Forever on Our Mind: Exorcising Four Decades of Demons at Providence Park
Bidding farewell to late-game meltdowns and coulda-woulda-shoulda moments with chants and cheap champagne
06-46. Exorcising Four Decades of Demons at Providence Park
December 2015:
We haven’t caught our breath when a man jumps atop the Civic Taproom’s U-shaped bar, shakes a bottle of champagne, screams, and showers everyone within a 10-foot radius. Minutes ago, the Portland Timbers won the MLS Cup—the first major championship trophy in the club’s 40-year history—and we’re among the roughly 70 fans gathered to watch and celebrate. I wipe the fog, sweat, and champagne from my glasses when the bottle materializes in front of Brian and me. We take a swig, pass it around, and—since we’re only a Nat Borchers long ball from Providence Park—head to church.
Church on this Sunday afternoon is Providence Park, the soccer cathedral in downtown Portland that has drawn fans to cheer on the Timbers since 1975. I’ve alternately cursed God and confirmed His existence at dozens of matches since attending my first in 2009, but we are gathered on this misty afternoon to rejoice. Our prayers have been answered.
All the money spent on merchandise and tickets, the time spent traveling to out-of-town matches, and the scratchy throats after screaming amid the Timbers Army have led here. For the first time since I started following this or any other team, I don’t have to hope for next year. Here and now, there is only this year. We are champions.
Two or three fans sit atop the 10-foot-tall mask sculpture—officially dubbed Facing the Crowd—in the middle of the open-air plaza outside the stadium at 18th and Morrison. One holds up his brand-new, outstretched “MLS Cup Champions” scarf while another tries to lead chants among the gathered faithful.
“Welcome home,” one fan offers by way of greeting. Slightly removed from the mass of revelers, he extends his arms for a hug, and we share a long-lost relatives’ embrace. I’ve seen him in the raucous Timbers Army supporter section and at viewing parties over the years, chanting and twirling his scarf in support of the team, but we have exchanged few words. I’m at a loss. “We did it,” I say. “They did it.”
Cars circle the block and honk their horns in rhythm with Timbers Army chants. Passengers lean out the windows, swinging scarves and waving flags.
Red, green, and gold smoke bombs envelop the messy, chaotic, and frenzied scene—and the crowd only grows as fans cash out from neighboring bars. We dance in front of the mask, scarves tied around our heads and cupped to our mouths. The multi-colored haze reduces visibility to a few feet; the smoke ushers away four decades of demons as it fades into the drizzly sky, never to be seen or heard from again.
I try not to breathe it in while singing—“There’s a party in Portland! No one’s sleeping tonight!”—but it’s no use. I cough, catch my breath, rub my eyes, and resume chanting. My green-and-white track jacket will smell like smoke and cheap champagne tomorrow morning. Tonight, it smells like victory.
More and more fans jump into the fray, which must number 200 by now. We start to Tetris, which is to say: We bump into each other, throw our arms around one another, sing, and yell. The rainfall picks up as the fans grow louder; it’s the kind of pelting, rhythmic, BB-sized rain that sends most Portlanders under the nearest awning to wait out the shower. Instead, we sing: “Let it rain, let it pour, let the Portland Timbers score!” A few friends and I scurry to the closest grocery store to pick up bottles of cheap champagne and four-packs of craft beer.
The IPAs and hefeweizen being passed around aren’t the only reason we’re a little drunk right now. The euphoria feels Shakespearean: “We are such stuff / As dreams are made on, and our little life / Is rounded with a sleep.” May I never wake up.
Eventually, a Providence Park employee rolls by in a cherry picker to update the marquee above us. We chant: “Change that sign! Change that sign!” Twenty minutes later, the last letter goes into place—”2015 MLS CUP CHAMPS RCTID”—and we jockey to Instagram the moment. The employee, still 50 feet above, pumps his fists and works the crowd like a rockstar.
The Portland Timbers were defined for 40 years by what might be possible: late-game meltdowns, squandered leads, too-little-too-late comebacks, whole leagues going under, an entire country turning its nose up at the beautiful game. Since the club’s inception in 1975, literal years have gone by when the team existed only in the imagination of diehard supporters—supporters who dreamed of what might be possible one day. From this day forward, forever and ever, the Portland Timbers will be defined by what is possible. Amen.
Three hours after the Timbers made history, stray fans leave the Providence Park plaza and return to their favorite bars for a well-earned beer. The news cameras have left. Cars return to honking not in celebration with the remaining fans, but to hurry each other along.
Brian and I round up a few friends and walk to the Cheerful Bullpen for Fireball and Jubelale. We hear the true believers from a few blocks away. They sing their hymns for all the heavens to hear.
“Hey, Portland Timbers! We! Sa-lute-you!”
This newsletter is free—but if you enjoyed this essay and would like to support my work and travels around Oregon, you can make a one-time or monthly donation at Buy Me a Coffee or via the button below:
And if you’re not already a subscriber, you can learn more about “Forever on Our Mind: 1,859 Love Letters to Oregon” and click the button below to subscribe to this weekly email: