Roberto's
Tales from The Shed
August 19th
You wake up with a pounding head. Your voice is an unintelligible mess. Your body aches in places you didn’t even know exist. Every third thought going through your mind begins and ends with the words, “Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, Scott Benedetti.” You smell like a fireworks show. You haven’t had a better morning.
 
Your mind goes over what happened the night before. How you showed up early at the pub and were met by festive strangers adorned in all shades of green. You consume beer and watch as these freaks that are your friends present themselves with a Cascadia Cup runners-up trophy, which Nevets found on the street while walking to the pub.  Pictures are taken and more beer is consumed.
 
The masses swell and the momentum carries you along to the stadium, to section 107, to your summertime home away from home. You are as puzzled as anyone when the Puerto Rican national anthem is played and it lasts approximately 6 years.  You want to get into a philosophical discussion about whether Puerto Rico is actually a country and therefore deserving of a Mozart-length anthem, but by this time you are singing about shagging women, drinking beer and referees taking another bong hit.  The beer is cheap so more is consumed.
 
The game commences in front of your eyes and you notice that the team for which you are a true supporter forever more includes a backup keeper with a name from the Lord of the Rings, a 37-year-old human bobble head doll, Our Two Sons named Gavin and Scot, His Lordship, Flash and the other heroes.  The early action is fairly even and the Token Anglo in goal for the other team is hardy tested.  That is, until he takes his first goal kick and he is met by a thunderous chant of You Suck Spanish Expletive. You consult your Berlitz Travel Guide to Naughty Words and you learn that the expletive roughly translates to “Your Momma looks like Preston Burpo.”  You think, that is a bit harsh but you will continue to say it all game.
 
After19 minutes of standing, singing, inhaling toxic plumes of smoke, and wondering what undisclosed location Chris Cooer is hiding in, you watch with utter disbelief as Beni outraces (no, that is not a typo) his man into the corner and lofts a brilliant cross right to that waiting cannon some call Edwin Miranda’s right foot. Miranda read the ball its rights and proceeded with due process to put the ball into the goal. Madness ensues and you sing about it being 1-nil to the Rose City.
 
The singing will continue, of course, and 15 minutes later Lord Byron directs the chorus. He races to the ball on the left side of the box and from an angle that defies physics, he uses his left foot to toe the goal by the keeper and into the net. You jump for joy while His Lordship soaks up your love right in front of you. The refrain goes something like 2-nil to the Rose City.
 
Before the half you watch as Puerto Rico has a man sent off for breaking the rules of the United States of America and you know that things are going to get good. For a second you almost think that Brian Winters scores but then you realize that it is Brian Winters and if there is one thing that Brian Winters will never do, that is score. Chugger Adair he ain’t. You take a breath and realize that it is halftime, the score is 2-0 for the good guys, Brian Winters has just surpassed Cal Ripkin’s streak and you need more beer.
 
The second half begins and by now those crazy people you spend 90 minutes with every week or so, are having themselves a celebration worthy of the First Ever Toga Night at Portland General Electric Park. You Go turns up the music even more by beating his defender through the middle of the field, slicing through two more orange traffic cones and depositing the ball into the goal. A ditty called 3-nil to the Rose City is sung.
 
Life couldn’t get better for you.  Or could it? On a night where tribute was paid to all Olympic athletes, Scott Benedetti, MVP of the original Olympic games, took a pass from You Go and scored a goal from which his younger peers could learn a lesson or two. Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, Scott Benedetti. AARP 4 Puerto Rico 0.
 
Your heart is now racing and you take a moment to measure its rate. You discover that it is beating at 666 beats per minute. When Fadi, Fadi, Fadi scores the 5th and final goal in added time your joy knows no bounds. You join one and all in applauding and lauding your Western Conference Champion Portland Timbers.
 
5-0 final.
 
Afterward in the pub you hardly find space in which to stand. You observe that there are more people there then there are at Shittle home games. You watch as people wait in line to have Scot Thompson impregnate them. You call out Our Savior’s name. You give Hugo a beer and tell Lord Byron you love him for the 666,666th time. You stay there past your school night curfew and drink up the celebration.
 
You wake up the next morning with a pounding head. Your voice is an unintelligible mess. Your body aches in places you didn’t even know exist. Every third thought going through your mind begins and ends with the words, “Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, Scott Benedetti.” You smell like a fireworks show. You haven’t had a better morning.
 
Until next time,
 
Roberto
Unofficial and Unelected Writer-in-Arms
Timbers Army
 
Portland, OR
USA 


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