It is a mind-warping image: Dale Murphy, sports squarest peg, trying to fit into the Oakland Raiders infamous Black Hole.
Murphy, a pillar of decency during his Major League career, whose No. 3 hangs retired at Turner Field, soon may have to join the biker gang that is the Raider Nation. His son, Jake, a tight end out of Utah, is going to camp with Oakland as an undrafted free agent.
Jake, 25, is old by rookie standards, having spent two years on a LDS mission in Australia. He has size — 6-4, 250 pounds. He has decent speed — his 4.79 40 was top 10 among draftable tight ends. He has reliable hands — 58 catches, 766 yards, nine touchdowns in his last two injury-shortened years as a Ute.
He certainly has the genes. Not only was dad a borderline Hall of Fame talent, older brother Shawn, an offensive lineman, was a fourth-round draft pick of the Miami Dolphins in 2008. Shawn has kicked around the league since. It certainly speaks ominously for the future of baseball when the children of one of its great ambassadors invest all their athletic gifts in America’s Passion rather than its Pastime.
Say Jake sticks, a possibility given that the Raiders tight end situation is about as fluid as that of the Falcons. Does that mean Murphy will start painting his face up in a death mask, wearing spiked shoulderpads and generally going to games looking like a reject from the band Kiss?
“You darn Broncos!” is not going to get it at Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum. Murphy is going to have to begin studying various bus station bathroom walls in order to Raider-ize his vocabulary.
Dale, you’re a Raiders man now, so pour out the milk and re-fill the hip flask with tequila. And dump the chocolate chip cookies and find some of those “medicinal” brownies.
You’d like to think that, opposite of all that, Murphy’s innate goodness could have a soothing effect on this notorious fan base. But he is hopelessly outnumbered and out-gunned.
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