The noise comes in scattered waves, first from the stadium's south side, then from its north. It's based solely on where the little men run. The cheers are quiet, controlled, more of an auditory annoyance than anything that would begin to suggest pain.

Football fanatics these folks claim to be, but nowhere is there a 20-year-old covered in black and silver paint. Nowhere is there are a 35-year old, stomping through the concourse with spiked shoulder pads. And nowhere is there anybody screaming at the top of their lungs.

	Not everyone in Southern Cal was concerned about Rich Gannon and the Raiders on Sunday.

On the day that the Raiders have a chance to clinch their first trip to the Super Bowl since 1984, this muffled yell is the best the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum can muster. Yes, it's football. But not the kind that used to shake the foundation of this massive structure from 1982-94; It's the kind that Pele made popular. And for $25.00, there are roughly 85,000 spots for anyone who wants to see Guatemala take on El Salvador in international soccer.

Plenty of good seats available.

Six hours to the north, hell is in full swing. The Raiders have put the finishing touches on their 41-24 domination of the Titans and are San Diego bound. One by one, the Black Hole is swallowing beer-guzzling Raider fans whole. Wide receiver Tim Brown is shedding a tear. Quarterback Rich Gannon is hugging a coach. And safety Rod Woodson is pointing to the fans, letting everyone know once and for all that the Raiders indeed are No. 1.

Yet back at the L.A. Coliseum, few seem to care. The majority of concession stands are showing the WB Sunday movie instead of the AFC championship. Inside the stadium office, a score is nowhere to be found. Nine security officers, six of whom are sipping hot coffee, look dumbfounded when asked what's going on in the Raiders game.

"I have no idea," one finally says.

Hard to believe. This is the house where Howie Long ripped running backs heads off. Where Jim Plunkett picked apart defenses. Where Marcus Allen pranced and danced his way into the hearts of so many. And few seem to care.

"The Raiders?" says 16-year old Armando Sanchez, wearing a jester's hat and a Guatemala jersey. "I don't know."

Finally, a television in the concession stand is turned to the game. Watching is somebody who does care. It's concessionaire Margaret Maloney, who worked Raiders games in the early '90s and still cheers for the team like they play in her office.

"I guess it is kinda weird if you stop to think about it," she says of working an international soccer match on the day the Raiders go to the Super Bowl. "Man, I miss those Sunday afternoons. Some of the most fun I ever had. And now look at this -- there's nobody here."

It's been eight years since Al Davis backed up the moving truck and sent the Raiders north and in that time, part of Southern California has moved on, while part of it hasn't. Raider games are still hands down some of the most watched sporting events in the area and the return of the team to Southern California for Super Bowl XXXVII next Sunday is sure to create a headache-laced logjam of fans on the San Diego freeway.

Yet there are others like Sanchez and like the security guards who just don't care. Perhaps they never learned. Perhaps they're resentful. Or maybe they've just moved on to bigger and better things.

A few miles down the 110 freeway, in quiet El Segundo, the absence of the silver and black is just as glaringly obvious as it is in the Coliseum. The Raiders' former practice facility, the place where the team sharpened its fearless, hard-hitting ways is now a building used to mold young minds.

It's the El Segundo Middle School. And on this day, at the same time the Titans are kicking off to the Raiders to begin the AFC championship, the El Segundo 12-and-under girls All-Star soccer team is scrimmaging Westchester to sharpen up for February's playoffs.

	“	I guess it is kinda weird if you stop to think about it. Man, I miss those Sunday afternoons. Some of the most fun I ever had. ”
		— Margaret Maloney, a Raiders fan in Southern California

Soccer moms line the sidelines and minivans fill the parking lot. Five- and six-year-old little brothers and sisters play jump rope. Another boy dribbles a basketball. Three others play tag.

Plastered against a red brick wall, a posterboard advertises next month's "Spirit Week," instructing students to wear pajamas on Monday, bring a flower for someone special on Thursday and dress in Hawaiian clothes on Friday.

On the field, the same one that Bo Jackson bowled over rookie linebackers and Lyle Alzado mastered the art of intimidation, seven-year-old Jacob Middleson, the younger brother of Samantha, absorbs an errant soccer ball to the face. Immediately, he sprints to his mother, screaming, "Mommy, mommy, my nose is bleeding! My nose is bleeding!"

But there is no blood. A kiss, a sip of water and everything is fine.

A few feet away, at a spot where Al Davis likely demanded a "Commitment to Excellence," one father pulls aside his daughter during warm-ups and explains, "Let's try something different today -- let's try not to talk during the coach's pregame talk."

There are no signs of the Raiders except one -- the t-shirt of Westchester mom Annabelle Glaribeit, the mother of 12-year-old Shonice. Glaribeit, a self-proclaimed die-hard, is running up and down the sidelines toting a Sony Watchman to keep up with the Raiders' game.

"Can you believe they scheduled this the Sunday afternoon before Super Bowl week," she says. "Man, was I pissed off when I heard that because I knew the Raiders would be playing."

Her opinions are alone. Another mom says she hates the Raiders. Two others say they can't even stand football. And a fourth says that the only team she can stand to watch is the Chargers.

Most of the pre-teen soccer All-Stars are completely unaware that the ground they're running around, the dirt they're kicking up while chasing the bouncing white ball, is considered hallowed ground to some.

When told that the Raiders used to practice here, the reaction from the girls is mixed.

"Who are the Raiders?" one asks.

"They did?" wonders another.

"How come they don't practice here anymore?" questions a third.

"A professional football team. Yes. And they moved to Oakland," Glaribeit clarifies, as if to quickly cover up the kids holes in Raider history.

Their attention span quickly expiring, the girls move on to more pressing concerns, like how cool the new jerseys are and whose going to start at stopper.

As disinterested as the girls were, the overflowing crowd at the nearby Stick and Stein Sports Bar argued that Raider love is far from dead.

"Once you're a Raider fan, you're a fan for life," owner George Stevens said. "It's in your blood."

Wayne Drehs is a staff writer for ESPN.com