Me, a priest/pint-man, in 2019
**Originally published in 2021**
In July 2019 I stumbled into Portland after hiking for 2.5 months along the Pacific Crest Trail. California’s landscapes screened a highlight reel of the country’s natural beauty, but I yearned for a change of pace, routine, and a new place entirely. If stereotypes are to be believed, I flew to the home of hipsters, beards, and breweries. In reality, 'The Rose City' is a lot more than that. It's Portland Timbers’ backyard and Zlatan's L.A. Galaxy were in town.
Soccer (and yes, I’ll be calling it soccer for the duration) is one of my loves. I’ve been fortunate to attend games at famous grounds like Camp Nou, Le Parc des Princes, and Bolton’s University of Bolton Stadium. I lost my mind when Robbie Brady beat Italy, and when Roberto Carlos hammered home in Madrid. I’m also cynical, but, given that I’m Irish, that’s a non-negotiable.
Based on how the MLS is perceived in Europe, I feared my cynicism would distract me from taking in the game. Fast-forward to me leaving Providence Park that Saturday evening, and I did so with a beaming smile and a happy head. It wasn’t due to the Timbers’ emphatic result but rather its welcoming committee, co-commentators, lead chanters, and all-round entertainers — the fans.
Prior to this trip, my exposure to both the MLS (the top division, broken into 2 conferences) and the U.S. was limited. My relationship with the MLS was wedged into my morning pillow scroll. I would flick through r/soccer only to see a tap-in with a trophy cabinet of awards. Why? The goal scorer was American and the Europeans were asleep. With the U.S., generally speaking, I had naturally met many Americans through travelling and studying but visiting the States had been only a recent privilege.
The MLS might be considered purgatory. For those who call it soccer and inhale its hectic conference system week in, week out, it’s heaven. For others, it’s hell. You can spot this crowd via a 2-step process. 1) Their Twitter profile photo pledges allegiance to a European superclub. 2) Their go-to Tweet is "ratioed". These ‘fans’ try to diminish your credibility should you call the sport soccer. It's snobbery and faux-superiority, though sometimes U.S.-based clubs shoot themselves in the foot. They usually play the money game, fans frequently parody themselves, and the players who cross the Atlantic sit back and relax in semi-retirement.
I was keen to see how things played out and why the support was so frenzied. As of late 2019, their home sellout streak had extended to 161 games. The women’s side, Thorns FC, see 20,000+ at each game too. Incredible. Especially because both teams are fairly average. Portland’s soccer culture mainly thrives because there aren’t competing franchises in the neighbourhood.
Slightly daunted by the ticketing situation, I turned to Reddit (r/Timbers) and announced, as if it needed to be, that I’d be attending the game the following day. I didn’t have a question as such, but my post yielded an outpouring of suggestions and invitations. Talk of 'Ridgey Rolls' and ‘scarfing people’ had me excited and anxious.
“You flying solo? Let me know if you need somebody to pregame with?”
“CAN’T WAIT TO HAVE YOU!”
The green and gold carpet had been rolled out and I was ready to rock. Yep, that was awful. Apologies. This hearty reception — a continuation of what I experienced on the PCT — is a badge of honour the vast majority of Americans wear. It’s these no-questions-asked-I’ll-give-you-a-helping-hand type gestures that make a world of difference, and the world a better place. Americans are often tarnished with the same brush because, well, they live in the spotlight. It’s a consequence of being a world superpower and the central nervous system to our pop culture. The people are pigeonholed and the clichés come thick and fast. Stereotypes cling and to many, I would imagine, leave a sting.
Anyway, I rocked up to Providence Park hours ahead of kickoff to grab my General Admittance ticket. Fans told me this was my best shot of embracing the full experience because the GA wristband grants you entry to the north terrace. It’s here where the Timbers Army raise the roof. With a description like the one below, I couldn’t help but be excited:
“Part carnival, part mosh pit, part revival meeting, part Christmas morning, filled with people from every part of the community and every walk of life, the Timbers Army turns each game into a celebration of its love of Portland, of soccer, and of the Timbers.” — 107ist.org
Ultra attire differs in the PNW
Long live chant sheets
As the sun spilled over the stadium, a line 200+ people strong had already assembled. Kick-off was not for another 7 hours but this, I had heard, was all part of it. Fold-out chairs championed fans while brown-bagged beers stood out of sight . A contagiously giddy grin painted the faces of just about everybody. The ticket distribution hadn’t yet started so I sheepishly joined the end of the queue hoping my Guinness shirt would start some small-talk. Just 5 minutes later, a woman arrived and there we had it. Despite her name being Dakota, she was a Londoner who had moved to the Pacific Northwest years before. You could tell. This was her community. Hellos were exchanged, names were hollered, and hugs were more of a squeeze. Dakota, sensing my cluelessness, told me to seek her out that evening. She’d have a seat with my name on it.
As the queue rumbled forwards, I realised I was at the wrong end and promptly retreated to the back. I swear, I’m usually a functioning adult but a little help is always appreciated. The woman from whom I eventually purchased my wristband — later learning her name was Chanti — imparted further tips and tricks on how to best enjoy the experience. Charged by all the energy, I returned to my hostel to rest up my feet. I’d need to.
2 hours before kickoff, I returned to Portland’s Goose Hollow area where Providence Park sits pride of place. It was a belter of an evening. Temperatures remained high, and my expectations grew higher. Fans streamed onwards and the decibels ticked upward. Fans were head to toe in merch and hawkers sought out new, fresh-faced supporters. "Hello"..."How much?"..."Yes". I walked away with my new NO PITY scarf.
Maybe it was due to its pretty surroundings or the families present, but it was all very wholesome. I don’t mean to belittle it, because that’s what I’ve criticised before, but it felt 'nice' and comfortable in addition to all the other bubbling emotions that come with a big sporting event. This was all positive. Over the past few years, certain elements of MLS fan culture have stifled its growth opportunities outside of North America. Or, rather, our outsider perception of it has. When images of chant sheets first went viral, the idea was ridiculed by us European. As someone who can’t remember song lyrics to save my life, I was all for it. Furthermore, many of the sides I’m more familiar with belt out chants that may only have 1 word. 1. I’m looking at you, "Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea…"
Likewise, the 2015 ‘riot’ between New York Red Bulls and NYCFC was deemed, by many, an attempt at emulating English hooliganism. The fact is that soccer in the US has to compete against far more established domestic sports so, in some ways, it is deemed inferior — whether that’s by Americans or by 'football' fans abroad.
With my new scarf draped over my shoulders, I bid my farewell to 2 guys I had met outside the stadium and ventured inside. Beer now in hand — more so for something to hold, rather than to drink — I climbed towards the clear night sky and droning noise of 25,000 people. One of life’s simple joys is climbing the steps to witness the buzz of a stadium. It hits you like a jolt of electricity. I took it all in. The waving flags. The blaring announcer. And, eh, what appeared to be a tree trunk…
It was packed. Standing there, bewildered, a woman approached me. It was Chanti. Ever so helpful, she offered her assistance as well as the famous chant sheet. In return, I mentioned that a Londoner might be saving me a seat. She questioned: “Dakota?”. Got it in one. Chanti directed me to Section 107, where, with a beaming smile, broadly extended arms, and a reserved front-row view, was Dakota. She even bought me a scarf, too. ‘Scarfing’ now made sense. It was yet another example of someone going the extra mile to accommodate me since I had arrived in the States.
Green Machine (2019)
Dakota, her pals, and a very scrubby me
To my left was a father-son duo and to Dakota’s right were 2 friends of hers. I took my seat, briefly, and then the drums began to beat. My seat remained upright for the next 2 hours. In front of us, within arm’s reach, were 2 conductors leading the way. Think the drummers in Mad Max, but less post-apocalyptic. The duo led the crowd from start to finish and as the beating rhythm rippled through the evening air, thousands behind me roared the team on.
The actual game had everything. The Timbers hammered Zlatan and his Galaxy side 4–0. One of those goals was scored by my newly adopted favourite player, Diego Valeri. Valeri earned the accolade once I realised ex-Birmingham man Liam Ridgewell no longer played in these parts. Oh, there were also 3 red cards. Anyway, remember that tree trunk? Yeah, that one. That’s the ‘Victory Log’. In all, Timber Joey, the on-site lumberjack, cut off 6 pieces slab by slab. The ceremony commemorates goals, clean sheets and the odd red card, too. It’s all about maxing out the experience. True to the theme of generosity that night, I was gifted a piece of the log. That’s what I love about the U.S. and Americans. There appears to be an unwritten rule to transform everything into a complete experience, and as someone who occasionally approaches things a little half-heartedly, it’s refreshing and encouraging. It’s always ‘Clear eyes, full heart.’ Right, I know. Wrong sport. But it’s a great show.
In the 80th minute, as is tradition, the crowd sang ‘You Are My Sunshine’. The man behind me, who had consistently answered any of my player-related questions with ease, explained to me that the track is dedicated to Timber Jim’s daughter who had died at a tragically young age. It was particularly fitting and special that Cristhian Paredes scored the home side’s third goal mid-song.
When the final whistle blew, my lungs were bust. It was non-stop singing, stomping, and cheering. We cycled through the chants time and time again. When we knew the game was won, the famous Tetris tune blared out over the tannoy and we marched left to right, back and forth, soaking it all up.
The noise only began to simmer down once the drums were retired for the evening and when I had realised that a few too many dollars had been spent on beers. Across the terrace, hugs squeezed tightly. Gesticulating arms directed any non-regulars to nearby watering holes where, with no doubts, they’d instantly become a ‘regular’. Dakota even invited me to join her and a family at a diner for a post-match meal, but, I declined, graciously, citing my weary limbs and tired mind.
As I lay in my hostel bed and the reverberation rang through my ears, I reflected on the warmest of American welcomes and the experience as a whole. It was easily the most fun I’ve had at a game and its atmosphere was right up there with Italy v Ireland in 2016. The game was good, but the people proved next-level. With nearly all of the encounters I’ve had in the States, I’ve been met with a sense of unbridled optimism and earnest generosity. This was no different. It’s like these individuals are part of a collective, valiantly trying to showcase the country’s true character and its heart. I love it. The comments left in response to my follow-up post on r/timbers proved as much.
"When you’re here you’re family! Welcome to the Green and Gold!"
"Welcome to the Army! Feel free to recruit some friends to join up as well!"
"Sláinte mhaith!"
Furthermore, that night was yet another example of why I’ve always loved travelling solo, because you experience things differently and it forces you way out of your comfort zone. On this occasion, that was a front-row seat in Providence Park’s fantastically manic end zone…
…yes, I know, wrong sport.
