Portland, Part III

One day, I answered a call from an unrecognized number. “Heeey, this is Jake Fennell. Remember me?” Of course I did. We had been both bandmates and roommates back in the 90’s. Last I knew, he had run off to Colorado with some chick named Jen. “I just got off the phone with Carl, and he says you live in Portland now. I’m moving there, too! Do you think you could maybe pick me up at the train station in two hours?” Of course I could. It was great to see him.

Jake moved into a nice little apartment near downtown, across the street from the Trader Joe’s Tyler worked at. Tyler had been a mainstay at Tuna Tuesdays. When Tyler’s friend Colin returned from Canada to get his things out of storage and move into an apartment, I was somehow summoned to help, presumably because I was the only person anyone knew who owned a truck. I hadn’t met Colin before, but when the first several boxes in his storage unit consisted of Philip K. Dick books, original screenplays and manuscripts for graphic novels, I knew we’d get along well.

I bought a used bicycle and began riding it on weekends, which sounds like a very Portland-y thing to do- except I bought an 18-speed mountain bike instead of a single-speed road bike with no brakes. A trail near my apartment went through a disc golf course, which is a game I’d enjoyed playing in the late ‘90’s. I bought three discs and went there to play, but gave up when the course became un-navigable. Fortunately, Jeremy knew the course and soon we would be playing a round or two almost every weekend.

By and large, Portlanders liked to stay active but didn’t follow sports, excepting the Trailblazers. There were several kickball leagues consisting of co-eds on a softball field, drinking cans of PBR and asking each other what the rules were. They passionately disdained baseball. Perhaps it was because they had never witnessed Tim Wakefield hurling a knuckler or Barry Bonds crushing a ball. Once I was living alone I started going to Portland Beavers Triple-A baseball games. I often went alone, but had a whole slew of friends and acquaintances, of which one or two would sometimes join me. Despite the nicely laid out stadium and respectable team, the stands remained mostly empty. Eventually, nearly every home game became a routine of filling a flask of whisky and taking the train to the ballpark. After doing some internet research, I taught myself how to keep score, probably as a way of keeping myself company.

I caught wind that a couple friends (or maybe it was just Jim) would be watching a soccer match at a soccer-themed tavern the morning of May 6th, 2009, which seemed as good a way as any to start my birthday. I was familiar with the bar but had only been there on quiet evenings. I doubt I had ever seen an entire soccer match before, but back when I lived in Oakland, I had taken to watching soccer highlight videos, and at that time the greatest showman in the sport was Ronaldinho playing for FC Barcelona in Spain. I was also aware of this specific team because my family had an exchange student from Spain live with us when I was in 11th grade. He had explained to me the politics of Spanish “futbal.” He went for the team that represented Spanish Nationalism and was against the one that strove for equal recognition of minority ethnicities in Spain. This was ingrained in my memory because it had been a fascinating experience of someone trying to convince me of something and succeeding in convincing me of the exact opposite.

As I had become convinced Portlanders hated watching all sports other than basketball, I was surprised by the scene of rabid Chelsea fans. But I secretly and silently rooted for FC Barcelona in this Champions League semi-final, whatever that was…. Unfortunately, Chelsea take an early lead. Barcelona seem to be kicking the ball a lot, but never at the net. After a Barcelona player is shown a red card, they have to play the rest of the match with one less player, but instead of giving up, as the match nears the end, it becomes more and more frenzied. Somehow, if Barcelona can score a tying goal, that would mean they would win. (Two-legged ties and away goals were useless jargon to me, especially since that “tie” doesn’t refer to a draw.) Adding to my confusion, the match keeps going after time is up, and then Andrés Iniesta unexpectedly launches a ball that flies into the net like a heat-seeking missile. I found myself jumping out of my seat with a cry, and then felt the collective glares of a sardine-packed bar upon me. It was akin to being introduced to boxing via “the rumble in the jungle” or hockey by “the miracle on ice.” Despite that fact that I understood even less of what had happened than the (horrible) referee in that match, at that moment, I became a culé. (FC Barcelona would go on to beat Manchester United in the finals.)

I’m pretty sure I spent the rest of that day, like many others that spring, applying reflective tape to a 15 foot diameter geodesic dome Jake had built for his MFA final project.

I began going to Portland Timbers soccer matches, primarily with Colin. The Timbers played in the same stadium as the Beavers baseball team, but it was a completely different scene. Fans packed the place, screaming chants, banging drums and throwing streamers and smoke bombs when they scored. A lumberjack in the midst of the crowd wielded an actual chainsaw which he used to cut discs from a log to pass around the crowd. I also began going to watch women’s soccer matches at the University of Portland, one of the best female teams in the country, with Mike and Janaé. In 2010, I watched the entirety of every single World Cup match, thanks to espn3.com. Iniesta scored the winning goal in that one, too.

Incidentally, soccer would indirectly mean that 2010 would prove to be the last year for the Beavers AAA baseball team. The following year, the Timbers would become part of MLS’s primary division (an honor you have to earn on the pitch in Europe). A condition of that promotion is they needed their own stadium, but instead of building one they decided to try and move the Beavers somewhere else. The public made sure this “waste of money” would not occur. I, on the other hand, wrote the mayor stating I would move out of town if the Beavers weren’t there. That last season was special, because I met and beginning sitting with Geri and Sheila, who had been regularly attending games for years and years. Away players would say “hi” to them on their way to the batter’s box, which we sat right behind and could talk to them as they stretched.

I became involved with a Scotch tasting group that met once a month in the suburbs and began hosting various types of cocktail samplers at my place. But, for the most part, baseball and soccer away games or off-nights were spent experimenting with cocktails while watching Japanese movies and anime, especially after Jake moved to Seattle. I did remain friends with a girl he had dated named Janine, and we would occasionally cook dinner, go out to eat or watching movies with her son. Looking back, I’m realizing those evenings were perhaps the only times I wasn’t drinking. This was a direct result of me having been drinking too much the first few times we had met.

Those that were there will be chuckling that I have left out all of the dumb stuff that I did during my last couple years in Portland. (Well, that’s assuming the things I’ve written about aren’t dumb, which reminds me of a time someone attempted to insult both Portland and me by saying, “If you like drinking whisky at baseball games I can see why you like it here.”) But even while I was still somewhat hurt and angry about Rachel leaving, I was learning to embrace and discover the opportunities within the unforeseen and even unwanted randomness life sometimes forces upon us. Things not working out as desired make it possible for things to work out better than imagined, and only requires a willingness to adapt. This concept is perfectly illustrated by the Chinese game called Mahjong, which I had been introduced to in the Bay Area and had been teaching anybody willing to learn during my five years in Portland. This was why I had local artist Peter Archer tattoo my left upper arm with 18 random Mahjong tiles blowing in the wind. In August of 2010, I got rid of whatever didn’t fit into a rental SUV and moved away.