“Al Davis can’t be all bad; it just seems that way,” wrote New York Times columnist Dave Anderson in the 1970s. And why did it seem that way? For one, Davis had a habit of not letting anyone really get to know him. Ask for an exclusive interview, and you probably got a grinning, “No, but thanks for asking,” from his publicist.

Richard Hoffer, perhaps Sports Illustrated‘s most under-appreciated scribe, penned a mighty piece in 1989 about Davis and the rebuilding Raiders. In it, he describes Davis’ insecurities with the media:

Al Davis does not suffer inspection needlessly. Most cross-examination, and he has had his share, is forbidden unless required by law. Pity the fool who presumes otherwise. Television reporters awaiting Davis after a recent meeting with the Los Angeles Coliseum Commission were advised they could neither film nor quote him. But they could continue to exist. Davis reacts to interview requests with a look of alarm; he actually pulls his pompadoured head back as if to put even more distance between himself and the public. “Oh, ah don’t do those things,” he says in that much-imitated Southern accent, eccentric in a Brooklyn boy.

He maintains a small circle of pals in journalism, trusted friends from his AFL days. That he speaks to them is testament to his loyalty and friendship, of course, yet it would not be cynical to note that these pals are strategically placed. At one point Davis had a confidant on each of the three network football shows. It is characteristic of his notion of public relations that Davis has always tried to maintain some control over the journalism that attends his every move. In the old days he rewarded reporters with Christmas gifts as well as bons mots. Those he felt did not properly reflect the Raider spirit would suffer freeze-outs or worse. Even today it is nothing for Davis to tell a beat reporter that he will speak to his editor, or publisher if necessary.

It’s as a result of that cynicism that most of the columns written about Davis after his death Saturday were redundant. So many writers covered Al Davis. So many writers interviewed him on a regular basis. He knew their names and their stories—he occasionally got into screaming matches with them. But so few people really knew Al Davis.

With that in mind, I’ve attempted to cull five pieces from this weekend that, in aggregate, provide as complete a picture of Al Davis as you’ll find. There are writers who knew Davis as well as any. (Anderson, who is now 82, made a guest appearance in the Times; T.J. Simers  is one of the few who could hardball with Davis.) There are writers who never got the chance. (Joe Posnanski tried and failed; Chuck Klosterman appreciated him from a distance.) And there is a story of fans and a bar and Oakland and the heart of the Raiders. Which, I can say without knowing the man, Al Davis certainly was.