Meeting Timber Jim

By: Sean | February 17th, 2009

Be honest: It’s kind of a big deal when you get to meet famous people. I think most of us get a little rush when we see a celebrity of any pedigree and perhaps even more so when that celebrity is associated with something we really, really love. Growing up, I got the chance to meet Darth Vader at my local Fred Meyer department store…but was a little disillusioned when the store manager said he wouldn’t sign autographs because he couldn’t see out of the helmet. Back in 2000 I spied Patrick Stewart walking down the street in New York City and it took every iota of restraint–and my wife–not to bum rush him with a fan boy Trek greeting. These meetings were memorable because they were real people connected to something I loved. (Yeah, I’ve got pro-geek sci-fi leanings. I know.) Fast forward to 2007, when my daughter Kiki and I had the opportunity to meet a local Portland soccer icon, Timber Jim. For a soccer-loving six year old girl, this was a big deal. For her 36 year old soccer-loving dad, this was also a big deal.

[Note to Sounders fans: If a blog post about the Timbers is uncomfortable for you as a former rival club, please refer to this delightful Wikipedia entry on the Space Needle for your reading enjoyment and tune in next week!]

Who is Timber Jim? Timber Jim was the long-serving and totally revered mascot for the Portland Timbers, the Rose City’s USL-1 club. Timber Jim was the mascot back when the Timbers were a NASL club (1978-1982) and again from 2001-2007. Instead of a big fluffy cartoon character, Timber Jim was a real guy in boots, suspenders, and a freakin’ chain saw! He led cheers, rappelled from the rafters of PGE Park–often with his chain saw–and carved up a section of log after every Timber goal. He’d let kids pound a drum during club songs and generally made everybody in green and white a little happier at the Park. He was, and still is, totally awesome. As a Junior Timber member, Kiki got a chance to meet him before a match in 2007. All we had to do was RSVP and get to the stadium 90 minutes early.

We left our house with plenty of time to make the ten mile drive to the stadium along US 26, but as fate and urban planning would have it, the highway was completely jammed. All three lanes were at a standstill almost from the time we got onto 26. Kiki happily thumbed through a puzzle book as our rig sat idle for five…ten…fifteen minutes. “Daddy, are we almost there yet?” I kept a calm demeanor. It was important not to act agitated and worry her. “Not yet, Kiki.” There was still plenty of time left and I was sure the traffic would open up soon.

It did not. Thirty minutes after we got on 26, I could still see our off-ramp right behind us. “Daddy, are we there yet?” “No, but we still have time. We left plenty early.” I mentally did the travel calculation in my head. At our present rate of travel, we would get to the Park by…2010. I was starting to get a little nervous. No father wants to disappoint their children but as the minutes ticked away and our car barely crept forward, I was starting to believe we wouldn’t make it. About twenty minutes and 9-1/2 miles from our destination, I finally decided to prep Kiki for the awful truth we might not make it. “Ah, Kiki, would you be super disappointed if we didn’t get to see Timber Jim? The cars aren’t moving and I can’t make us go any faster.” Silence, then a soft reply. “That’s okay. (Sniffle.) WAAAHH!” Thus began the waterworks. My heart sank. I offered hollow words of support and promises of ice cream cookie sandwiches when we finally got there, but to no avail.

With fifteen minutes to go, traffic jerked forward and I felt a glimmer of hope. Normally, I am the most mellow driver in the world. I’m the guy who lets you in when you merge, with a friendly wave to boot. Not today. I gunned our vehicle forward, squeezing my Escape into any open space large enough to fit. I cut off about a half-dozen vehicles. I even passed on the shoulder. Twice. We found ourselves clawing our way toward the stadium until some older lady pulled in front of me, braked and let a pair of other cars merge, with a friendly wave to boot! I snapped. “Argh! Move it!” Kiki picked up on my frustration and in a squeaky, high-pitched voice shrieked: “Stupid dumb head Lady! I want to crash your car!” Looking back in the mirror, I had to grin as she made little crushing motions with her balled fists. I did not know six year olds could experience road rage. Apparently, they can.

We finally roared forward, hit a clear lane and covered the remaining eight miles in about ten minutes. We took a side road to avoid the usual delays in the tunnel and barreled down residential streets at many miles over the posted limit. We hit all green lights, a few deep yellows, and maybe one or two orange-ish/red lights without stopping. By the time we screeched to a stop at a lot about four blocks from the stadium, we were only five minutes late. “Kiki, if we run, we can still make it!” Kiki didn’t even wait for me to finish my sentence before she took off down the street. I followed quickly behind, only to be handicapped by my flip flops. Why did I wear flip flops? I paused only long enough to kick them off before running barefoot behind my sprinting girl, who was weaving around pre-match crowds. At one point we slowed behind a large group of ambling supporters, looked at one another, and without saying a word, darted out into the street to get past them. There is a major intersection just outside the Park, where SW 18th Street meets Taylor St. I believe it has the longest pedestrian crosswalk wait of any intersection in the northern hemisphere. We got there to be greeted by a steady red “Wait” signal. I looked to the right and left. Nothing. We were about ten minutes late. “Kiki,” I said, double-checking the traffic. “Never, ever do this again so long as you live. RUN!” We took off across the street, jayrunners on a mission, much to horrified chagrin of nearby parents. The far side of SW 18th was lined with barricades to keep rabble-rousers like us from cutting across the street, but we were too close to be denied. “Kiki! Over the top! Don’t stop until you get to the gate!” I picked her up and launched her over the ramparts and onto the sidewalk. She hit the ground running and bee-lined for the gate as I hurled myself behind her, past street musicians and around lollygagging loiterers. We cut into a line, swept past the turnstile, and made the final sprint through the concourse to the predetermined location where the usher would meet us.

It was empty.

“Daddy!” Kiki whimpered. “Did we miss him?” Hell, no! I grabbed the first PGE employee I could find, and between gasping breaths with a sand-dry mouth tried to explain how we were part of the group to meet Timber Jim but got delayed by, well, everything. The usher could see the desperation in our eyes. “Hold for a sec,” she smiled and then spoke into her headset. A nod. “Uh-huh. I’ll tell them.” She looked at the both of us: “Come with me, please.” She led us down secret stairs and labyrinthian corridors through the bowels of PGE Park, with more twists and turns I could remember. Through “Staff Only” corridors and past security she finally brought us to a door, tapped lighty, and then ushered us in.

Timber Jim was holding court. A half dozen kids sat with him at a conference room table, their parents beaming along the wall. He turned to face the two of us–sweating, gasping for air, barefoot, flush and drenched in our Timbers scarves and shirts–and smiled broadly. “You guys really wanted to be here, eh?”

“You have no idea.”

Timber Jim spent quite a while with his young charges, teaching them Timbers songs, answering questions, signing Bobbleheads and giving autographs. Many celebrities seem different in real life. Less genuine, more superficial. Timber Jim is the real deal. Kiki, despite wanting to speak so badly, found herself at a loss for words when granted the chance to talk with him, but she still has her photographs and signed shirt to remind her of the day she and her Daddy violated approximately fifteen traffic regulations and committed seven fineable offenses to get to see our local hero.

How about you, Weekend Warriors? Have you ever had a chance to meet your footballing hero? Ever get an autograph from a genuine legend? I’d love to hear about it if you did…