A Day In The Barmy Army

Jeld-Wen officials enshroud the Timbers Army in smoke, attempting to obscure all the middle fingers from TV viewers.

  OK, full disclosure: I should admit that I don’t have a history of being a soccer enthusiast. Nor would I try to claim to be one even now. This is due in large part to ignorance. There was no culture of soccer in my house growing up. I never played it as a kid because my friends and I were into Pokémon cards and Mario Party. Whenever soccer came on the television it was usually because I just happened to flip past it while searching for reruns of Batman.

Major League Soccer is on the rise, but the majority of Americans still haven’t bought into it. Soccer is, after all, a game about tension. Both teams poke and prod one another, searching for weaknesses before moving in for the kill. To the uninitiated, it would seem as if nothing is happening. But the tactics involved run far deeper than appearances warrant. Consider it this way: Think of football as the roller coaster ride that constantly dips and weaves at high speed in all directions, assaulting your senses with adrenaline for its duration. Soccer would be a long track that moves in one direction, but has probably three or four steep, exhilarating drops. The euphoria comes in bursts, and the excitement in the crowd builds over time before cascading over in a roaring torrent of hugs, cheers, and jubilee.

It is an electrifying buzz.

   
I only started to appreciate it after joining a city league team at the behest of my roommate at the time. I had no idea what I was doing, and I began watching soccer games to figure out how they worked. After playing in several games myself, I was humbled by the amazing levels of fitness the professionals attain. All they do is sprint for 90+ minutes and make plays on the fly.

The Portland Timbers have been around for a while, but the club only joined Major League Soccer in 2011. Their fan base is raucous and fiercely loyal. They pile into the Jeld-Wen stands with flags and scarves to spill beer on one another and launch fusillades of expletive-ridden hymns at the opposing team until their windpipes give out. This is soccer, and often there are long stretches where not much is going on, so the Timbers Army makes up for it by singing as many obnoxiously vulgar songs as possible while someone bangs away at a bass drum to keep the tempo.

Why, yes, this is a bratwurst wrapped in bacon with beer-soaked onions on a pretzel bun. Nope, I didn't eat it.*


*Lie

  It’s a brutal and unforgiving atmosphere. If any Timbers player takes a hard foul and remains on the ground for more than a few seconds, the entire stadium shrugs until he’s up on his feet. But if opposing players get the wind knocked out of them and stall the game, they receive boos and are relentlessly mocked as pussies. Chants of “There’s no pity in the Rose City,” and “Shoot him like a horse!” ring loud until play resumes.

   

So when an official makes a poor call, I can scream, “That’s fucking bullshit!” at the top of my lungs, and no one pays me any mind because they’re all doing the exact same thing – maybe with a sturdy middle finger or two held high for good measure.
    
Now, I absolutely loved being a part of the game day experience at Autzen Stadium. It was brilliant fun and will remain with me for the rest of my life. But I must say, after being on the proverbial leash of the Oregon Marching Band for five years, I took cathartic pleasure in being part of this completely unhinged form of cheering. I could never (openly) swear in uniform. I couldn’t balance a cup of Widmer Gold & Green in one hand while swinging a scarf above my head like a madman in the other. One could argue that the Autzen student section raises plenty of hell on its own. They do, but to a point. I see the Timbers Army as what a marriage between the student section and band would look like. As a band member, whenever the fans would cheer I had to play my instrument. If a particular call sucked and fans started booing, I still had to play my instrument. At the Timbers match I didn’t have to be a good sport. I didn’t have to play Mighty Oregon if something bad happened. Instead, I got to put my arm around the guy next to me and sway back and forth with everyone else, singing “Fuck’em All,” over and over again.

And my oh my, was it bliss.