Pro for an Afternoon, Part II

By: Sean | August 4th, 2009

And now, Weekend Warriors, the exciting (for me, at least, but I’m also totally biased!) conclusion to “Pro for an Afternoon”! If you missed the first installment, I invite you to click here to get caught up on the story thus far…

Gavin turned and mentioned he had four players kitted up and ready to join us. I noticed many of the campers sat up by their lockers a little straighter. The door swung open and…

…in walked midfielder Keith Savage, defender Stephen Keel, midfielder Alex Nimo, and “The Man With the Golden Heart” himself, Timbers defender Scot Thompson. Every camper’s face lit up at the sight of the professionals. As they made their way to the middle of the locker room, the campers huddled in a little closer. Thompson and Savage were suited up in the new black jerseys, while Nimo and Keel donned the familiar green. The group exchanged greetings and pleasantries, compliments on the romp over the Thunder at home and polite inquiries as to how the morning drills had gone. At one point I distinctly remembered thinking, Hey, Sean (’cause I do sometimes refer to myself in the third person in my head) you should totally ask these guys some questions for your blog, like an interview! but instead of smooth, articulate questions all I could get my synapses to do was rerun Chris Farley-esque fan-boyisms– Hey, do guys remember when you scored those goals against that team? Uh, that was…awesome! Since it sounded no better than my actual interview just fifteen minutes ago, I opted to keep my mouth shut and just grin some more.

Magee and Wilkinson outlined the plan for the afternoon scrimmage. Half the campers would be assigned to Keel and Nimo’s Green Squad. The other half would be on the Black Team with Savage and Thompson. Fifteen minute halves, some pictures, and then lunch. We would line up in the player tunnel, be announced over PGE Park’s public address system, and line up at the center circle. Names were called and make-shift rosters compiled. I would be playing with Thompson and Savage. The group changed into their respective colors, adjusted the boots one last time, and ambled back down the concrete and CMU block corridor to the player’s tunnel. Some last minute coordination to get the line-ups just right, some more casual banter. My heart started to rumble just a bit inside my chest. Why the hell was I so nervous? Someone behind me joked about the benefits of being at the end of the line: “I think we’re closer to the beer this way!” Some laughs and then the public address announcer’s voice echoed through the empty park and down the tunnel. I can’t remember the exact words, but I’m pretty sure they went something to the effect of: “Welcome to PGE Park and our special Father’s Day Fantasy Camp match!” Goosebumps. “The starting line-ups for today’s match are…” and thus began the litany of names that for three seconds a person certainly constituted one of life’s highlights for every guy there. Shuffling forward into the daylight, led out by Savage and Thompson, I heard my name resound magnificently over the thousands of empty seats, echo past the light rail station to the east, and indelibly brand itself into my memory. And he pronounced it correctly! I turned to the right and there, in bold letters maybe two or three feet tall, was my name on the big Jumbotron video screen to the south. And it was spelled correctly! The squads filed out in an orderly line, forearm-bumping our way down the row as the last campers were announced. I turned and saw that seated in the Widmer Beer Garden were perhaps two dozen or so family members. Twenty-four fans in a stadium of 16,000 may seem like a meager crowd, but it was still about twenty more supporters than my men’s team averages every Sunday. My friggin’ awesome wife and daughter were there somewhere and I tried to pick them out when the address system boomed: “And now please rise for the playing of our National Anthem!’

Instinctively, my hand went to my heart. I can’t remember the last time I had the National Anthem played before a match I was involved with, but I sung along, softly and tone-deafly and felt a strangely stirring surge of emotion. The squads broke up, Thompson and Savage leading us through the briefest of warm-ups before Magee announced just two minutes later that it was game time. Our pros quickly orchestrated a 3-4-3-ish formation and I found myself in my preferred left midfield position. Thompson noted that Nimo, perhaps the shortest member of the Timbers, was playing keeper for the Green Team. “I’m buying a round of drinks for the first guy who chips Nimo!” he joked good-naturedly. One of the defenders on our team plays for a rival squad in my division and we had the only camper keeper minding our sticks. Not that the score would really matter, but we looked pretty good.

And thus began the friendliest friendly in the history of friendly friendlies. Everyone seemed to understand the two unspoken rules of this scrimmage: 1. Have fun, and 2. Under no circumstances whatsoever do you injure the professional players volunteering their free Sunday to play with you, especially before the epic Seattle match coming up. At one point Keel got the ball near me and I couldn’t even make myself go in for a challenge, so I backed off until he passed it away. Soon thereafter Savage collected a pass and I started yelling “On your left! On your left!” as I broke upfield. The thought of me telling a pro what to do seems laughable now as I write it, but he looked around, smiled broadly, and sent through the sweetest of Goldilocks passes (not too hard, not too soft…just right) behind their middie. I ran like I was on fire to receive it, gave myself permission to dribble toward the posts, and was ready to shoot when their center back intercepted and cleared it away. I heard cheers all around as I gasped to retrieve the ball which, on artificial turf, rolled a surprisingly long distance. Thompson ran in for a short corner, which I obliged, and chipped it into the mixer.

I could probably give you a 90% accurate recounting of the entire thirty minutes of match time, so vividly clear it is still in my mind, but in the interest of brevity I’ll just go to the highlight reel. Around minute 8′ I get another perfect pass from Savage deep into the corner which I managed to stop and cross into the box. One of our forwards rushed the box, got onto it and from my place just shy of the corner I could see him send the ball careening into the net. The Black Team went wild. As the happy camper rightfully celebrated his very own goal in PGE Park, I too threw up my hands in elation. “Assist! Assist!” High-fives and celebrations all around. Even the Green side was congratulating the effort. Sure, the score may not matter, but you know it still does. Half-time saw us up 1-0 and I heard my daughter Kiki cheering from her place near the pitch. I smiled back, face flush and lungs bursting.

Our side goes up 2-0 on a Thompson wonder chip, who found Coach Magee playing keeper. Savage gives me a trio of slick passes and I find that with each one, my pace is getting just bit slower and my shots just a bit erratic. Another sequence finds Thompson jogging up through the middle, dishing to me, and dashing out to the wing. Without a second thought I one-touch it ahead of him and he receives the pass without breaking stride. Somebody yells, “Oh, nice give and go!” as he pulls it back for another cross and I thought to myself, I just did a give and go with Scot Thompson. Sweet! With the clock winding down, the Green Team pulls one back and then, maybe around the 26th minute or so, find the equalizer. One of the coaches shortly thereafter yells, “Penalties!”

Oh, the dreaded shoot-out. Savage and Thompson gather the team around and ask for shooters. Much to my delighted surprise, several of my teammates immediately turn to me. “Sean!” Thompson asks me if I want to go first. More than anything I have ever wanted in my entire life! “Sure, I’ll go first.” The rest of the shooters are sorted out and the Green Team steps up against our camper keeper. 1-0. Magee goes to stand in front of the goal as I walk the green mile toward the penalty spot. The heart started thumping again. Lead-off penalty shooter is a tricky thing because it is a huge morale suck if you botch it, especially when you are down one already. I don’t have an elaborate penalty kick ritual, like Landon Donovan. Mostly I just put the ball down, take three steps back, and shoot. Magee crouched down. I stepped back.

Professional assistant coach/Jedi master/goalkeeper vs. blogger/Padawan learner/shooter.

I start forward. I allow myself the slightest of looks to my left, his right, as I start to shoot. Magee dives toward my left. I slot the shoot back toward the right post, a fairly respectable strike, neither crazy hard nor pathetically tame like my first shot of the morning. This time the net rippled with, well, not quite authority, but it didn’t suck, either. Both sides cheer enthusiastically. The Black Team rushes forward for more high-fives. Thompson and Savage are applauding, too. I smile as I pass, “Would it be too over the top to rip off my jersey now?” They laugh. I do not do the Penitent Episcopalian–I’ll save that for a league match some time on grass–but I felt like I earned it.

Eventually, our side wins the shoot-out something like 7-6. We high-five some more, pose for group pictures, and eventually find our families and eat hot dogs and cookies on a pleasant, perfect Sunday. We thank the Timbers for hanging out with us and letting us pretend to be pros for an afternoon. The Park staff allow us to stay as long as we want without the least bit of urgency to get us out of there. Kiki and I pull a ball from my bag and start kicking around under the happy glow of the video monitor. As she ices her very own penalty, I reflect back on the afternoon’s milestones.

Get an assist at PGE Park. Check.
Score a goal at PGE Park. Check.
Don’t do anything even close to injuring the professional players before the derby match at PGE Park. Check and mate!

But you know, the one lasting memory I have from an afternoon full of lasting memories was the final one, of me and my eight year old passing back and forth on a professional pitch, wrapped in concrete and heavy timbers and thousands of empty green seats, the momentary center of a very big world, all under a technicolor blue sky painted with puffy white clouds. “Pass me the ball, Daddy! Over here, Daddy!”

That, my fellow Weekend Warriors, is a fantasy Father’s Day come true.

[Post Epilogue: Despite my PGE Park interview debacle detailed in Part I, I still managed to get some air time. A local news crew came to the stadium during camp to discuss Portland's ongoing negotiations for the MLS team and shot some footage of the scrimmage as filler when the reporter was talking about stadium proposals, etc. At 5:06 that afternoon on a local news channel, you can clearly see Seanny taking a pass, cutting back, and firing a cross into the box.

They say the camera adds ten pounds. Apparently, in high-def broadcasts, it is closer to fifteen...]