Al Davis is a greedy, snide, “my way or the highway” dictator who speaks loudly, carries a big stick, and lashes it at whomever the hell he sees fit.

Sorry for the reservation, but I don’t want to be too critical.

He has to have his fingerprints on everything—that is until the things he touches go sour. Then he just wipes the weapon clean and pawns it off on someone else, usually a member of “Raiders Coaches for Hire We Just Got Fired, Inc.” That fraternity, however, discounts Art Shell: a career 54-38 one-time NFL Coach of the Year who did his job correctly, was booted by Big Al to the curb for it, and in an attempt to exorcise the demons of regret emanating from the owners box, was rehired by the same franchise that fired him more than a decade ago, only to be fired a second time a year later for proving unable to lift a half-sunk Titanic from the icy waters of the Atlantic.

Fortunately for Raider Nation, Shell’s replacement, Lane Kiffin, was supposed to be next great thirtysomething head coaching hire. Now it seems inevitable that he’s the next failed thirtysomething Al Davis fire. The man has to spend every waking minute wondering if he’ll be floating résumés the next.

Davis has always been a punk. At least he used to be a winning one.

You think sport could only handle one such man, but alas, George Steinbrenner—Davis’ greedy, snide, “my way or the highway” dictatorial counterpart—still exerts influence on the opposite side of the coast, whether it be from him or his kin (Hank will ensure the legacy continues). He shares the same need to control all things at all times and passes the tainted buck when expedient. He shares the same affinity for getting lost in personal battles with team personnel at the expense of on-field performance. Where Davis had Art Shell, Steinbrenner had Billy Martin. And although Joe Torre won baseball games, he was perpetually in a no-win situation, constantly dealing with rumors and reports that his end as Yankees skipper was imminent. I’m sure the man can empathize with Lane Kiffin’s plight. New York is still a can’t-miss come most Octobers, but the franchise is a dying brand. By Steinbrenner’s own standards, no one can think of him as a winner in the here and now.

It’s hard to say which man is a bigger disease to his organization. The Yankees win a little more than 50% of their games for the small price of universal loathing and the GDP of Micronesia, whereas the Raiders are an occasional contender and frequent laughing stock with fans more resilient than bacteria. Judging by that, it’s hard not to side with Steinbrenner. New York’s legacy predates him—they won 20 of their 26 World Series before him, they were immortalized by the likes of Ruth and DiMaggio before him, and they were actually revered by a great many before him. Prior to the mid-60s, the Yankees were the team of legend. They no longer have such status. Sure, baseball’s expansion over time created deeper competition. But with an endless supply of capital at Steinbrenner’s disposal, New York had every asset they needed to remain a cut above. Instead, the fans have been treated to 30 years of a circus—30 years that have seen erratic results on the field and dwindling popular support.

Davis, on the other hand, is Raider football. He has been there for it all, from John Madden to Tom Flores to today. He created the aura of the Silver and Black (literally: he changed the team colors upon being named head coach and GM in ’63) and he has overseen its demise. Good and bad, thick and thin, for better or for worse, the Oakland Raiders are synonymous with their owner.

Although he has run the franchise into the ground over the course of the last two decades, he must also receive credit for what he did before things took a turn for the worse. In the days of Fred Biletnikoff and Jim Plunkett, Davis lived by “Just win, baby.” That’s now an afterthought. He has been stubborn to embrace change, and that begins with him and him alone.

At least he doesn’t have a familial heir to continue his ways when the necessity of that change is thrust upon him.

Sorry, Bronx.