| August
12th It is one of those weird paradoxes that the best of moments can happen during times of tragedy. When sadness becomes a happiness that wouldn't be so intense without the sadness. The Timbers Army knows these feelings all too well. Over the years as our family has grown so have the times, both good and sad. On Thursday night, the usual people showed up and stood in their usual places doing their usual things. The result was a remarkable evening at PGE Park. Before the game a moment of silence was observed for Timber Jim's loss, which was a loss we all felt. The players on both teams bowed their heads and the home side sported black armbands. One by one they placed roses of the memorial log and people throughout the stadium applauded the world's best damn mascot, a great father and an admirable man. Games help us cope with life's hard times and so we turned our attention to the game. The first-place team came out on the attack and nearly beat the Singapore Prison Who*e into submission. To Lutz's credit, he not only managed to stick his cranium in the way of a few shots but in between the assault he held a pleasant conversation with the Timbers Army. The Army began the affair by asking him about his experience in jail. Lutz responded with a smile that seemed to indicate that he has warm and fuzzy memories of his time in solitary confinement. He proceeded to give a thumb's up all night long to 107 which was either a sign of appreciation or some kind of Singapore Jail Who*e salute. He also delivered All Dressed potato chips as part of a bet wagered last year between Calgary's supporters and Aussie Mike. For the uninitiated, All Dressed chips are Canada's contribution to the world. Our home and native land. A little before the half, Flash was fouled in the box and the faithful felt the frenzy. The Singapore Prison Who*e relished the moment and looked back at the Shed while Sir Alex lined up the penalty kick. He once again looked back at the Shed after Sir Alex rocketed the kick past him into the back of the goal. The sight he saw was one of mayhem and madness. Lungs turned black from smoke, dancing took place in the aisles, Brokenhearted Michelle felt brokenhearted no more, and the Timbers led 1-0 at the half. The second half progressed in much the same fashion with the Timbers controlling the play but not doing much to increase their lead. The Prodigal Son exited the game early and proceeded to drop his drawers on the sideline. At the sight of a naked arse, Betsy Ross began to salivate, but more about that in a bit. Eventually Calgary did manage to beat Our Savior. The Bald, Shit, Head Looks Like a Tit number 7 was the criminal this time and he gave the Timbers Army a lusty wave during his revelry. Trees 1 Prairie 1 To its credit, 107 and others did not let up. We sang about shagging things and drinking other things. We used the word "hoser" and "eh" like we were all fluent in Canadian. We proclaimed our love for the Timbers and we celebrated our Syrian Striker's appearance on the pitch. The noise grew and grew. The play on the field became more frantic. Rumors spread that Vancouver had lost and that weapons of mass destruction had been found in Iraq. With two minutes left in regulation a feeling came over the Shed. Your correspondent turned to Pong and suggested that Fadi Afash was going to score the game winner shortly. Rows away, the Charming Gap-Tooth smile also whispered those same words. The thought was there and the thought became reality. Streaking to the near post, Fadi, Fadi, Fadi took a bullet cross from You Go and headed it into the back of the net. Pure, unadulterated beauty. Love. Madness. Hugs. Dancing. Flying Beer. Songs. More Songs. More, More Songs. Victory. 2-1 The pub was electric afterward. Singing broke out faster than acne on a teenager's face. Timber Jim was honored in spirit and in word. Beer was consumed and then refilled and then consumed some more. Betsy Ross did things with your correspondent's prostate that any man under the age of 40 should never have to feel. No wonder Cooper has missed the past few games. Not fun riding a bike today. On a night where hearts were heavy and emotions ran high, the Timbers Army and the Timbers honored their own with an energy and a passion of a chainsaw. Until next time, Roberto Writer-in-Arms Timbers Army Portland, OR USA August 5th On a Thursday night where none would leave thirsty, there was one team that was tired from a previous night’s battle and there was another team ready to wage three battles in four nights. There was a team that wore targets on the their chests. There was another that wore their hearts on their sleeves. And there was a group of Would Be Fan Friendly crazies who were there to battle for 90 minutes because it is in their hearts, minds and souls. The television cameras came to life; the Shed found the right pitch and the whistle was blown. Minnesota began on the attack, hoping to steal a quick goal before its weary legs became weary. Our Savior denied one attempt after another with a calm and ease that betrayed the reality. The men in green and white fed off their giant orange wall and moved in utter harmony towards the oasis known as 107. A free kick was granted and the Prodigal Son stood alone behind the black and white sphere. The referee gave his nod and the Native One used his wonderful left foot to hook a ball through the smoke filled air. A Timber flashed by and perhaps momentarily distracted Target Practice Warren. The ball hit the turf once and slinked across the line and into the net. The Prodigal Son shrugged his shoulders as if to say that it is embarrassing being so damn good. The Timbers Army shrugged as one, singing that joyous chorus known to one and all as Alli-Alli-Alli-O. Finnegan lit up a smoke and ended up with permanently dyed green hands. The dugout remained clear while the aisles were filled with dancers. True Supporters 1 Would Be Fans 0. Minnesota could have folded then and there but to its credit it did not. Gary Coleman Webster and his adult friends continued to test Our Savior but like the two previous teams he has faced, they were unable to find paydirt. A little before halftime, at the very moment when the Shed was telling the Timbers that it can’t help falling in love with you, Hugo moved along the right side as only Hugo can move. He lofted a cross into the box where both Sir Alex and the Prodigal Son awaited. Sir Alex, a polite lad if there ever was one, asked himself, “What would Clive do?” The answer became clear when he deferred to his teammate who graciously accepted the ball and knocked the living shite out of it, straight into the deep corner of the goal and right through the hearts of the team named after a weather phenomenon. Buy Local 2 Big Box Store 0. Sensing blood, the Timbers continued the attack right up until the halftime whistle. Hugo suffered abuse worse than a captured terrorist suspect and still managed to slither past his captures. Alone with just himself and Mr. Warren, the referee – the first all year who had a full head of hair – decided that he too would join the Tithead Club for Refs by getting on his knees and blowing the play dead. Halftime 2-0. The second 45 began and the Timbers Army expressed its joy by singing in full, strong voice. The vocal efforts were rewarded by Lord Byron who took a pass from the Prodigal Son and stuffed it past the helpless Warren. Spanish mixed with English and the resulting language was one of love and joy. Byron Alvarez, clap, clap, clap. Ohhh, ahhh, Alvarez, say ohhh, ahhh Alvarez. Rose City 3 Twin Cities 0. The rest of the game was a lovefest between 107 and the lads on the pitch. It was Grateful Dead night so it was only fitting that smoke filled the night sky and the masses were a shiny, happy tripping mess. We reminded Gary Coleman Webster that the world is a small place, especially for the vertically challenged. We asked Minnesota if we could play it every week, along with Team Edmonton FC 666. We talked about the height and the width of the goal. We combined the words Fadi and Oi to make music. We combined the words Dizzy and Oi to make music. We read Edwin Miranda his rights. We sang the score and asked for more. We correctly pointed out that our team is in first place. We sadly failed to sing any Boy George songs (come a, come a, come a, come on Timbers, come on Timbers, come on Timberrrrs). We continued to chant You Suck Warren like we have all season long. And we gave the Prodigal Son his baseball trophy which he held throughout his television interviews. So now we must wait another week to see our team at the Pig but in between the boys head north to Alberta with three straight shutouts under their belts and a late season run within their reach. Go Clive! Roberto Writer-in-Arms Timbers Army Portland, OR USA July 24th Last weekend’s road trip produced many tales from the Timbers Army. There were tales of victories and tales of defeats and tales of international scandal and tales about tales. But none of the tales were as horrifying as the ones that came out of Saturday’s home game against the Shittle Flounders. These are tales that should not be read by the faint of heart, pregnant women or anyone under 42 inches in height (sorry Viet Ngyuen). All day long Portland sweltered under an unusual heat wave that saw temperatures reach triple digits. The heat continued to rise and by game time if was measured to be exactly 107 in the stands of PGE Park. The Sounders team, showing an absolute lack of imagination by wearing the Timbers’ kits and colors as if that would convince everyone that they were actually a decent team and not one that had lost five straight to the real men in green and white, were treated to the usual pre-game pleasantries for which the Rose City has become famous. The game began and the Timbers controlled the action early. Despite missing our Kiwi Bedrock in the back and half of the Saunders’ family offspring, it looked like it was going to be Portland’s night to finish the season sweep of Shittle. Lord Byron nearly headed one into the place he has gone so many times before. Sir Alex hit a rifle into the side netting. And Glass Jaw Burpo was tested on a couple of occasions. The tide turned toward the end of the half with Saunders making an incredible save to keep the game even. Eventually Shittle’s San Jose Reject got the Flounders on the board and 1-0 is how it would stand at halftime. After the always-thrilling Monkey making kids cry halftime entertainment, both teams returned to the pitch but it was only the team from Shittle that looked like it cared about being there. The Portland boys, who we will support forever more, left their hearts, emotion and skill in the PGE Park locker room. The result was a half that was enough to make a grown man cry, or at least in the case of your correspondent enough to make a grown man sit silently at the top of 107 to contemplate the cruelties of humanity. The Shed did make an effort to rally the boys but even the faithful were a bit off their game. There were chants of spite: Salt Lake City. There were chants of hyperbole: Worst Ref Ever. There were chants of absurdity: Build a bonfire on a 107-degree day. There were rhetorical chants: Can you hear Shittle sing? But there were no chants to lift the Portland lads from the doldrums and to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Levesque scored his second of the night on a questionable decision by Our Savior, taunted the Shed and sealed the victory for a beaten up Shittle team that had no right earning 3 points on our home turf. The only thing that could have made things worse would have been for Burpo and his band of classless teammates to further taunt the Shed. Oh wait, they did just that. Wankers. In the pub after the game there were almost as many grim faces as there were missing ones. This was not a game that people wanted to talk about or analyze. This is one that we all wanted to forget. And forget we must, as there is still a lot of footy left until the end of the season. There are five home games in August and each will be bigger than the next. Now is the time for our team and the crazies who spend so much time thinking, dreaming and supporting them to take care of bizness. Until next time, Roberto Writer-in-Arms Timbers Army Portland, OR USA July 14 Open Cup Match It was two hour before kickoff. A blue bus pulled up in front of the stadium. Twenty or so men, some might even call Smurfs, got off the bus. Twenty or so men, all do call an Army, waited on the other side of the street and soon let loose with a barrage of chants suggesting that two hours before kickoff would be the perfect time for the Smurfs to find their way back to San Jose. The head Smurf, one that some like to call Tristan Smurf, could only shake his head and smile. He knew it would be a long night. He knew he would have to be David trying to slay the Goliath that has become known as the Timbers Army. An hour before the contest to decide the future of all mankind, the Army assembled in formation and marched into the stadium behind a banner that read “Fahrenheit 107.” The 107 part helped us remember where to go in the stadium and go there we did. For 60 minutes we warmed up the vocal chords, preparing for another 90 minutes of noise. We asked Tristan Smurf about his receding hairline. We suggested that he could really use some Rogaine for Women. We let Wrong Way Conway know that we urinated in his water bottle and no matter how much brushing he does he’ll never get the taste out. We taunted the Sounders Reject Ching, Ching, Ching. We let it be known in no uncertain terms that MLS can kiss our ass. And this was all before the game even started. By the time the action commenced, 107 had become 107, 207, 108, 106 and the whole freakin’ North End. Do not let the attendance numbers fool you, a bigger crowd we have not seen at a Timbers game in many a year. The fulcrum of fandom, The Shed, spurred on the crowd. When the Big A$$ Rising Sun rose, there was magic in the air. The beer gardeners stopped their preening, the soccer parents uncovered their children’s eyes and ears, the Rent-a-Cops looked human and the masses waving the flag felt the temperature rise well above 107. The Timbers lads felt the emotion and began the game on the attack. They might have been underdogs but they were playing with a 12th man that rarely is seen in the MLS. Sensing the unfair advantage that Portland held, the referee (side note: must EVERY referee be a bald tithead? Is the only requirement a chrome dome?) decided to level the playing field by calling the freshly shaved Gavin for a penalty in the box. While the penalty kick was being converted, Gavin headed for the showers where the Timbers’ chances would be going down the drain on this evening. Saint Joe 1 Portland 0 The ten men left on the pitch wearing white and green played hard and continued to receive incredible support from the North End. The Smurfs rolled the ball around a bunch; Tristan showed why he is world class and Wrong Way Conway was hardly tested. 1-0 at the half. Fortunes would not chance in the second half. A defensive miscue by Shawn Saunders led to a second Smurfquakes goal. The Shed still sung out. A third San Jose goal led to more singing and further confirmation that we are the best damn fans in the world. Despite being down 3-0, the Timbers Army still let the ones they love know that they simply can’t help falling in love with them. We emphatically stated that we are true supporters to the end of time and that we are Rose City Till We Die. We told the handful of frontrunners that have never been to a game at PGE Park and choose to leave early that they are in fact a bunch of bums who should go home and stay there. We clapped our hands because our governor is not a Nazi and because our state has both water and power. Above all else we partied like our team had been victorious, which in many way they were simply by making it this far in the Lamar Hunt U.S. Open Cup. In return the players honored us with a victory lap. Pure class. The party rolled over to the pub. Old time Shedheads marveled at how things have grown and how things will continue to grow. First timers couldn’t stop talking about the rootcrack experience of 107. Betsy Ross searched in vain for Chris Cooper who was last seen heading home with Tristan Smurf. A group paid their final fairwells to the Smurfs as the San Jose bus drove away. Attention turned to this weekend’s action in Vancouver and Seattle, a pair of games where the Timbers lads will need every ounce of love, passion and spirit that the Timbers Army can muster. Until next time, Roberto Writer-in-Arms Timbers Army Portland, OR USA July 8th Thursday night was Back to the Basics night at PGE Park. After a sub par game last week, the Timbers Army was determined to remain unified and sing forever. Alan Gordon, in a bit of a midseason slump, decided to wear the magical red boots that reminded him that there is no place like the back of the net. Lord Byron was back to being Lord Byron. And the Timbers team, losers of three straight at home, decided to put on a show to remind us all why our expectations are so high this year. Unfortunately for the Aviators from Alberta, someone from their club got the memo wrong. They thought it was Back to the 80s night. That can be the only logical explanation for those Goodwillesque uniforms. The cameras were turned on, the match began, Beni combed his pompadour on the bench, Satin’s chant entered the building and before one could even blink, Jake nearly sent a cracker by the Argentine Arsehole. The Army sung out with glee and the lads in green and white put the energy to their advantage. They danced around the helpless 51st State defense and attacked like they were determined to raise the Stars and Stripes over the shores of Moose Jaw. Eventually it was Alan Gordon, not the other one mind you because really there is only one Alan Gordon, who got the festivities started by heading home a rebound to send the crazies into a state of craze. Rose City 1 Other City 0. After the smoke cleared the air and the sounds of explosions subsided, the Aviators returned the favor. Once again there was the sight of #23 in green and white chasing after his man only to catch up in vain. 1-1 was how things would stand after a first half that one could safely say the Timbers dominated. The first half would turn out to be a mere prelude for the second. Four minutes into the second stanza, it was Jake finding the Prodigal Son who did a marvelous flick on the Flash who buried the ball in the corner. Red boots 2 Other boots 1. Far be it from Flash to stop there. Sensing the hat trick, he graciously accepted another nifty pass from the Prodigal Son and blasted it by the Falkland Island keeper, sending 107 into a blissful orgy of self-indulgent dancing, singing and smoking. Flash 3 Lights Out 1. With still a lot of time left in the game the only question that remained was whether or not Satin would rear his beautiful head once again. That question became more prominent after Lord Byron, fresh off the bench, took his first touch, raced down half the pitch, cut between two defenders and sent this very loud message to Bobby Howe, “Funny, I seem to recall scoring three against these guys last time. Maybe I should play.” Timbers 4 Aviators 1. Sensing further blood, Byron once again shot by the Canadian defense and was assaulted in the penalty area. The Red Bastard allowed a play on and Dizzy did just that by rifling one in. The Timbers Army could be heard from PGE Park to Purgatory. Satan was about to come out in play. And no, your correspondent isn’t talk about the Rent-a-Cops who told Finnegan to stop smoking up the joint. Like that isn’t something we haven’t already told him already. Smoke Bombs 5 Rent-a-Cops 1. Timber Jim still had a bit of log left and the Shed had a sixth sense. We repeatedly asked Edmonton if we could play them every week since they are our Washington Generals. We observed that the Timbers had taken more shots than a kid on his 21st birthday party. And we sung the praises of Alvarez, Superstar. In turn, Lord Byron turned the night into straight sixes and the Timbers’ faithful danced like they were possessed by El Diablo. Portland Timbers 6 Edmonton Aviators 1 After regaining our rightful place at the top of the table with the season now exactly halfway over, we now turn out attention to a critical week of footy. First we will find our way to San Jose then we must conquer the Craps before we filet the Flounders. It is a tall task, indeed, but one that the Timbers and the ones who adore them can achieve. Until next time, Roberto Writer-in-Arms Timbers Army Portland, OR USA Editor’s note: Relying on faulty intelligence reports he received from the Shed all evening, your correspondent has erroneously identified the Edmonton keeper as being Argentine. The backup keeper, in fact, played on Thursday and showed he is just as capable at letting six goals in. We regret if this has caused any confusion and apologize to the entire nation of Argentina and the freedom loving world. July 2nd Your correspondent must admit that he keeps company with questionable people. One of his long-time friends is an anarchist corporate lawyer who now works for the state government. Another is a guy who goes to Timbers’ games and gets turned on by scantily clad women pulling ice cream sandwiches out of his pants. Then there are the women who pull said ice cream sandwiches out of said man’s pants. And of course there is the one with the charming, gap tooth smile and the one who makes root crack and the Portland-born Aussie. The list goes on and on. One of the more interesting characters is a childhood friend we shall call the Grim Reaper. Every year while friends and family send their best wishes upon the anniversary of your correspondent’s entrance into this world, The Grim Reaper sends a note of congratulations. For example, on his 22nd birthday your correspondent received, “Congratulations. You have lived longer than Sid Vicious. Only 12 more years to go to beat Jesus.” This week your correspondent entered his third decade of life and the Grim Reaper, of course, was quick to point out that he has now outlived Jim Morrison, James Dean, Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix and Tupac Shakur (although the Grim Reaper put an * here because she wasn’t willing to fully admit that Tupac is actually not still alive). While your correspondent is optimistic he will indeed outlive Jesus and he is hopeful that after completing the Power of Persuasion video course shown on the WB at 4am he’ll someday develop more of a following then the bearded one, Friday’s game between the Portland Timbers and Vancouver Whitecaps has left him wondering if an early exit is not always a bad thing. The masses arrived early at the old town meat market people choose to call McFaddens and some were there watching the pornographically bad game between the Flounders and Wave Good-byes on Fox Sports World. Cooper (see above reference regarding ice cream sandwiches and pants) did his best to haze your correspondent, threatening to buy him PBR all night long. The bartender did her best to advertise her surgically enhance body parts. There was talk about San Jose, but there was little talk about the Whitecaps. Spirits were high but expectations were low. The Bullpen was the next pit stop. The Timber Janes (see above reference regarding ice cream sandwiches and pants) presented your correspondent with a ridiculously impressive birthday hat replete with jingling soccer balls and a style that would have your correspondent beating back the ladies all night long. It is good to be king. Soon enough it was 7:05 and the anthems were played. O Canada won the competition and will now face the former USSR anthem in the semifinals of the Global Anthem Challenge. The game commenced and the entire front row of 107 was given permission from their parents to stay up past their bedtimes. Upon hearing this news, they threw confetti in the air and swore like sailors for 90 minutes. On the pitch, a makeshift Timbers’ team took control early. With Benni as sweeper, The Scoreless Winters of the Eternal Mind at defensive mid and Heinzen/Henning in the back, you could almost see the fear in the eyes of the Whitecraps. This fear was nearly justified after Sir Alex reluctantly ripped one just over the bar in the first two minutes. The Shed let out a collective sigh and it has nothing to do with ice cream sandwiches being pulled out of pants. It wasn’t long before the absence of Gavin and Lee in the middle became all too obvious. Ten minutes into the match the Craps scored on a weak one and the unspoken pessimism one could feel in 107 turned to outright disappointment. 1-0 Socialized Medicine. The Timbers bounced back and largely controlled the pace of play. They worked the ball around nicely, always achieving the objective of getting the ball into the corner and desperately flinging it into the mixture (term copyrighted by Andy Mac). Lord Byron almost angled one in of his head and the Krusty Klown keeper could only drink from the water bottle that we pissed in. He’ll never get the taste out. Some suggested that he should be shoved up our collective arses. Others were inspired to sing about it being a small, small world. A theme soon developed and oompaloompa, Gary Coleman and other not so nice things were expressed. And the play on the field was rather unpleasant. The Timbers rolled the ball but offered little in the way of shots. Sir Alex did hit a bender that defied physics and The Prodigal Son also offered a nice free kick. Flash and Lord Byron struggled up front and You Go was also a bit off of his game. Another Whitecaps goal pretty much sealed the deal with 25 minutes left on the clock. Section 107 had little else to do so some began chanting for Bobby to make a sub. Others began chanting for Bobby to remove his head from his backside. Still others suggested he should get back into his time capsule and return to England circa 1960 where his coaching would be considered top notch and dare we say, innovative. The evening was pretty much summed up when someone lit off a smoke bomb and it was Whitecraps blue. Game over. 2-0 Vancouver. Afterward at the pub, there was little talk of the game. What was there to say? Especially when other topics could be discussed while sipping on $1 cans of Hamms. Those topics included: bestiality, Cooper’s infatuation with Betsy Ross, Betsy Ross’ lap dances, Pong’s subversive literature, donkeys, Shetland Ponies, tailgating, Timbergreg’s concubine, your correspondent’s ass and Ricky’s singing (not related to your correspondent’s ass). All of which are reasons to want to live to see another game. Until next time, Roberto Writer-in-Arms Timbers Army Portland, OR USA June 17th [Editor’s Note: If you were looking for the Tales from the Shed from Game 9, there were none. All requests for refunds should be mailed on a postcard to the Drumman.] As some of you have seen, La Casa de Roberto looks like a crack house on the outside. While the front porch is crumbling, the windows are slanted and the weeds in the front yard are more plentiful than the weeds in Ricky’s pockets on game days, the crack house is not the worst crack house in the neighborhood. That honor would belong to your correspondent’s neighbor to the west, heretofore known as Thong Man. Thong Man is a Caucasian male in his mid-to-late 40s. His legs are as thin as the Timber’s bench and his potbelly is of the Greg Howes variety. With a mohawk rattail that would make most 80s groupies swoon, the Thong Man has what could charitably be described as a unique look. You might be wondering how he has earned his moniker. The answer is quite simple. On any day when the sun is out – whether it 30 degrees or 80 degrees – the Thong Man is in his backyard, lathered in what appears to be Crisco and reclining in his chair wearing nothing but a thong. This past week has been especially tough on your correspondent. The sunny summer days have meant: Monday – Red Thong Tuesday – Banana Yellow Thong Wednesday – Tiger Striped Thong Thursday – Silver Thong Your correspondent wants you to use this tale, fair reader, as a balm for your wounds. No matter how low things go and no matter how tough the Timbers’ loss, at least you do not have the image of Thong Man permanently burned into the inside of your eyelids. So Thursday came around and a bunch of people decided to go to PGE Park. Section 107 was enormous. A good 10 minutes before the game the front row was fuller than Julia Roberts' lips. The early arrivals were treated to a horrific rendition of the national anthem and then were treated to a whole lot of waiting around while the local television station got its squirrels running to generate enough electricity to broadcast to the two people watching at home. Eventually the game began and the Shed sung out. Those vocal lessons are starting to pay off and the talent agents all agreed that the masses sounded pretty damn good. American Idol here we come. Meanwhile, our Idols on the pitch began the game by acting out the Bobby Horror Show. Long passes followed long passes. The defense was a veritable Maginot Line. The midfield looked three steps behind. If it weren’t for the work of Our Savior in net, the Crackchester Whinos might have scored early. About 40 minutes into the game, the pretenders from Upstate New York did get on the board. Morrison let the round thing go through his legs and Heinzen failed to clear one he should have. This left Our Savior one-v-one with the forward. Saunders stoned him once but couldn’t stone him twice. Goal. Ugh. 1-0 to the team we weren’t rooting for. The half ended and halftime was filled with lots of dismay and less than flattering words for a certain coach named Bobby. The second stanza began soon enough with Henning in for the apparently ill Wilkinson. This added to the nervous energy in the Shed. The Timbers withstood an early attack and soon took control of the play. The Rochester keeper – first name: You, middle name: Suck, last name: ass***e – felt the wrath of the 400 standing behind him. Rochester Child Molester. Lord Byron danced around the net, but failed to convert. Nah, nah, nah, Scott Benedetti took a shot that almost went in. Flash threw his body around and it seemed like he was going to get one. The referee sucked and his linemen were hardly men at all. At one point Finnegan was so irate that he accidentally (?) bitch slapped your correspondent sending his glasses flying through the air and leaving him with nothing but the image of a middle aged man wearing a thong in his eyes. On the other end of the pitch, near tragedy struck. Our Savior took a hit to the hip and lay prone on the ground for what seemed like seven years. As he was taken off in a stretcher, some were thinking that our season’s chances were being carted away as well. Elfvin came in and did his best to fill some awfully big shoes. The Saunders injury seemed to fire up the lads in green and white. The pressure mounted and eventually paid off. The linesman, a quasi-tit head who had his flag in a perpetually raised position all evening, finally got one right when he targeted a Whino player for a handball in the box. The crazies went crazy and the noise was intense as Sir Alex lined up the free kick. He calmly knocked it into the lower corner, beating f**k You 22, and sending the Shed into its ritualistic frenzy. Smoke filled the lungs and soothed the soul. Alas, a goal. 1-1 with 25 minutes or so left. The drama increased as the Timbers searched for the winner. Lord Byron was just off the mark a couple of times and Jake made some things happen. The number 90 appeared on the scoreboard and so did the words: 7 minutes stoppage time. Five minutes into those seven, Heinzen made yet another mistake, letting a useless forward take the ball from him and head towards the goal. Elfvin had no chance as Doug Miller touched the net and broke the hearts of the faithful. Miller showed the class that he is by taunting the Shed, which led to some less than pleasant chants and a beer shower for those in the first few rows. The whistle blew and the shitehead referees left to a chorus of unkindness. 2-1 Rochester. Afterward in the pub, there was talk about Bobby’s lack of substitutions. There were questions about the non-appearance of the Prodigal Son, Andrew Gregor. There was concern about Josh Saunders. There was much scorn for Aaron Heinzen. There was Nevets drunked up and singing about having his arsehole licked. There was Betsy Ross robbing the cradle. There was Pong being Pong. There was Aussie Mike being jealous of Pong. And best of all there were still plenty of high spirits to go around. After a pair of tough back-to-back losses at home and 3 of 4 losses overall, there is reason for concern. But with a 7-3 record and asupporters club that is growing at the inflation rate of a third world currency, the lads and lassies of the Timbers Army know that better days are still ahead. Your correspondent hopes those better days are at least partly cloudy. One more day of Thong Man will not be good for his health. Until next time, Roberto Writer-in-Arms Timbers Army Portland, OR June 10th The reviews are in and the critics love us. The Oregonian sez, “Timbers Army is sizzling hot, in a charming, raspy way.” The New York Times declares, “The feel good story of the summer. That is one barmy army!” And the Wall Street Journal exclaims, “If they weren’t supporting a communist sport played by long-haired hippies who probably buy French wine, we would enlist in the Timbers Army today.” After beating up thousands of Edmonton fans and anyone who looked remotely Canadian, the hardcore supporters of the world’s greatest football club showed up in numbers on Thursday night at Enron Subsidiary Park. It was Bark in the Park night, as well as Thirsty Thursday. Always a good combination, especially if you are a dog that likes to lap up spilled beer. The Army is lapping up the play of its team this year and this evening’s opponent, the last-place expansion Edmonton Aviators, would prove to be a veritable feast for the bhoys and girls of 107. For the first 25 minutes the Timber toyed with the Aviators, punishing them for wearing 80s-style jerseys that were straight out of the Menudo fashion line. Virtually the entire Timbers’ team had an opportunity to put one past the Argentine keeper who was being serenaded with “Falkland Islands” and “Don’t Cry for Me Loser Keeper.” Finally, it was an Edmonton defender who completed the work by punching in an own goal and the laughter began. 1-0 Rose City. It didn’t take long before Lord Byron found Hugo and number 7 calmly pushed it into the receptive net in front of the Shed. Hugo and his Lordship came over in front of 107 and soaked up the love. Love is what we gave them. 2-0 and counting. Before halftime, Flash decided to get his now obligatory goal. Byron flicked on a beautiful touch pass and the man some call God blasted an unreal shot into the top corner of the net sending the crazies into a frenzy and leaving the Aviators to bicker amongst themselves. 3-0 lead at the half for the Hops Endangered City The second half commenced and Dizzy decided to take part in the scoring festivities. Dizzy, Dizzy, Dizzy, Oi, Oi, Oi. 4-0 and Timber Jim is getting tired. For once, Bobby decided to not stay the course and he began to sub liberally. Andrew Gregor, a Judas who is now Our Judas, saw his first action in the white and green kits, and he displayed the skill that we once despised but now adore. Jarod Weis entered the game for Benni. Henning came in for Heinzen. And all the while Lord Byron was blowing by the Edmonton defense. His Lordship netted not one, but two more in the half and it was 666. Satan loves the Timbers and so do we. Portland Timbers 6 Edmonton Aviators 0 Afterward in the pub the discussions were bizarre, offensive and utterly wonderful. After losing its first game of the season, the team and its supporters needed a laugher and laugh we did. Now we turn our attention to the Whitecraps on Saturday when hopefully another 3,000 will turn out in the Shed and at least 75 will be elsewhere in the stadium. First place. Top of the table. Media Who*es. So damn good it’s unbelievable. Until next time, Roberto Writer-in-Arms Timbers Army Portland, OR USA May 29th With its record as unblemished as a newborn baby’s behind and its play as good as any team in the universe, it is easy for some to imagine that the Portland Timbers football club is garnering worldwide attention. While this hasn’t been the case, the Timbers Army is indeed captivating the world’s imagination. Who can blame the hoi polloi for wanting to know more about us? After all, we are a bunch of men, women and mammals that are as mental and as barmy as they come. On this Saturday afternoon, the paparazzi were out in full force as the Green and White Army descended on that bootylicious watering hole called McFadden’s. If you weren’t careful you might have thought you were at a Bennifer movie premier and not a pre-match gathering of soccer crazies. What we don’t have in Bennifer glamour we more than make up for with people like (Timber)Gregifer, who are infinitely more entertaining, especially when challenging pre-pubescent fans to fights and telling them that the tooth fairy is their mom. On hand at the pub was a reporter from The Oregonian who drew the short straw and was assigned to follow the TA around for the evening. Other reporters rumored to be in attendance included one from Rolling Stone who will be writing a review of the Drumman’s latest solo effort entitled “Wise Men Say.” A fashion critic from GQ was there to admire the latest summer fashion line worn by the Portland Casuals. A famous food gourmand was on hand to sample Pong’s latest batch of turbo-charged root beer. A judge from the Guinness Book of World Records was present to see if Finnegan would set the 24-hour record for most cigarettes smoked. Finally, there was a reporter from Seattle who showed up because, in his own words, “I was curious to see what real soccer supporters look like.” With so much attention focused on it, one might have thought that the scrutiny would be too much and that the Army would meet as tragic an ending as the cast of Different Strokes. But much like the chimps that anthropologist study in the forests of Africa, the Portland diehards are always performing new tricks that are inexplicably interesting and of questionable benefit to themselves, and therefore they are never boring. Only partially lubricated, the troops tried to keep one step ahead of the media spotlight by boarding the light rail for a pleasant ride to watering oasis #2, the Bullpen. More drunking up ensued and by now some were ready to express their love of all things Timbers by exercising their First Amendment right to sing in public. Take that, Patriot Act! Soon the realization hit that it was time to stumble across 18th avenue and to assume our god-given place in section 107. The opponent tonight would be the Milwaukee Wave United, a team perhaps best known for having the stupidest nickname in a league full of stupid nicknames (see Salty Dogs, Impact, et al.). Milwaukee played the night before in Seattle so when its players entered PGE Park they were surprised to see two things: 1) an undefeated team that has talented players that don’t play like a bunch of hacks 2) fans that are passionate about their team and who don’t get “fired up” by wearing stuffed animals on their heads. The game commenced and confetti filled the Shed. Scarves were being bought faster than they could be produced in the Chinese sweatshops. The Timbers Army was as big and as loud as it has ever been. We let the Portland Boys know that we were there. We implored the rest of the sparse crowd to stand up for the Rose City. We once again emphasized the fact that we are Rose City Till We Die. We reminded Milwaukee’s excuse for a keeper, Jim Larkin, that he is a wanker arsehole who doesn’t look very good in a thong. We let the Wave United know that Milwaukee’s Best was not good enough. We explained to the cheesehead referee that in most soccer matches calls are made both ways. Meanwhile, on the pitch the team that we can’t help but falling in love with began the game by playing a style of ball we have come to know all too well over the past four years. Long ball after long ball failed to hit their mark. Milwaukee took advantage of the Bobby Ball and put one in the net midway through the first half. That was all the scoring there would before the always-thrilling halftime tennis ball toss. Shite Beer City 1 Microbrew Capital of the Free Word 0. The second half started and little changed. The Timbers were nothing short of lackadaisical. Even with our guest from Minnesota in the Shed repeatedly yelling “Pull up your socks” and “Diving header,” the lads in green and white just could not mount any sort of attack. Within minutes, Milwaukee scored again on a misplay by our Savior Saunders and the collective hearts and souls of the Timbers Army plummeted. Oh the despair and sorrow that football doth wreak. Midwest 2 West Coast 0. It was at this point that most teams and most supporters would fold quicker than a cheap tent. But this is a different Timbers team and this is a Timbers Army that are true supporters for ever more. Cooper made the critical decision to wrap himself in the blue and gold colors of the Oregon flag. Suddenly, the tempo and direction on the pitch began to change. The Timbers started to take control and the Shedheads were a chorus of optimism. With 25 minutes left on the clock Flash Gordon headed one past Larkin and mayhem ensued. Smoke bombs went off, the fire alarms at the park began to beep and the hearts of the Timbers’ faithful started beating back to life. Braut City 2 Rose City 1. The men we call heroes continued on the attack, testing Larkin with a sense of urgency. Lord Byron almost headed one home and the Timbers Army could sense that the moment had come. With less than 10 minutes left in the game, the moment, indeed, came. Alan Gordon, still a student in college and with a face that looks like it can’t grow hair, converted on his second header of the night. A massive eruption was heard, smoke filled the lungs and people like your correspondent who have no rhythm at all danced atop the sign-clad dugout. The game that was sure to be a loss suddenly was knotted at two apiece. A betting man would have wagered his money on the Timbers at this point. They were the fresher team with a boisterous crowd applauding their every move. In the 89th minutes the lads earned a free kick at the top of the box. Hugo faked the kick and Sir Alex struck a beauty of a ball that was destined for the back of the net, only the crossbar got in the way and the ball hit the very bottom of the bar and defied physics by rocketing straight down. No goal. No one in 107 could breathe. So close yet so far. Regulation time expired and so did your correspondent’s nerves. If there was a pair of adult diapers on hand he would have asked to have worn them. Fortunately this is the A-league, which means there are funky things like overtime. It was clear that that the Timbers weren’t going to lose but there was a question as to how they would win. That question was quickly answered by the Timbers Army Man of the Match, the man we shall call God, Alan Gordon, who out muscled a pair of defenders to rifle one home right in front of the delirious Shed to complete his hat trick. Holy Shite did things get crazy. Masses rushed the dugout. Smoke filled the lungs. Strangers were engaged in bear hugs. The old security guard jumped into your correspondent’s lap. The Oregonian reporter was screaming her lungs off. Hearts raced at an unhealthy pace. Absolute, unadulterated chaos. How sweet it was. Flash immediately took off his shirt and soaked up the love of the Army. He went over to Timber Jim and instead of taking a fresh slab of wood, grabbed the chainsaw and began cutting a piece for himself. Forget a piece, Mr. Gordon, after scoring six goals in five games you might as well grab the whole friggin’ log. To go along with the wood he was handed the Timbers Army Man of the Match trophy, which was originally a girl’s basketball trophy but the basketball part was broken off in the insane celebration. A lump of plastic we gave to you, Flash, to go along with our hearts and our love. 3-2 Undefeated, first place, top of the table, Portland Timbers. The party did not end there. The troops stormed the Bullpen and singing was heard throughout the night. Eben, a newcomer attending his first Timbers game ever, showed off the bite marks he had on his head, apparently given to him by Pong during the game-winning madness. Pong is, of course, a vegan, but when it comes to celebrating he is willing to overlook his principles. The Milwaukee coach even showed up at the pub to thank us for coming to the stadium. His direct quote: “You guys were awesome. Some of the guys on the bench were wondering what you were saying. I told them you were chanting ‘Larkin is a wanker. I also told them to not listen to you guys.” Too bad his team didn’t listen to him. We got in his team’s head and we will be in their heads for weeks to come. On this Memorial Day weekend, the Timbers capped off what has to be the most memorable month of May ever at PGE Park by running the table. The lads next head to Dixie for a back-to-back clash against Charleston and Atlanta. The Army will send 8 of its finest and bravest to make the trip. Your correspondent will be among the group and will dutiful report back to you. Sneak preview: expect to read about such things as grits, Piggly Wiggly, Sherman’s march, and, of course, a pair of Timbers’ victories. This is our team and this is our season. Rose City, Rose City, Rose City. Until then, Roberto May 15th Tales from Shittle 
There was not an empty seat to be found on the 47-seat bus as it rolled away from the beloved PGE Park. Before our intrepid driver Erin could even find the interstate, the bus was filled with more noise than we would hear from the opposing side in Shittle all night long. By the time we left Oregon, Our Oregon, empties were piling up in the aisles and a festive mood was felt by one and all. 
We passed through Centralia, Kelso, and Olympia, and all the while it was a veritable Bitter End on wheels (minus the BE’s hot bartenders, but the Timber Babes did a nice job of filing in). Tacoma soon appeared in the rearview mirror and the volume grew to a fevered pitch. One ditty after another was pulled out of the collective Timbers Army songbook and a few new ones were introduced. By the time we reached Seachickens Stadium – only after Finnegan got us lost by suggesting the driver take a shortcut into the Puget Sound – the masses were drunked up and ready for more. Shittle being Shittle, three out of four bars around the stadium were closed. After all, who would possibly show up at a nearby bar on a Saturday night with the Sounders playing? Left to our own device, the Army tailgated in the parking lot next to the bus. 
A mere flesh wound, of course, is never enough to stop the TA and neither were the security guards at the front gate. We stormed by a lone pea from the Pod, sadly holding his teal scarf and asking if we would like to play with him. 
The game commenced and the traveling Shed went through its routine. Despite being on a bus for three hours, the energy was good and the balloons were in the air. The same cannot be said for the energy level of the lads on the pitch. The first ten minutes was a bloodbath with one Shittle player after another rifling shots at goal. Twice the crossbar was our best friend keeping the slate clean. Too many times to count Josh Saunders was our hero. Simply put, Saunders played out of his mind. After 35 minutes Shittle must have had a shot advantage of 23 to 1. But despite the Flounders throwing their best at us early, the score remained at zero, giving the Army hope. It wasn’t until there was about eight minutes left in the half that the Timber boys settled down and remembered that they, not Shittle, are the ones at the top of the table. It was also about this time that we noticed a high school prom in a luxury box at the stadium. It was good to know that at least someone from Shittle might be able to score on this night. 
A near chance by Flash right before the whistle almost made us erupt. 0-0 at the half. The second stanza began on a much better note for the good guys. The Shed got everyone whose team has won a game to clap their hands. It reminded the opponents that they are flat, round and flop on the ground. It expressed its hatred for Seattle and the Whitecaps too, all the while emphasizing the fact that it can’t help falling in the love with the Timbers. And there was soon reason to feel the love. In the 52nd minute Flash took a cross from You Go Hugo and redirected it with the back of his head right to a streaking Jake Sagare. It was only fitting that on University of Washington night at the park (a fact you could tell by the six hundred Dawg Pack members in the Pod), a former UW player would be our hero. Sagare slammed it past the glass-jawed Burpo and the crazies went crazy. Alli-alli-alli-o. 1-nil for the Rose City. The remaining 40 minutes were filled with tension and expectations. Your correspondent, juiced up on Pong’s love potion and overpriced stadium hot chocolate, could only work the rosary of the Mardi Gras beads as one fresh Shittle player came on after another. But in the end, tired old has beens like Drunk Darren and Welton would not be enough to penetrate the Saunders Wall. The whistle blew and the scoreboard said: Portland 1 Seattle 0. The Army went apeshite and sang about our advancement in the U.S. Open Cup. The team, exhausted from playing two full games in three nights, came over to soak up the passion. Saunders received loads of Mardi Gras beads and he didn’t even have to lift up his shirt for us. Singing could be heard throughout the stadium and into the parking lot as we jubilantly headed for the bus. Flares were lit and the Shittle sky looked like it was WTO all over again. The ride home was most pleasant with beers and pasta being passed around, and the images of victory still fresh in our minds. Three straight wins to start the season; top of the table; a great seeding in the U.S. Open Cup; four straight triumphs over the Flounders. It doesn’t get much better than this and it is still only May! Winning a game it by all accounts could have lost, this team showed that there might be something special happening this year. Certainly for all that went on the roadie it was a special night and above all else, a damn fun time. Until next time, Roberto Writer-in-Arms Timbers Army May 13th After a couple of weeks of savoring the opening Flounder fish fry, the green and white faithful were hungry for some more footy and some more winnin’. The opponent this night would be the Calgary Storm. I mean Team Calgary. I mean Calgary Mustangs. Whatever the name, the masses knew that they were in for a tasty appetizer before Saturday’s all-u-can drink roadie to Shittle. Even with the game being a mere formality, the Shed turned out for the first Thirsty Thursday of the year. It is only a matter of time before there are 3,000 in the north end and about 30 in the rest of the place. The Army stood in unison and opened its vocal chords. The game began and it was apparent that Bobby decided to play by Canadian Football rules. He respected the exchange rate and started ten players to the Mustangs’ eleven. Even with the Human Bobble Head in the lineup (there’s only Benedetti, and that’s one Benni too many), the lads took control early. Flash almost got one in the third minute and if it weren’t for the wood of the crossbar Inmate #67686 would have been beaten. The cricket uniform-wearing Timbers danced around the net, softening up Herr Klutz like he was taking a beating in the prison yard. Bengard almost connected and Halifax Jake nearly sent one home. But, alas, it was His Lordship who would get the team on the board first with a beautiful header that made the Singapore Jail Wh*re wish he were back in solitary confinement. Alvarez, superstar, how many goals have you scored so far? Make that one for the game and two for the season. 1-0 Star Spangled Timbers. The Rose City boys continued to mount the pressure and it looked for sure like they were on their way to a rout that would have brought a smile even to the Monkey’s prosac-needing face (Editor’s Note: The Timbers Army should be paid for being the creative geniuses behind the name Chainsaw). But as is often the case at the house named after an Enron subsidiary, the Timbers allowed an inferior team wearing tight hockey jerseys to stay in the game. Heinzen was out of position and Saunders hesitated off his line and suddenly the match was all tied up. 1-1 after 45. At halftime your correspondent received money for the 47th and last seat on the Shittle bus. The masses rejoiced by staring at the Timberettes. Talk about a bunch of women who put the t & a in the TA! The second half commenced and it didn’t take long for Timber Jim – who drove down from Shittle just for the game – to fire up the chainsaw. The Human Bobble Head played a nice combination with Bengard and Sir Alex let everyone know that he is Rose City Till I Die. Oregon 2 Curling 1 The rest of the game saw Lord Byron making the Calgary defenders look like they belonged at Portland Indoor. Alvarez was simply sick but he just couldn’t find the back of the net. Gary Coleman and his teammates tried to mount an attack and it took a great save by Saunders to keep the good guys in the lead. Some ugly play at the end and the ball dancing around dangerously in the box made the hearts of the Army feel jittery, like they were bathed in Pong’s root beer. But in the end the whistle sounded and the dugout became full as the lads joined us in our victory celebration. 2-1 for the Rose City. As he exited the pitch, Bengard was summoned over and presented with the Timbers Army Man of the Match trophy, replete with a guy holding a baseball bat. Sir Alex took one look at the second hand trophy and a wide smile came to his face. With wood in one hand and plastic trophy in the other, he headed for the showers thankful to be in a city that doesn’t have to import college kids for its games. Afterward in the pub, talk turned to the bus trip and how epic it shall be. From there at least one conversation turned to jokes that involved Michael Jackson and tuna fish. It only went downhill from there. God bless the Timbers Army, you debauched bastards. After two games the record remains perfect and the view from the top of the standings looks damn pretty. Catch your breath ye olde faithful. Saturday will require our best on and off the pitch. Somehow you have to believe that three hours on a bus will give use plenty of time to get ourselves sufficiently prepared. Bring your own beer and bring your own bail. Until then, Roberto Writer-in-Arms Timbers Army May 1st Every so often there is a weather phenomenon in Mongolia called a dzud. Essentially it an extreme, cold winter that follows an extended period of crippling drought and leads to great difficulties for the nation’s many animal herders. Footy fans in Portland can relate to these conditions. For seven months out of the calendar we experience a drought of our own where the only clouds in the sky are the ominous ones that hang over the ownership future of our team and there is little relief in sight. We try to distract ourselves by going to games on the bluff, following teams across the pond, gathering together at watering holes, buying clothes from Prada and strapping on our boots for some kick around. Despite the fleeting pleasures these activities may bring, they never fully quench our thirsts, our needs, and dare say, our desires. Just when it seems like all life has been fully sucked from us, spring arrives and the skies begin to cooperate. A deluge of player signings are announced and the anticipation mounts. Electronic barbs are exchanged with supporters from other, lesser cities. Exhibition games add to the frenzy and the countdown begins in full earnest to that glorious four-month stretch when 28 games are somehow squeezed in one right after the other and our football gluttony knows no bounds. This past winter was a particularly long, dry, difficult one for those enlisted in the Timbers Army with the fate of the club unknown until a last minute bailout assured that we would have the best soccer club that any minor league baseball league has ever seen. It is no wonder then that on the day when the anarchists celebrated the rights of the workers, there was something called the Million Marijuana March that began at “high noon” and the City of Roses unveiled its newest public transportation toy, the men, women and casuals of the Army could only think of two things: getting drunked up and supporting the green and white. The drunking up part of the agenda commenced first with a contingent of the masses converging first on the Alibi, then McFaddens and finally the Bull Pen, our new home away from home now that the Bitter End has, well, met its bitter end. Sufficiently lubricated, an Army of Fun stormed over to the house that Schuster nearly destroyed and invaded the section that has come to be known simply as 107. Our adversaries this night would be the Flounders from Shittle, a familiar foe that has earned the wrath of all right-minded humans. The Flounders fancy themselves as being the best thing since bread was first sliced. They have publicly announced their team goals for the season which have been discussed ad nauseam by other commentators. But just for the sake of accuracy let this correspondent review said goals: 1. Finally find a 12-step program that will help Drunk Darren get his life back on track. 2. Attract more fans per game than the Oregon City girls junior varsity basketball team. 3. Additional plastic surgery to make Burpo look more human and less like a gremlin. 4. Beat Real Madrid, win the MLS title, shutout Brazil in the World Cup final and finally receive just recognition as being the world’s top-ranked team. The Timbers, on the other hand, have simple goals for the season: score more of them on the pitch than their opponents. Even before the game began one and all stood for the Rose City. There was nothing casual about the way we let the Portland boys know that it was another year and that we are still here shagging women and drinking beer. We implored them to use their heads and use their feet. We pointed out that for the next 90 minutes it would be culturally acceptable and even appreciated if the players burned, destroyed, wrecked and killed. The game commenced and oh how it commenced! As quick as a flash Gordon put one by a stunned Burpo and declared to the faithful that he is indeed Rose City till he dies. Welcome to our city, Mr. Gordon. Please stay around awhile and in turn we will sing your praises and pollute the air with smoke. A chainsaw you shall hear in your sleep. 1-nil Portland Bhoys. The Flounders tried their best to recover by resorting to their now standard physical tactics. Dave Henning came up lame with a hammy and a hush fell over the PGE Park faithful. All eyes turned to the Timbers bench where a man, a legend really, was taking off his warm-ups and putting the final bit of grease on his pompadour. One and all thought to themselves: never fear Benedetti is here. The human bobble head came in as an early sub and was undoubtedly the best player over the age of 35 on the pitch all evening long. The play quickly deteriorated and the A-league referee allowed things to get a bit chippy. Chippy turned ugly when Saunders was hit in the box and retaliated with a love tap. In turn the Flounders excuse for a player decided he didn’t really like kiwis very much and he took out his anger with a fist to Gavin’s red mop. But it was the Flounders player who would end up seeing red as the wanker of a referee for once was not a wanker and he sent the thug to the showers for an extended timeout. 1-0 at the half. Playing with a man advantage the Timbers came on the attack and sucked up the karma of the Shed, which kicked off its season with solid numbers and noise. The combination of Flash and Lord Byron up front created a number of opportunities with Bengard and Hugo dishing up all kinds of crazy love. At times the movement was so fluid that it made one almost forget that Brian Winters was out with an injury. At times it was so rugged that it made one think that Brian Winters was actually in there. By the time the clock hit the 70-minute mark Lord Byron had grown impatient. His impatience was rewarded when a ball came his way and he redirected it by Burpo who appeared to be trying to find his missing teeth instead of going for the ball. Byron Alvarez, clap, clap, clap. Alvarez, superstar how many goals have you scored so far? Answer: one this season and there are plenty more where that came from. 2-0 to the Rose City. Just when it was time to take a breath and soak up the toxic plumes of smoke and enjoy the sound of saw on wood, Shittle answered with their own version of a goal. 2-1 with 15 minutes to go. The final quarter hour took three weeks. Playing a man down, Seattle threw everything they had at the Timbers net. Even 12-Step Darren tried his best to beat Saunders but as is the case with most things in his life his efforts were a bit blurry and wobbly. While the Flounders dallied around at the far end of the pitch, wearing kits that looked very much like those of a certain team from British Columbia, the Shed was a mixture of nerves and raw emotion. At one point your correspondent was on his knees – after being reprimanded twice by the rent-a-cops for having a solitary foot on the dugout – and Cooper was holding your correspondent’s scarf in a weird manner the would have made a more sentimental man break out with a verse of kumbaya. In the end the nerves were settled when the referee finally blew his whistle and victory was proclaimed. The players came over to the Shed to bask in its affection and to celebrate a very satisfying opening game, U.S. Open Cup, Cascadia Cup and third-straight triumph over Seattle. Top-ranked we must be. 2-1 is your final. In due time the Army proceeded to the Bullpen for some postgame drunking up. Those of us who indulged in Pong’s homemade root beer were flying high as a kite. Voices rang out into the beautiful spring night and all was right in the universe. The season has begun and the good times are on their way. For one night, we were all reminded why we put ourselves through seven months of dzud every year. Until next time . . Roberto Unofficial and Unelected Writer-in-Arms Timber Army . |
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| 8/10/03 On Saturday morning Timbers fans around the world awoke to the gnawing pangs of anticipation and anxiety knowing full well that this would be the most important weekend of the season for their beloved boys in green and white. After watching two gut-wrenching affairs in less than 48 hours against the much-despised Shittle Flounders, it is safe to say that the Timbers Nation awoke on Monday in a state of exhaustion and exhilaration. Although they have left themselves with no room for error, the Timbers playoff chances remain alive, while their losing and scoreless streaks against the Flounders are forever dead. As always, the tales shall be told. With a couple of years experience under its belt, the Timbers Army took part in perhaps the most perfectly executed pregame pub crawl in Rose City history. A gang of approximately 15 gathered at everyone's favorite SE trivia pub for the initial pints. We welcomed the Aston Villa clad Dave into our fold and he learned what millions around the world already know: we are the best damn supporters in the A-league. From there, the bus and bike brigade crossed over the Superfund River and arrived at the Tugboat, which unfortunately was not open. With a quick mental agility, the troops realigned and ended up at the Silver Dollar 2, a bar on Broadway that is perhaps best known for its sweat drenched pinball enthusiasts and its fine collection of Bruce Sutter/right hanging baseball cards. More pints were consumed. 
Once in the stadium it quickly became apparent that this would be the largest crowd of the season and that the Shed would be in its most vocal state. Even after Sasha had his air horn confiscated by the rent-a-cops the noise level was solid and this was a good ten minutes before kickoff. The match began and everyone's favorite bee-atch keeper, Preston Burpo, received much love from the Shed. We reminded him that he had already been taken home in a Portland ambulance. We asked him to show us his glass jaw. We pointed out that his goofy Mohawk and silly goatee makes him look like an evil Gremlin. The game progressed and the Timbers fed off of the Army's energy. Unfortunately, as has become custom in matches against the Flounders, one defensive lapse was turned into an opportunistic goal by Malibu Ken. Seattle 1 Portland 0 At halftime there was some kind of lame mascot game featuring the Keebler Elf, et al that reminded one and all that the best damn mascot in the world carries a chainsaw and wears suspenders. And we ain't talking about Timber Drew. The second half commenced and with Benedetti in an attacking midfield position and Alvarez Superstar alone on an island up front working his arse off to control the continual barrage of long crosses from the midfield, it became apparent to most of us that this was a tired strategy that has left us bitter in the past. In fact, if you looked over at the Timbers bench you might have surmised that there was a gray haired gentleman dressed in a coach's mascot suit. Despite the poor tactics and even poorer officiating, the Timbers fought the full 90 minutes. A Benny rifle hit the crossbar, a Jake attack trickled by the side of the net, a Tennyson header brought oohs and ahhs from the faithful but nary a point on the scoreboard. Final score: Flounders 1 Timbers 0 Your correspondent, like many of the masses (including Cooper who was asking around for the name of a good psychologist), was so physically drained that he could not even bring himself to make the walk across the street to the pub. Instead, he went home and tried to put things in perspective. 35,000 kids die of hunger each day. More than a billion people live on less than a dollar a day. How important is it if the Timbers don't make the playoffs? Answer: very important. That is why the Timbers Army met on Sunday to storm into Shittle and to support our lads. Even if we never win a championship, it is our duty and our privilege to sing out for our lads until we can sing no more. With the Flounder-on-a-stick in hand, about 25 Rose City fans took our place in section 104 of Seachickens stadium and we let the Timbers boys know in no uncertain terms that we were there and we would continue to be there till we die. For our loyalty and our faith, we were rewarded with the finest road win that any of us has ever seen. In the seventh minute, Jake flew down the left side of the American football pitch and blew by a Flounder stuck in the artificial mud. With a simple flick of his foot he found a crashing Lord Tennyson who slammed it by a helpless Cullen to send the faithful into frenzy. Oh Tennyson, Oh Tennyson, He'll score on you again and again. Portland 1 Seattle 0. The rest of the first half saw the Flounders literally scratching, clawing and biting their way around the pitch. The referee and linesmen were apparently told it was Opposite Day at the stadium since they inexplicably called nearly every call - both for and against the Timbers - completely wrong. With our very close proximity to the field, we let the linesmen know about the offside rule. We let the referee know that when you say it is a Timbers throw in it is not correct to let the Flounder throw it in. We let the soccer moms and nine-year-old hooligans around us know that we weren't going to shut up and that we could care less that Shittle has a) a pointyball team b) a baseball team c) the most annoying traffic in the world d) the quietest soccer fans in the world e) a 70,000 seat stadium with under 3,000 fans f) an endangered mascot. 1-0 at the half. In the second half we had a reunion with our good friend Drunk Darren who gave us a laugh and a wave after we challenged him to walk in a straight line along one of the hundreds of straight lines on their nifty little American football pitch. Instead he started the half by creating a decent scoring opportunity that was denied by Our Savior Saunders. Eventually the Flounders did put one in and the nine-year-old hooligan/soccer mom brigade clapped for 5 seconds. 1-1. Just when we thought this game would follow the usual script with the Timbers blowing a lead and losing three points, Lord Byron took it upon himself to start a new chapter in Portland soccer history. His Lordship took a nifty feed from Hugo and calmly dumped it between the posts. The traveling Shed was anything but calm, erupting into cheers and sensing that tonight might be our night. 2-1 Timbers And indeed it was. A few minutes later Byron continued to work like a horse and his efforts paid off. A Flounders defender tried to clear the ball, but instead all he did was slam it into the back of Byron's body and like a gift from above the ball caromed past a fallen Cullen. 3-1 Rose City. The last ten minutes saw more physical play from the Flounders. Kei was literally assaulted all over the field. On one play he slid hard into Scott. And in true Flounders fashion, Scott got up and threw a punch at Kei as he was walking away. The referee, perhaps appointed to this game by the Supreme Court, only issued Scott a yellow card despite his linesman's pointing out that throwing punches in the game of footy is slightly against the rules. 
For at least one more week our hopes are alive. Rest up my friends. Your energy will be needed for Friday. Until then, Roberto Unofficial and Unelected Writer-in-Arms Timbers Army |
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| 7/11/03 One of the very few good things about following a team in the A-league is that on any given night you can show up at the park and see something you would never expect. Indeed, if there is one thing that defines the league in which our beloved Timbers play, it is its wackiness. At times frustrating, at times annoying, yet usually entertaining especially for $8 admission. After disposing of El Floppo a mere 46 hours before, the lads with the horizontal green and white stripes were back in action on Sunday taking on a Milwaukee team that had embarrassed them earlier this year by a score of four to nil. But that was then and this is now, and now is a very good time to be a Timbers fan. Despite the pleasant weather and winning ways, the crowd was sparse on this evening. Even the Shed seemed to be missing a fair number of faithful. Apparently the benefits of the massive advertising campaign won't be felt until it is just about time for the season to come to an end. The game began and the usual exclamations were proclaimed. Milwaukee featured that thong wearing, fashionably challenged Whitecraps reject keeper Jim Larkin who also has been a favorite target for our scorn for many a game. This game would be no different. Fifteen minutes into the match the Wave United (another great thing about the A-league, crappy nicknames), scored but there was nary a wisp of doubt that the Timbers would come back. And they did. Question: Byron Alvarez, superstar, how many goals have you scored so far? Answer: A whole lot including one about 20 minutes into the game. Timbers 1 Stupid Nicknames 1. It didn't take long for our other Lord to become jealous. Lurking around Mr. Larkin reading to pounce on any circular object that came his way, Kei slammed one home and sent the faithful into hysterics. Portland's beer 2 Milwaukee's Best 1. But the joys would not end there for our dynamic pair of Lords. Tennyson netted another goal before the end of the half and this one was in the bag. Or so we thought. West Coast 3 Midwest 1. The tide turned in the second half. The Timbers reject Greg Howes entered the contest and displayed something we never saw when he played in Portland: about 25 pounds of extra weight. Unfortunately he also worked his way through our defense and Savior Saunders was frequently tested. On two occasions he would not be up to the test as Milwaukee erased the two-goal lead with seven minutes remaining. And this is where it became clear why the A-league (itself a stupid name), is so much fun. In about the 85th minute, John Ball simply wrecked Adam Wilson's leg and was sent off with a red card. As Wilson lay dead on the field thinking that he must have the worst injury luck in the world, the Shed unleashed a stream of chants at the villainous Ball. Apparently a bit on the short end of a full head of brains, Ball smirked at the Army and pointed to the scoreboard. This only added fuel to the fire and Portland's best fans let Ball know that he had no balls. Ball responded in kind by giving the Shed the one finger salute before leaving to take his early shower. He has now been added to the ever- growing list of Shed induced mental breakdown victims. The game soon resumed and despite the turn of events on the scoreboard there was really little doubt which team was going to win. The Timbers are smoking hot and playing like a team that knows it can't be stopped. This is especially the case with our favorite unpaid player. No, not the monkey. We are talking of course about Lord Byron of goal scoring fame. He darts, he weaves, he fights, he scraps, he hustles, and he scores. And it never gets old. 4-3 Rose City. After a very successful weekend and a stretch of eight wins in ten games, the lads now head to the Midwest to conquer Cincy and Minnesota. We wish them the safest of travels and the best of luck on this very noble endeavor. The fun returns to PGE Park in two weeks as we welcome in the ownerless Calgary team for more interesting and exciting A-league action. Until then, Roberto Unofficial and Unelected Writer-in-Arms Timbers Army |
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11th The Hatred is usually not a healthy emotion, but when it comes to being a sports fan it is ok to hate from time to time. You can hate a referee. For example, a certain visually impaired tit head. You can hate a player. The Timbers Reject Judas Clarke comes to mind. And then you can hate a team. Sure, we don't like Shittle and the Craps, but is there any team easier to hate then the blue bastards from El Paso? The best way to turn hate into love is through victory. With this vision in mind, the masses arrived at the stadium and took their god-given place in section 107. It didn't take long for the dog and pony show to begin. Two minutes into the game - less time than it takes Cooper to eat his traditional game night ice cream sandwich dinner - an El Paso player was down on the ground screaming to have his leg amputated. It was on a night like this that the Timbers Army No Pity scarves would earn their worth. The Shed let the diver know that even though our health care system might be screwed up, we still have ambulances that can take you home. Magically, the El Floppo player sprang to life and the game resumed. Within five minutes the Timbers had been whistled for about seven phantom fouls. Within ten minutes the Shed had let the team from Texas know that its yellow rose stinks and so does its Bush. By the 15th minute, El Paso turned into El Floppo and then El Pus#y. By the 20th minute, a certain plastic chainsaw carrying lass in the Army had determined that "El Paso goes down more than a $5 ho." Thankfully, the mighty lads in green and white – honest through and through – ignored the Bush league tactics and passed its way around the convulsing players on the pitch. Hugo, a true professional's professional, finally received some good karma. After a nifty move that, surprise, sent an El Paso player to the pitch, Hugo rifled one into the back of the goal and then immediately raced over to the Shed where he was showered with unadulterated love and the wonderful smell of smoke bombs from the ever growing masses on the dugout. Portland Timbers 1 Weapons of Mass Destruction 0. The tide soon turned. The referee continued to call everything El Paso's way. The Texans fed off this extra man advantage and nearly scored twice on breakaways but Josh Saunders reminded them that he is the best keeper in the free world by stonewalling both attempts. Eventually El Paso did score on a penalty kick after a Timbers player was whistled for a legitimate handball in the box. Rose City 1 Yellow Rose of Texas 1. That score would not last for long, however. The Timbers boys knew they were the superior team and the Lords Byron and Tennyson lurked around the goal waiting for their one moment in time. But it was an unsung player who ended up doing the deed. Lee Morrison, previously known only as the guy who wanked on that incredibly easy goal opportunity the first game against Shittle, learned from his mistakes and demonstrated his loyalty to the Army faithful by chesting, yes chesting, a ball fed by Hugo into the top corner of the net. Good 2 Evil 1. Halftime came and your correspondent did something he has never done before. After noticing that the referee had blown 11 whistles against Portland and 3 against El Paso, your correspondent joined Finnegan and a few others on a walk over to where the referees exit the pitch. Waiting for the yellow bastards to come our way, your correspondent thought that letting the referee know that he is a disgrace to his profession and that he could probably do his job better if his head would be surgically removed from his arse would offer some kind of emotional award. He had witnessed Finnegan do this for years and assumed that there must be something cathartic about the experience. Well, it was vastly disappointing when the referee ignored our wrath and not nearly as rewarding as buying more beer, which your correspondent ended up having to do anyway because he spilled his in his march to abuse the ref. Referee 1 Your Correspondent 0 The second half began with little doubt that the Timbers were going to win. Little doubt until our much beloved Josh Saunders gifted El Paso a goal on a poor clearance attempt a mere three minutes into the half. Just like that it was 2-2. The Timbers Army remained true to the lads and generated the energy to keep the team focused on picking up three crucial points. In the 80th minute, Aaron Heinzen decided that it was time for El Paso to remember that the only Alamo in Portland is a rental car place. Mister Heinzen took a long pass from Hugo and rifled a shot towards the net. The ball was a bullet and at the last possible second His Lordship had it glance off of his leg and into the goal. Game, set, match. 3-2 to the Rose City. At the pub afterwards, the mood was festive even with the sad crooning of the band and even after the Full Sail kegs were kicked. There was talk of kegs and eggs. There was talk of wh*res. There was plenty of carefree singing. There was even some misinformation spread by your correspondent when he told everyone the final foul count was Portland 26 El Paso 10. It was actually 25-17. My apologies to anyone who had wagered on the foul count. So the Timbers held their grip on second place for another evening and proved once again that they are a pretty good home team. There won't be much time to celebrate with the team back in action on Sunday against the sausage bashers from Wisconsin. The Army shall bring some reinforcements for the game, namely their canines for the Bark in the Park promotion. A good time shall be had by one and all. Until then, Roberto Unofficial and Unelected Writer-in-Arms Timbers Army |
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June
27th 2003
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June 12th 2003 If you think about, being a fan is really
an anamoly in our times. After all, unlike so much of the marketing
we endure in our day-to-day lives, no one ever really asks you to become
a fan. Often you don't even know how or why you became one. You just
become on. The anthems were sung. The classy Timbers
team proceeded to come over to section 107 and to climb the long stairs
to the top. One by one they handed a solitary rose to Gisele and
let her know that they were there for her on this night and they will
be there for her for many nights to come. There was nary a dry eye
in the Shed. May29th 2003
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