This past week-end Peter, his friend Zach, and I made the first of what we hope will be many "epic" roadtrips to watch the Portland Timbers play in Salt Lake City. There was culture shock all the way around. Unlike Portland's stadium, which is full of frenzied, chanting fans long before the game starts, Rio Tinto had a very sleepy, nonchalant feel to it. None of the home-team fans save the public-address announcer--whose voice was magnified to levels I haven't heard since attending a Black Sabbath concert back in 1975--seemed all that excited as we neared the start.
But our brave little band of a few dozen Timbers fans surprised the locals by chanting and yelling fervently as soon as the torturous public-address system faded, including unflattering comments on Utah's weather, religious customs, and (most sacred of all to Portlanders) beer. The profanities that the Timbers Army has (generally) removed from its chants while at home were back in full force.
Yet I have to say that something transcendent, even spiritual, happened after we fell behind 3-0 and thousands of the local fans were turned our way, taunting their tormenters. None of us left, sat down, or shut up. We sang loudly and proudly "Portland Timbers, We Adore You," with feeling.
The three of us were a bit concerned about retracing our steps to our parking slot, as I had managed to put our Portlandia Prius with its Oregon plates squarely in the middle of the centre of Salt Lake City's grizzled tailgaters who had been doing their best to get "liquored up" on 3.2 beer well before the game started. But everyone was friendly and amiable. "Thanks for coming," remarked one. "You guys are amazing." Of course he meant our fans, not the team, whose coach would be fired two days later.
There's something deeply satisfying about traveling three days to cheer with such devotion a team that doesn't even manage a shot on goal.
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