The Streak is Broken
As anybody who pays even the remotest amount of attention to local sports knew, Portland was riding a 24-game unbeaten streak (not to be confused, by a long shot, with a 24-game winning streak) against the middling Rochester Rhinos on September 3rd. That run represented the longest of its kind in modern USL history and would have represented the same in MLS were the Timbers already in our nation’s top league. An impressive feat to be sure.
But streaks, like records, must break. After watching the first 35 minutes yield few chances for either team, I had to suppress the thought that our Timbers were playing, not to win, but to avoid losing.
But before we cause ourselves undue strife, let’s back up a step. The Timbers of 2009 are superior to the 2008 squad. This team is playoff bound, and with a good berth. Last year, on the other hand, the home team finished dead last in the standings and in goals scored. In the games I witnessed the ball seemed to spend more time in the air–bouncing off heads, flying out of bounds, and floating aimlessly–than it did on players’ feet. Not so for this year’s model, which has put together impressive team efforts by spreading the ball to all fields, keeping the ball on the ground, crossing effectively, and getting solid scoring chances from strikers, midfielders and defenders alike. For some reason, though, early play against Rochester’s stout Rhinos had me swinging my head side to side so frequently I might have been in Flushing Meadows watching the US Open.
As the first half wore on, the Timbers constructed a few good runs. Mamadou Danso ripped a shot from 18 yards out that nearly curled into the far corner, and the Timbers finished with five decent shots. Rochester’s Scott Vallow only had to make one save, but things were starting to look up for the Timbers in their search for 25 straight games with at least one point gained in the standings.
But I remain WAY too on-topic, so let us digress.
Something About the Army, and Borrowed Musings on Ogling
My interest in the Timbers, like that of many Portlanders, was fomented by the Timbers Army. They’re like the friendly neighborhood allegiance dealers who offer the first game for free (“Hey, I’ve got an extra ticket for section 107, you should join us…”), and then wait around for you to register on the chat boards. And why not? Their efforts are working to the tune of 25% attendance increases from 2007 to 2008, with another serious bump certain to register this year.
My relationship with the Army got off to a rocky start. A previous article, in which I chronicled my unsavory interaction with post-loss TA members [1], put me immediately on the defensive. So my recent attendance has been as much about watching the watchers as it has been about watching the games themselves. The Timbers fascinate me both inside and outside the pitch.
With apologies to the late David F. Wallace, I’ll admit that I count myself, with some pride, among the oglers [2]. Beyond the mere watching of it all, I’m extremely uncomfortable when large groups of people begin to perform the same movements in unison. Carolers. Church-goers. Singing soccer fans. So watching the Army in action gives me willies that I understand to be both subjective (nothing really the matter with singing along) and harmless (what do the good people, enjoying the absolute shit out of the game, care whether I’m taking notes or grumbling inaudibly below the sound of their drums?).
So a couple of weeks ago I found myself in the good care of one Highland Orphanidys, who has volunteered to guide me into the depths of section 107 so that I may 1) win, via alcohol, the good graces of Timbers supporters I’ve offended with past observations and 2) learn the true meaning of the Army. Mr H. Orphanidys proved to be an excellent usher–the Virgil to my Dante, the magic coyote to my hallucinating Homer Simpson–and after watching a convincing 3-1 victory over the Miami Blues two weeks ago we headed back to the Bitter End to drown any remaining animosity under pints and pints of beer.
Song Incubators, Broken Cowbells and Sunshine Goals
The man they call Broken Cowbell is a kind, loquacious Capo whose high-priestly scarf and, well, cowbell distinguish him during play. After I plied him with suds Broken C. was good enough to enumerate the Army’s finer points. It’s clear that TA fashions much of its activity after the storied European support clubs. The traditions make sense, and they keep fans active for a full 90 minutes. Take the Timbers’ songbook, quaintly titled “Timber Jim’s Little Book of Songs,” which contains the lyrics to some two dozen ditties and does not contain the somewhat bluer lyrics to fan favorites such as “You’re So Shitty It’s Unbelievable” [3]. Songbooks and rivalries are the stuff around which fan(atics) coalesce.
But I’d been missing some of the deeper bonds that keep Orphanidys and Broken Cowbell and other supporters on board. Without fail, members of Timbers Army were quick to differentiate what they consider the organic, creative growth of TA from that of comparable groups up north (specifically Seattle and, to a lesser degree, Vancouver). TA is known in Portland for contributing to such community-building efforts as Habitat for Humanity and for supporting the family of Timber Jim, whose daughter Hannah was killed in a 2004 automobile accident. While detailing his cohorts’ positive impact on Portland, B. Cowbell told me the story of the now-famous Sunshine Goal, which is supposed to have been inspired by a rousing rendition of “You Are My Sunshine,” which itself was sung in honor of Hannah. (Unfortunately, I recently learned that the man who heeled that ball into the net admitted to perpetrating a long and bizarre fraud on a retired couple, total damages in the neighborhood of $100k. Whoops.)
When I Root I Root for the Timbers
When I started writing for the Portland Sportsman, I was under the false impression that Portlanders were ambivalent about professional sports. The idea of Uber-rich athletes and public funding and hot dogs seems anathema to everything I understand about the city. Sure, organized, amateur games are everywhere you look. Public parks, you say? There you’ll find kickball, softball, ultimate frisbee, pick-up basketball. Ironic lawn sports? Anyone for badminton? Croquet, washers, horseshoes, bocce. And anything that requires two wheels and a chain is certain to have its day. But pro sports?
Wrong. Portland has a history of supporting the local NBA franchise through good times and lean. The city takes great and justified pride in the success of its demands that the Trail Blazers reform their Jail Blazing ways and focus on bringing a character-rich, talented team back to the Pacific Northwest. And, as I can personally attest, the Timbers are growing a fervent, focused, loyal fan base.
There’s something uneasy about the song “When I Root, I Root for the Timbers,” but that’s an itch I’ll have to scratch later. There’s more game to be played here at PGE Park on September 3rd, 2009. I mean, the team’s fighting to keep a record alive.
Yes, It’s Still Halftime at the Rhinos Game
I’d be remiss not to mention my excitement at covering the game from Press Box D, a comfy sky box high above the halfway line. The excellent photographer and my fellow sports generalist Tim Coulter (the man responsible for these photographs) and I were not unlike school children on a field trip when we took the elevator to the fourth floor and traversed the catwalk to our assigned location. We were well met by Marc Kostic, who explained the parameters of Tim’s photo wandering and made certain that we were comfortable in this, our first appearance in the dizzying heights of Box D. Kudos to Marc and each Beavers/Timbers/PGE staff member whose path I’ve had the pleasure of crossing. We’ve got a classy lot on our hands.
From my perch I watched the second half begin, anxious to see whether the Timbers would turn it up a notch and go for something better than a draw. Sure, it would be nice to get another single point and keep the streak alive, but being unbeaten doesn’t mean Portland has a clear road to the USL First Division points lead. Indeed, the pesky Carolina RailHawks are just a few measly points behind.
The half began auspiciously with a pretty run by Ryan Pore, who finished his 30-yard dash with a cannon onto the baseball warning track. But on the ensuing break the other way, Rochester’s Errol McFarlane headed a beautiful cross past Cronin for the Rhino’s first lead. Even the TA had to admit the fine execution, and the opponents returned to midfield with disappointingly little jeering at their backs.
Portland countered with a cavalcade of substitutions, with Higgins, Lopez, and Suzuki all entering the game before the 70th minute, but nothing came of the fresh legs. The natives were getting restless.
The growing impatience seemed almost confused, like the fans couldn’t fathom that Portland would actually lose a game. The songs fell into something of a rut. The checkered green and white flags swayed with something less than conviction. Even Timber Joey’s chainsaw failed to inspire much fury.
And then Pore pushes up from midfield and absolutely destroys a volley into the near corner to knot the score. Green smoke ensues. We see visions of a 25-game unbeaten streak. Pandemonium. The Timbers stand a mere 10 minutes away from keeping this thing alive.
And then, following several sloppy attempts to clear the ball from their zone, Portland allows McFarlane to receive the loose ball atop the box and dump it into the far corner for a lead in the 90th minute. Nothing fancy. In fact, the goal was so nondescript I figured play must have stopped a moment before and the official would simply gather the ball up and point out where the foul had occurred. Except that McFarlane followed his kick into the net and proceeded to kick the thing several times–with feeling, now!–until he was served a yellow card for being totally obnoxious. The loss was real.
From Afar and Personal
When the game began, I watched from my eerie as a woman whose name I didn’t catch sang the National Anthem and the Timbers Army respond by raising their scarves into the air to punctuate the end of every line. From high above and behind the plexiglass, I sensed a distinct cinematic tinge to the proceedings. I’ll admit to feeling a little emotional for a moment, although I’m not sure whether to chalk it up to some Hollywood musculo-emotional memory or a genuine swelling of the heart. Either way, there was no denying that this little house that Paulson purchased enjoys tenants that appear to be setting up permanent residence.
When Marc handed me the attendance numbers, 11,683 people strong, there was no question the clutch of fans spilling out of 108 were responsible for a grassroots campaign that has vaulted Portland into the second-highest attendance numbers in the entire USL (and, one might hope, will propel the team even further when the MLS rolls into town in 2011). “The numbers are going up,” Marc said. “The streak helps, but they’ve been going up all year.”
So I shouldn’t have been surprised to see the Timbers players, having just endured what must have been their most difficult loss of the year, gather behind the net to applaud back at the faithful thousands that remained in their seats until long after the triple-whistle marked the team’s first League loss since April. There they were, players clapping up at the stands and supporters clapping down at their team.
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See more of Tim Coulter’s photos of the game on Flickr.
[1] My intention was to come full circle in that article, concluding that Portland has arrived at its fan base organically while Seattle is more like fandom on steroids, but I clearly failed. Getting the score wrong didn’t help matters.
[2] DFW’s excellent “E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction” is a first-class read and provides strong ammo against any writer you want to harm emotionally. The essay can be found in his collection of essays titled A Suppossedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again
[3] I was delighted to learn that devotees gather at the Bitter End before games to try out new songs and spread the lyrics to see which will take. Among the new crop is a fight song that borrows its melody from the Clash’s “London Calling.” I look forward to hearing that one in action.
