of free association about years past, and life that used to be, and death.

Death hovered behind Davis, surveyed the room, peered at the journalists, death a presence Davis ushered into our midst with his words.

He talked about Bill Walsh. That must have been a complicated relationship. Arch-rivals. Their styles so different.

Davis a Brooklyn tough guy. Walsh a Californian who had a chardonnay vineyard on his Woodside property. Davis looks like a gang member from a Jimmy Cagney movie. Walsh looked like a senator.

Not long ago, Walsh told me he and Davis recently had gone to dinner at a Palo Alto restaurant, and some guy came over and stood near them. The guy had too much to drink and he smiled and said, "It's terrific to see you two together." And then he shook their hands. They expected him to leave. But he stood there grinning. Finally, Davis said, "Did you get what you need?" The guy nodded yes. "Then get the hell out of here."

Walsh laughed when he told me that. He liked the tough guy in Davis, wished he could be that way. I once asked him what he thought of Davis. We were on the phone.

"I find him interesting," Walsh said. "I have a picture of him here in my office and I'm looking at it right now."

But Walsh never said Davis was endearing. No one ever said Davis is endearing. I'm saying he was endearing on Wednesday. He started out his press conference by admitting this has been "a week of devastation for me." He meant Walsh died. He said they should have a luncheon in one of the fancy rooms at the Oakland Coliseum and dedicate an annual quarterback award for Walsh -- The Bill Walsh Award. They should invite players and sportswriters, and everyone would get along, no rancor.

"He did a magnificent job," Davis said of Walsh. "And we here on the West Coast have to wake up and realize that not everything happens at the Heisman, the Maxwell Award, and all these awards that are given back East to great contemporaries and see that we too, our culture, has developed people and certainly he represents the West Coast."

It was a generous sentiment, an award in honor of the non-Raider, the other, the ultimate Niner. I thought the rims of Davis' eyes grew wet, but maybe I saw wrong.

Davis and John Madden visited Walsh on Saturday. That was two days before Walsh died. They stayed an hour, maybe an hour and a half. And Walsh made it clear he couldn't go on. The treatments for his leukemia, all those blood transfusions, had worn him out. People reach that point, I'm told, even tough, determined people like Walsh. Davis probably couldn't understand Walsh's need to go away, but he respected it. "When we were with him on Saturday," Davis said, "he told us that he had had enough. It was a great life."

In his monologue, Davis sometimes spoke about Walsh in the present tense. Stuff like, "He still thinks the two-back offense would work in professional football today and that he could do it."

The present tense was so interesting, so touching. As if Walsh is still with us. Clearly, Davis wants him to be, would like to call a timeout on death.

"My contemporaries are just leaving me," Davis said.

When he hired Lane Kiffin as head coach, he showed Kiffin a photo from 1959 when Davis was an assistant coach at USC. A bunch of coaches posed for the photo, handsome young men with the blood of life in their faces. All are gone now, except for Davis.

"After a while the phone doesn't ring from some of those people," Davis said.

He'll miss Walsh's conversation, which was exquisite. He'll miss being with that famous contemporary, a man of stature as Davis is a man of stature, in spite of himself.

"I'm finding you can't dominate death, that's for sure, or sickness and disease," the proud leader of the Silver and Black said in a wistful voice. "I'm trying."

You can reach Staff Columnist Lowell Cohn at 521-5486 or lowell.cohn@pressdemocrat.com.