Planet Soccer

My New Life as a State Referee - Part II (March 28th, 2005)

Monday morning I’d read that UEFA – the Union of European Football Associations – had opened disciplinary proceedings against three Chelsea officials for their roles in “bringing football into disrepute”, as they have been charged with. Prime among them is the arrogant skipper of the west London side, Jose Mourinho, who made bogus accusations following their Champions League match in Barcelona in late February. Mourinho claimed that Barça’s manager Frank Rijkaard had entered the dressing room of head referee Anders Frisk during the halftime interval. A statement by UEFA reads, “By disseminating these wrong and unfounded statements, Chelsea allowed its staff to deliberately create a poisoned and negative ambience and put pressure on the refereeing officials.” Frankly, I really enjoy the beautiful, flowing play of the Blues, but I hope UEFA throws the book at the English Premier League leaders. Maximum punishment, if found guilty, could be that Chelsea would be disqualified from the Champions League. Hopefully that would send a tough message to the Neanderthals who threatened the lives of Swedish referee Anders Frisk and his family after Mourinho’s controversial post-match claims had been made.

Later I’d read the NY Times article given to me by Julia the previous Saturday after watching the beautiful documentary on Kilimanjaro. The Times reported on the cultural winds of change in Libya thanks to the professional football-playin’ son of that country’s dictator, Muammar el-Qaddafi. His offspring Saadi is nearing the end of his two-year contract with Italian Serie A club Perugia, but hopes to continue making waves in the world of football even if his injury-riddled career soon comes to an end. Among other things, the young el-Qaddafi had helped to change his father’s peculiar views on professional sports by lobbying for and helping to found a domestic league in this oil-rich country. (The article reports that el-Qaddafi the elder believes that athletics should be played, but not watched for entertainment purposes.)

Additionally, I was surprised to learn that Libyan-owned Italian gas station giant Tamoil – whose logo you see on the front of perennial Serie A title-contenders Juventus – owns more than a quarter of that club’s assets. And while some traditionalists might be threatened by overseas involvement in domestic soccer leagues, I personally feel that this type of globalization, perhaps moreso than U.S.-imposed democratization, can help to foster the kind of socio-cultural changes that will lead to a more peaceful, unified world.

On the way out the door to start my long day down at the Fir, the news reported that this year’s drought and the ensuing fire season could rival anything this region’s experienced in the past THREE HUNDRED YEARS!!! Yikes!!! That's scary.

The lunch crowd would prove to be quite solid with equally solid tips. I’d learn that my non-English speaking dishwasher colleague Martín’s team had won their Sunday match 3 – nil. Later, I'd recognize the guy at table 123 wearing the Pachuca (Mexican club) shirt as a local footie player. A member of Oregon Chai outdoor and the Brew Dogs indoor, I’d probably also played against him in years past. In fact, when the Lucky Labrador (my old indoor team) squares off against the Brew Dogs, the match is affectionately referred to as the Dog Bowl. Get it? Pretty cute, huh?

One last connection with an old acquaintance that day was with a guy named John who informed me that he had gone back to work for Cannondale (bikes). I guess I never really knew that he’d left. For the better part of an hour I kept watch as he poured over pages and pages of computerized printouts of cycle designs with a couple of his associates.

During my break between lunch and dinner I’d learn via email that Mt. Hood Meadows had re-opened thanks to the previous weekend’s dumpage – news that served as a hopeful portent for my upcoming ski trip.

Hoping to coordinate my Fir schedule with the upcoming spring outdoor soccer schedule, I bent my boss Jana’s ear again to make sure she’d acquiesce to my reasonable requests. Her cooperation would go a long way towards allowing me the opportunity to earn a decent income in the months before The Football for Peace Tour gets underway.

Shortly before clocking back on I drove my loveably obnoxious co-worker (hostess) Lydia across the river, something I often do at this time of the day. I enjoy these relaxing, brief little get-togethers in advance of the coming dinner rush.

Soon thereafter, as things started to get underway a group of four elderly folks pondered coming into the dining room for dinner, but I helped steer them into the bar as the hostess wasn’t around and the gray-hairs only wanted a drink and a quick snack. I’d joke with LB that this four-top of elderly folks didn’t seem like an ideal start for the night. Nevertheless, we’d agree that I do well with the oddball customers. “Hey, you even do cartwheels for little girls!”, he proclaimed, bringing to mind an act of extreme customer service that I’d produced just a week earlier. We both laughed in hysterics at the truth of his statement.

Soon thereafter I was decrumbing the seats in my section when I was chilled by the deafening silence at table 143 behind me. The lack of conversation between the red-neck-lookin’ couple was unnerving, so I went back into the kitchen in case the guy went postal. A minute or two later, Jessie, their server, came back and said that her table had left. They were apparently having some kind of a fight, and while it was one of those sad realities of life, I was psyched that I’d somehow accurately read that situation from afar.

As customers began to filter in, the boombox in the kitchen ironically blared out the words of Elvis Costello, “What’s so funny ‘bout peace, love, and understanding…” Ironic, a) because of the recent dispute at table 143, and, b) because while up in Canada a month earlier Dan had encouraged me to sing that song as I floated downhill with Pat’s camera rolling. Instead, I stupidly forget the words as I was schussing and could only manage to lamely blurt out “Peace to the world, muthafucka!”, a genuine plea despite the wholly unnecessary expletive.

As always, there would be a few interesting and/or footie-related customers down at work. Ken, a businessman from Hong Kong about my age, took his time enjoying the elk and then asked me my name on his way out the door, giving me a friendly hug as he left. A short while later I waited on Bethany and Patrick – a guy who played for the recently promoted (to Division I) side, American Bacon SVB. I’d share two things with him – 1) my complete disdain for that team’s sweeper – some hothead (and I've edited my original verbage) named BJ, and 2) my on-field promotion. Patrick seemed like a quality character, congratulating me on his way out the door and leaving me a solid tip as well. I hoped to see him on the pitch and/or back in the Fir sometime.

By far my most significant encounter of the night was with a couple of Italian concert promoters who’d been meeting with the Fir’s booking agent, Alicia Rose, earlier in the evening. When the large, bearded male figure went to the restroom, I inquired of his female companion as to her nationality. I thought she was French, but in fact she’s Italian – French/Italian though, so I was close.

Naturally, somehow the conversation turned to footie and I admitted to being a fan of Juventus, the Turin club largely owned by the Agnelli family (and apparently by Libyan oil giants Tamoil as well), of Fiat fame. She – Donnatella Valeri with Emergenza US Entertainment – told me not to admit this to her companion, for he’s a Roma fan.

When Massimo returned, I admitted to preferring politically liberal Roma over their fascist-supported suburban Rome rivals Lazio. On this point, Massimo and I immediately bonded.

We’d talk about his team’s thrashing at the hands of Serie A leaders AC Milan (owned by right-wing Italian Prime Minister and media mogul Silvio Berlusconi). Serendipitously, I had just watched that match earlier in the morning before heading off to work. Long-time Roma defender, the Brazilian Cafu, now with Milan, had committed a dangerous two-footed studs-up tackle on a Roma player, leaving deep gouges in his opponent’s leg just below his now. For this, Cafu, a footballer with a likeable reputation, was surprisingly only shown a yellow card as his opponent was stretchered off the pitch, unable to continue playing. Massimo and I would agree that this was the turning point of the match as the game was still scoreless and Milan would score minutes later on their way to a 2 – nil victory. My new friend and I pondered how different the game would have been had Cafu been shown red as he justly deserved.

It goes without saying, of course, that we’d talk about my upcoming travels; I provided Massimo (whose name I still did not know yet) with a complimentary business card touting my web address. He seemed genuinely intrigued by the notion of ‘football for peace’; and on his way out the door bellowed to me, “Hey, if you come to Rome I’ll take you to a game.” To which I quickly replied, “you’ve got my card, email me…let’s make it happen.”

There were a couple more interesting interactions before the end of my night. Chika and Liz, a couple of attractive twenty-year old girls spending their spring break at the adjacent Jupiter Hotel, were quite friendly. Chika, a sassy Asian girl flirted with me, somehow under the strange misperception that I’m twenty-two years old (I’m 37!). I laughed and told her that I’m somewhat older than that, then paused, finally saying “twenty-five”, at the very same moment that Chika admitted to having dated “a guy who was twenty-five”.

Liz let her chatty friend do most of the talking as I paid close attention to their needs, even getting an invitation to join them at the end of my workday. But sadly, that was not to be as more of their underage friends showed up after 10:30 and I had to ask them all to find another venue since the Fir is 21-and-over only at that time of the day. Ah well, it was fun flirting with them anyway and having them think I’m ten years or more younger than I really am.

My last table of the night included my new friend Eric, aka DJ Evil One. The generous dj left me a solid tip, putting a nice finishing touch to a great day at the Fir.

Sitting down for a plate of my favorite – Joe’s Special (a spinach, egg, asiago cheese, and ground beef hash) – I struck up a pleasant and intimate conversation with the woman to my right. Liz is an accredited astrologer who originally hails from Syracuse (only a couple hours drive from my hometown near the capital of New York State, Albany). Now she splits up her time between Astoria – about ninety minutes away on the Oregon Coast – and Portland. Still smarting from a messy breakup, we talked about our careers as well. I shared with her my pride at my recent promotion in the soccer refereeing community, perhaps the most significant professional accomplishment of my lifetime. I wished my mother could be as proud of me for this as if I were a successful doctor or lawyer. But I know that won’t happen.

Similarly, Liz confided in me how upset she was with her father who mocked her on the day of her graduation from one of the leading schools in her field – astrology. The bottom line is this, we’re both doing what we love and we’re much happier for it. We have nobody to answer to but to ourselves; so as long as we work hard in a manner that not only doesn’t hurt anybody, but actually helps people, then others should congratulate us for living fulfilling lives. Best wishes to you in following your dream Liz.

On the way home I’d learn that Manchester United’s profits have dropped to about half what they were for the same period a year earlier, a paltry $24 million. This fiduciary fiasco could bode well for Malcolm Glazer, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers owner who is still seeking to purchase a majority stake in the richest sports club on the planet.

When I returned home I was excited to see that Massimo had already sent me a missive. It read as follows (grammatical errors remain for authenticity of his Roman heritage):

Hey Aaron:

I just had my dinner in the restaurant at Jupiter in Portland. I was there with my Female italo-French Colleague and you gave me your web address and here I'm am. As promised this is my official invitation for watching a game in Rome. As you may know the Curva sud is the traditional place where the Roma's fans watch the game at the stadium. Just let me know whatever you'll be in Rome and I will get the ticket. I also checked out your site..it say much more than a football game. As I always thought football is a kind of symbol for so many people (me included) and you're using this for the right pourpose. Keep going and congratulation!

I hope to see you in Europe at the first convenience.
Massimo

Early Tuesday morning, Jeremy – my old high school bud who now lives in Santa Clara and has his fingers in the world of documentary film-making – called to let me know that he’d been preparing a production plan and a treatment to shoot my journey. It’s hard to gauge Jeremy sometimes, the jack-of-all-trades that he is, but he seemed pretty intent to follow through on this one.

I’d learn on the news about another horrible school shooting tragedy, this time on a reservation in Minnesota – very similar in scale to the Columbine shooting a few years back. And while this tragedy was certainly appalling, I was a little surprised to see how apathetic the media seemed to be. Maybe it’s because they didn’t have any ‘exciting’ camera footage to show us or maybe it’s because it was on a native American reservation, but the media seemed too distracted by the slowly unfolding Terry Schiavo drama down in Florida – a matter that members of our federal government deem necessary to intrude upon. And aren’t the Republicans the party that supposedly preaches freedom from the government in our personal lives?! They’re full of shit!!! A bunch of fucking hypocrites is what these people are!!!

On an up note, I’d finally get a response from Brian, the leader of Portland-based samba band Lions of the Batucada. More than anything, I’d love for these guys to headline my fundraiser at the Fir on the International Day of Peace on September 21st. Taking time out from his band’s European tour with the Rose City’s most-globally renowned sound – Pink Martini – Brian said he’d save the date on the calendar, requesting that I contact him in early April when the Lions return from overseas. Things are definitely coming together.

As I was about to get out of my car for my Tuesday double at the Fir, Al Franken made a great point about Bush’s fucked up priorities. Seriously, here’s a guy who continued to putter around the golf course and on his ranch in Texas after he received the PDB (the Presidential Daily Briefing) asserting that “Bin Laden Determined to Strike in US” back in August ’01. For that bit of news he did NOTHING; but to sign some outrageous legislation on behalf of the parents of Terry Schiavo, against the wishes of Terry’s husband and caretaker, Bush was quick to cut his vacation short. Does anybody really think that our President gives two shits about Terry Schiavo? Dubya and the rest of his whack-job right-wing cronies are playing political games with one woman’s life while disregarding matters of epic proportion that affect us ALL!!! (Environment, education, and health care just to name a few.)

Tuesday’s encounters at the Fir were numerous as usual. Heidi – the groovy aging hipster who I last saw dining with a group of women who hail from the Wallowa Valley at the base of the ‘Oregon Alps’ – came in for a bite to eat with her son Ruben, a rising star in the motion picture industry. We all used to live in the same apartment building back in the early 90s when Ruben was a little kid. It wasn’t long thereafter that renowned Portland film director Gus Van Sant began to utilize the youth’s acting skills, and now at eighteen, Ruben’s gearing up to shoot a project about boxing. Switching gears, Heidi would tell me that Ruben’s dad – a resident of Amsterdam, Holland – is a huge supporter of that country’s most popular club, Ajax FC. Was I on the verge of making a Dutch connection? I asked Ruben to see what he could do.

Other folks I waited on included a group of gals from Vancouver, B.C. who were visiting Portland for spring break, a woman at table 124 who emphatically told me that I have “very nice eyes”, Jason – a likeable guy who I’d met one night while I was working and then had a few beers with after my shift was over, and Ken – the business traveler from Hong Kong who I’d waited on the night before who was off to Chicago in a few hours.

Near the end of my lunch shift I recognized a handsome, sharp-dressed black guy who I hadn’t seen in years, but looked exactly the same. It was Anthony Jenkins – the first-ever Treasurer of XPAC, the youth-oriented local political organization that I helped to found in 1995 along with one of Anthony’s friends/colleagues, Erik Sten. It was with our help that Erik became the youngest-ever elected City Commissioner in Portland history, at the age of 29. Anthony, I was happy to learn, is still with Albina Community Bank, helping to improve the lives of small business owners and homeowners alike. We promised to connect sometime soon.

During my break between lunch and dinner I headed a few blocks down the street to Portland Indoor to sign up for some weekend shifts for the coming spring season. Kari Skedsvold, the pregnant wife of burrito cart “mogul” Bob Workmeister was there watching her daughter participate in the afternoon Li’l Kickers program. She didn’t recognize me at first, what with my thick goatee and all, but we quickly caught up on each other’s lives. Kari and Bob are awesome and I wish them well on baby #2. It should also be noted here that whenever I feel like grabbing a little slice of Portland I pedal downtown to one of Bob’s many Zona Rosa burrito carts and indulge in a tasty, healthful meal – helping to line his family’s pockets.

While cruising around the Internet before my shift I greeted a gal named Nicky a few years younger than myself. I began playing coed matches against her more than a decade ago and now regularly see her on the pitch while officiating both her indoor and outdoor games. I love seeing ‘my people’ down at the Fir. And this theme would continue throughout the night.

But before clocking on I gleaned through the latest weekly missive from TheGlobalGame.com, a website that I regularly check into for useful and interesting information. I was intrigued by this piece in particular because it was all about refereeing. I’ve added a link if you’re curious…

http://www.theglobalgame.com/gln0305.htm.

It’s a great piece of work entitled “The Last Sane People on Earth”, beginning with a beautiful quote by Eduardo Galeano about the plight of the referee. It continues by discussing the despicable death threats that caused Swedish referee Anders Frisk to retire, the corrupt match-fixing by German ref Robert Hoyzer, and the indefatigable integrity of the world’s most-beloved and revered referee, Pierluigi Collina. And then to my surprise, in the very next sentence, the article’s author refers to my website and that of another referee saying, “we know of two currently practicing referees who bring their self-doubts and peeves into public view. Aaron Corman writes from Portland, Oregon, in Planet Soccer: his extended narratives are peppered with accounts of officiating indoor and outdoor games, including interesting game situations. As a side note, he also maintains a weekly social calendar more complex than what we have managed in the last 15 years. His musings are leading him to a trip around the world, watching soccer and keeping notes on culture.” Thanks for the mention John (Turnbull, editor of TheGlobalGame.com). It’s an honor to be included in the same sentence as greats like Collina and Frisk.
This, of course, put me in a good frame of mind as my dinner shift got underway.

As he was heading into the south bar with his companion (girlfriend, wife?) Addy, I greeted Brian, a skilled, lanky player who used to play on a team with an old roommate of mine, Steven Jackson. Next up I’d cross paths with the evil crimson-locked Jennifer near the host station. She was all smiles and sunshine even though I know she’s causing my former housemate Kevin fits, mired in a break-up that includes distribution of assets. I wanted to tell her off for him, but I knew it wasn’t my place to do so, especially since I was at work.

Approaching the black guy with short dreads and a nice smile at table 142, I suddenly remembered his name. I’d met Julian outside the Fir a week earlier, having introduced myself since I’d seen him around a lot lately. He’s staying at the Jupiter while performing in the lead role of “No Exit” at the nearby Imago Theater. Hopefully I’d have a chance to see him in action before the show comes to an end in April and Julian heads back to the Big Apple.

Overall, it would be another solid, if not slightly mellow evening. I never worked too terribly hard, but I did ok anyway. At one point in the evening, two of LB’s five tables included members of my soccer world. Henry Pittock – who shares the same last name as one of Portland’s media pioneers – was at a five-top at table 124; and just a few tables away at 121 was my old footie friend Freeman Tong, who I’ve know for nearly fifteen years. So although I never did have any exciting encounters or soccer people at my tables during the evening, it was still an interesting night to be sure.

And it wasn’t over once I clocked out. One of my favorite cocktailers, the beautiful and sweet Kristin, was holding a birthday party a few miles away at Devil’s Point, and my favorite bartender, Kara, who’d been pouring my tables’ drinks all night, joined me for the occasion. Kara and I would toss a few bills at some of the dancers onstage at Kristin’s party, but we’d eventually split around 1am, in search of a different venue and another colleague. We’d find Joey at the very popular, regular guy hangout, The Triple Nickel. It was great to kick-it outside of the Fir with my co-workers, but with a million things to do the next day before heading out of town I felt compelled to call it a night after only one more Stoli and tonic. The next five days were bound to be quite an adventure and my mind was already far, far away. So I said goodnight to my friends, looking forward to the pristine alpine wilderness of the Wallowas, many hours away on the other side of the Beaver State.

Until next time…

peace,
ac

My New Life as a State Referee - Part I (March 28th, 2005)

My first stop after my exams was to fill my car up with gas. When the Hispanic attendant asked me how I was doing, I told him the news even though I knew he really didn’t care. I’d follow that up by calling a number of people, including my parents, my buddy Dan who played D1 ball at the University of Wisconsin, and of course, the king of Oregon soccer referees, Eric Beck. I thanked him for all that he’d contributed to my success, including his mentoring. His guidance throughout the past couple years was integral in helping me to get to this new level and I wanted to acknowledge this to him.

And to all of you who I’ve had the pleasure of serving throughout the last decade, I thank you for allowing me to be your humble servant. It hasn’t always been fun or easy , but it’s definitely been an incredible learning experience. And it wouldn’t have been possible without you on the pitch riding me when you thought I made a bad call and then thanking me for a good game at the end of the match. You’ve helped to teach me about the power of humility and the art of accepting that I do in fact make mistakes. Additionally, I’m constantly reminded what my purpose is as a soccer official – to keep the peace and assist you in having a more enjoyable (and hopefully injury-free) experience. But perhaps most importantly for me personally, I’ve relished the opportunity to forge new and lasting relationships with many wonderful people. For this diverse community of ours represents every corner of the globe; and through the game that we all love we collectively have the power to shape the future of the world. That’s what this weblog and the Football for Peace Tour are all about.

After I’d arrived at Tualatin Indoor for my ‘Championship’ game, Eleanor called from Madrid. ¡Qué bueno! How happy I was to hear from my delightful friend on this most auspicious of occasions. We’d talk a little about my cousin Gabe’s June 3rd wedding in Valencia. Eleanor – a lovely six-foot tall blonde woman – would be joining me for this sure-to-be-unforgettable affair.

She continued, telling me that she’d be going to Barcelona next week to see a game at the Nou Camp. Real Betis of Sevilla would be in town. But soon it was time for me to get ready for the kids as Eleanor’s attention was on Ronaldinho whose Barça mates were taking on Deportivo La Coruña on Spanish tv.

Standing around waiting for the game before mine to end, I’d strike up a conversation with Julio Flores. He coaches the Predators, the team that his son Jonathan plays on. They were about to take part in the Tualatin Indoor High School League Championship game against Woodburn Athletic Football Club. Both clubs had finished the season undefeated after tying at seven goals apiece earlier in the year.

I would learn that Julio originally hails from Mexico City and that his very talented 13-year old son Jonathan was hoping to go pro someday. The child prodigy would score the first and the third in his team’s 4 – 1 victory over a depleted Woodburn side that had just finished playing an outdoor game earlier in the day and were missing one of their two best players. It would be by far the most effort I’d ever put into an indoor game, sprinting up and down the large pitch to stay on top of the end-to-end action – sweating like I had earlier that morning in my fitness test.

Back at the old homestead I’d grab the mail, most of which was for Anne. But the lone item addressed to me was from the USSF – the United States Soccer Federation. It was my annual re-registration. I’d already received my id card a couple days earlier (which identified me as a Grade 6 State II referee), so I was surprised to get another id card as well as the 2004/5 FIFA rulebook and also my State Referee badge. This last item in particular came as a bit of a shocker! I mean, how incredibly timely and serendipitous that it should be waiting for me in the mailbox upon arriving home after successfully completing my exams! The soccer gods were definitely smiling down on me.

Back at home I’d get back to doing what I do best, watching footie on the tube; two matches being played simultaneously on opposite sides of the Atlantic – both 1 – nil results. It was the U.S. with a slim victory in a meaningless match against Honduras as Barcelona narrowly escaped with the same scoreline at Coruña to maintain their double-digit lead at the top of the Spanish Liga Primera standings.

As it came time for me to head out for the evening, my former housemate/still friend Kevin Whilden came by for a quick visit. He was in the process of some serious relationship hell and needed to talk to a friend. We’d also talk about the accelerating change to our environment as Kevin is a bit of an expert on the issue. The topic came up because I was about to go over to Julia’s around the corner to watch a David Breshear’s documentary (he did the IMAX Everest project) about Kilimanjaro. The mountain’s 10,000-year old icecap is expected to be completely gone in less than a decade as Kevin would remind me. And then as I was about drive off in my sulphur-spewin’ Subaru (Kevin drives a biodiesel Volkswagen Passat) he not-so-jokingly suggested that I think about all the pollution my car creates as I drove down the street. “No, that’s ok.” I assured him that I would not. But I did. And I felt guilty to some extent for my contribution to the scourge of global warming. Maybe next time I need to buy a car I’ll by one that runs on an alternative fuel source.

Chris & Melinda had arrived shortly before me and we soon started the film. Julia had rented it because the three of them would be traveling in a few months to climb Africa’s tallest peak. Also joining them on the trip would be Eleanor (our friend in Madrid) and Blake (who as you know lives in Taiwan).

Kilimanjaro I would soon learn means “Mountain of Greatness”. And as the stunning film portrayed so dramatically, the moniker seemed quite apt. Climbers spend nearly a week ascending from the jungle floor through several ecological zones to the shrinking, yet strikingly massive alpine glaciers. The human scale is dwarfed by the hundred-foot-plus high walls of ice.

But what’s so remarkable about them isn’t their visual surreality, however, it’s the method by which they are shrinking. For it’s not through a standard melting process that this is occurring, but instead, through a similar course of action know as sublimation whereby the glacier melts directly into the atmosphere – going from solid to gas without the typical liquid form in between.

My friends’ coming adventure looked spectacular and I regretted that I wouldn’t be joining them, but I knew that I had a different agenda in the months ahead.

Down at Portland Indoor that night I’d receive many, many kudos from the various individuals whom I decided to share my good news with. Prime among them was the wonderfully sweet Noel – wife of Dave – who is always such a joy to be around. The affable manager-on-duty Brian Childs was curious to learn how things had gone and I was quick to share with him my satisfactory, yet unimpressive results. “But hey”, he said. “You passed, and that’s all that counts, AC.” And sure enough, he was right.

Before starting my shift I’d have a very lighthearted conversation with Chris - a regular down at PIS who I was unfortunately required to send off with a red card last year - regarding my controversial “trickery” call I’d made against him a week earlier. In the end I admitted that perhaps what I had thought was "trickery" wasn’t necessarily intentional. Feeling sassy I joked that he has more integrity, but less skill than I gave him credit for.

Others who would congratulate me were Brandon – one of my biggest fans at Portland Indoor; Chick – a guy who I once penalized for encroachment twice in one game; and Dave and Ed from Tekvision Lagers – the team that won the previous fall’s Over 30 3rd divsion men’s (outdoor) final with me in the middle and passing my final assessment to become a State Referee.

Dave and I would joke about the most pathetic offside call I ever made, back in my first year as a ref. Essentially, I disallowed a goal that should have counted because of a lateral (or even slightly backward) pass that I believed was offside despite the fact that my young assistant never raised his flag. Dave’s team would end up tying that game, rather than winning – a result which prevented his team from winning the league championship (back in the days before they played a final match to determine the seasonal victor). I’m glad we can look back and laugh at that crazy day all those years ago.

When my shift was over my colleague Alex De Negri was getting ready to finish off the final three games of the evening. The native of Porto Alegre, Brazil – the first international stop on my Football for Peace Tour – seemed a little down, so I asked him how things were going. Like my buddy Kevin who I’d connected with earlier that afternoon, Alex was mired in a horrendous breakup. I was empathetic to his unfortunate plight and wished I could somehow help him to identify a positive resolution to his difficult situation.

After my shift I’d sit down for a few beers with Larry & Deb – a really pleasant couple in their 50s who play on a couple of lower division coed teams. I’d help them finish their pitchers, losing steam and interest in meeting up with Nizar over at the Doug Fir. With a full slate of games on my docket for the next day I decided to call it a night, looking for some decent shut-eye after my big day.

Back at home I’d get a call from one of my dearest friends, Kathleen “Kat” O’Neill, who has been living down in LA for the past few years. It had been several months since we last spoke and she excitedly told me about her recent trip to South America. Her highlights included a couple of matches in Buenos Aires – one at the Bombanera (Boca Juniors) and the other at El Monumental (River Plate), playing footie on the beach in Brazil where the men were happy to have her join in, and hiking in the Andes of western Argentina.

Even though we hadn’t spoken in quite some time it felt like we had just left off the day before. Kat would laugh hysterically at my recounting of my outlandish tale of woe working for the City of Portland – being demoted for “being too friendly” and for “providing too much customer service”. She’d also remind me that she had taken a Spanish class in Madrid with my cousin Gabe who is set to be married in Valencia in a couple of months.

And of course I shared with her my exciting news at becoming a State Referee earlier in the day. Having taken Kat on as a ‘project’ on my coed team several years back (great natural ability, but new to the game), I knew she’d be excited to learn of my promotion within the soccer community. I don’t know when we’ll talk again, but at least I know we’ll connect for a Los Angeles derby – Galaxy vs. Chivas USA in early October before I head overseas.

By 9am Sunday I was down at work at Portland Indoor for a couple of women’s games. The first, ironically, would include Margaret Mahoney – the former director of the bureau I worked in when I was demoted at the City. I’ve officiated her games throughout my ten years as a ref, including during my tenure under her employ. So naturally, I was happy to share with her my new status in the refereeing community. And as I’d expected, Margaret shared my enthusiasm, perhaps laced with a tinge of guilt over the injustice wrought upon my professional career by her underlings back in 2000.

The second match featured Linda Butler, President of NUWS – Northwest United Women’s Soccer. Fairly stoic that she is, Linda seemed fairly nonplused by my news, but that’s probably because she was wondering why it took me so long to get to this new level after completing my assessments several months earlier.

In my daily missive from the BBC I’d learn that Chelsea striker Didier Drogba had apologized to Swedish referee Anders Frisk, calling him a “great referee”, asking him to reconsider his retirement from the game following death threats after Chelsea’s 2 – 1 loss at the Nou Camp in Barcelona. Frisk had justifiably sent off the forward who hails from the Ivory Coast for a rash challenge on Barça’s keeper Victor Valdes. Drogba’s subsequent criticism of the Swedish ref incited the wrath of Chelsea fans, at least one of whom threatened the lives of Frisk and his family.

I’d read this news about Drogba while enjoying a bowl of oatmeal down at the Fir after the games at Portland Indoor. My flamboyant and animated co-worker LB (short for Ladybug) would give me a high-five when I shared my good news with him. He’d been subjected to regular updates on my refereeing foibles since we started working together back in October.

As I was finishing up my breakfast I got a call from Crystal over at the Portland Traveler’s Clinic. They’d have time to squeeze me in before my three outdoor matches, set to begin at 1pm. Within minutes I was being pumped with a couple more shots – rabies and Hepatitis A and B. Things timed out perfectly as I arrived at the field twenty minutes before the match, another $340 lighter in the wallet, bringing my current total for immunizations close to $1,100.

The weather at my three games would turn progressively more miserable throughout the afternoon until the very end when the rain stopped for the most part, with blue skies off to the west. Upon arrival, Robin – a woman who I’d refereed in my second indoor game who was now on hand for the end of her husband Stacy’s outdoor game – was insistent that I verify what a great game she had played earlier that morning. It was true, I acknowledged; Robin had netted four goals in her teams rout.

One of my teammates for the day – the venerable, fit, and lithe Pat Duffy, a State Referee for several years himself – seemed extremely nonplused by new status in our professional community. Perhaps he had expected this to be a foregone conclusion having worked with me for each of the previous two Sundays and well aware of my on-field competence.

The first match of the afternoon included Nathan, a friend of my former teammate Dave Keltner. I’d met Nathan a month or so earlier during a game and had run across him later that same evening at a party at Keltner’s place. Nathan would tell me that he and Dave had just recently returned from the Big Sheep huts in the Wallowas, just a few miles from where I’d be heading later in the week. His snow report was pretty dismal, but I was confident that the recent change towards more wintry weather would improve things considerably by the time we arrived.

The second match of three outdoor games that day included a couple of former teammates. Scott Carver was always a fiery competitor from our days on the Silver Dollar Bullets circa ’93. And Brendan Finn matched that same level of passion during our time together playing on the Lucky Lab indoor team in the early part of this decade. The rain would begin in earnest during this otherwise tame affair and at halftime I donned my very un-referee-like Paul Frank monkey hat to prevent my entire body from going completely numb.

By the time the final match got underway – my first in the center as a State Referee – the rain was coming down with a vengeance, as the temperature seemed to plummet. None of ‘my people’ were participants in this unpleasantly, uncomfortable affair as I went through the motions in a state of lethargy – still sore from the previous day’s fitness test and bitterly cold as well. Needless to say, it was not a fun day for a run on the pitch, my fingers growing numb as the match droned on. I was too cold to really think about the snow falling in the mountains.

It was an otherwise mostly forgettable 3 – 1 result, save for the post-game intrigue. As Pat Duffy and I walked off the pitch together he let me know that #7 had spit at the goalie on the opposing team when the run of play was going the other way towards the end of the match. However, the game was over and I was frozen and didn’t feel like dealing with the paperwork or the bullshit, so I just held onto that information as we gathered our things to head out.

But then, just a few feet away from me, #7 started in with the goalie again. “Hey, what are you doin?!”, I intruded. “You already spit on him, and even though the game’s over I could still give you a red card.”

“No I didn’t”, he lamely replied. “I just spit into the air.” This was complete bullshit and I knew it even though I hadn’t seen what he’d done. He used the wind to assist him in his pathetic act.

“YES ya did!”, I retorted. “My assistant saw you do it; so I would suggest you just grab your things and get out of here, now!” Pat for his part had grown somewhat concerned that things might get ugly, getting between me and #7. But I was undeterred and knew that the battle was over as my nemesis-for-the-moment mumbled something inaudible to himself before turning and walking towards the parking lot with his tail between his legs, with me trailing just a dozen or so yards behind. And so concludes just another day at the office, my first in my new life as a State Referee.

That evening I’d have dinner with my friends who I’d be spending a few days lodging with at the backcountry huts operated by Wing Ridge Ski Tours in the Wallowa mountains – otherwise known as the “Oregon Alps” – in the northeastern corner of the state. Our original plan to dine at my new favorite local eatery Gravy was aborted upon arrival as they were closed, so we just headed across the street to Pasta Bang’s – a groovy, softly-lit joint owned by the sexy and aloof Polly Bang, a spacey-yet-successful blonde-haired beauty who employs street kids through a wonderful organization called New Avenues for Youth.

There wasn’t too much to discuss about the trip other than departure time, cooking assignments, gear necessities, and the obligatory signing of liability release forms exonerating Wing Ridge Ski Tours should anything untoward happen during our trip. Keith, Chris, Dan & Nina, and I (Eric was strangely absent despite receiving word of our change in venue) would spend the bulk of time talking footie and politics as Dan and I in particular connect on the former. My delightfully sassy friend Anna Miller – who owns the boutique Cuckoo across the street from Pasta Bang’s and also happens to be quite chummy with Polly – stopped by for a brief hello before running back to her shop to create some new fashions. Soon thereafter we’d finish our dinner meeting, confident that everything would come off without a hitch later in the week.

(to be continued)

A Week of Anticipation and Preparation – Part II (March 21st, 2005)

On Franken’s show Wednesday morning I’d learn that Deputy Secretary of Defense Paul Wolfowitz – the prime architect of the war in Iraq – had been nominated by Bush to become President of the World Bank. This is the guy who grandiosely suggested that the war would pay for itself. Now, more than $300 billion later, American dollars continue to flow into that war-torn nation at an alarming rate (another $80+ billion legislated just today by the House). It’s worth noting here that oil production in Iraq is lower this year than last, making it ever more unlikely that the war to protect us from Saddam’s WMDs – er, I mean to establish a democracy there – will ever be anything but a financial boondoggle. Bush’s nomination of Wolfowitz to lead the World Bank is yet another example of Dubya’s ongoing trend of rewarding incompetence in his abhorrent administration.

Before heading out for a training run I’d watch Newcastle’s 100th European football match in a 4 – nil victory (7 – 1 on aggregate) over Greek giants Olympiakos live from St. James’ Park in a UEFA Cup tie. The incomparable Alan Shearer would send the ball into the back of the net moments before the half to finish off the visitors – moving him within ten goals of becoming Newcastle’s all-time leading striker. Earlier, it had been Shearer’s teammate Kieron Dyer who had opened the scoring with a wonderful pirouette and cheeky backheel from top of the goal box. Later, Shearer would score a second, his team’s fourth, midway through the second half as Newcastle would cruise on to an easy victory.

Down at Grant High School’s track things would go just fine. As I started my run, the first rain in what seemed like months began to fall from the sky. It was a welcome relief from the interminable streak of warm, sunny days that seemed to have lasted throughout the entire typically-wet winter months. And just in time for next week’s trip to the Wallowas in northeastern Oregon.

Oh, and my times for the 2400 and 200 meters were virtually identical to what I’d clocked back in October of 2003 on a sunny, sub-freezing morning out at West Linn High School – 11:40 for six laps and :32 for the 200. And as I’d suspected, it was the latter that hurt the most – sprinting quickly through the first hundred meters, but struggling mightily towards the finish. Oh, how I hate that distance. Regardless though, I was happy that my times would suffice if I could equal them the coming Saturday.

My shift down at Tualatin Indoor got progressively more interesting with each successive game (except of course the low-level women’s game at the end in which a referee was virtually unnecessary whatsoever). After an evenly matched opener between two of the weaker high school teams, it was time for the Predators. Their affable player/manager Loren Benzo had recently taken an interest in my writings and I greeted him cheerfully as he stepped onto the pitch. Used to blowing out most of their opponents, Loren asked me before the match to display each and every goal on the scoreboard. (Sometimes when they hit double-digits I stop adding to the tally, instead, keeping track in my head so as to not completely demoralize their opponents.)

Well…Loren, me, and the rest of his teammates were surprised to see his team down by a couple of goals early in the match. Moments before halftime, however, they’d finally gain the upper hand, eventually cruising to an 11 – 6 victory. After the match I told him (Loren) that he probably wouldn’t see me again, at least not until after my global travels since the outdoor season would soon be getting underway. It made me a little wistful as I had really enjoyed officiating his team’s games.

But many of the Predators would stick around to watch the next match, between the Hot Cheetos and the all-Hispanic squad from Woodburn. Just like Woodburn, they (the Predators) were undefeated – having tied them at 7 goals apiece in a match that I’d written about a couple months back; and as this was the final game of the season, the Predators cheered on the Cheetos who were borrowing their goalie for the intense affair.

The Hot Cheetos would rise to the challenge, taking the game down to the wire. I’d have some harsh words for the substitute coach of Woodburn who adamantly challenged a call against one of his players for an obvious obstruction foul. It was a raucous, spirited affair as dozens of parents cheered on their kids’ teams – the kind of game I love to be in the middle of. But in the end, it was the bigger, stronger, super-skilled boys from Woodburn who would take the spoils with a narrow 6 – 5 victory.

When it was over, I would learn that a battle of the undefeated had been set for the coming Saturday at 1pm. Oh how I wanted to be in the middle of that match, but unfortunately I wasn’t scheduled to work in Tualatin that day. But the facility manager, Dennis Medina, would tell me that no referee was scheduled for this impromptu affair and offered me the opportunity to officiate this championship game. ‘Perfect!’, I thought. I’d finish my fitness and written exams at nearby Tualatin High School, go out to breakfast, then come by the indoor facility to work what was sure to be a scintillating match. I was so psyched that I volunteered to work pro bono, excited at the prospect of being part of a great game.

Back at home after a quick bite to eat with my pal Nizar, I noted what a crazy news day it had been. Scott Peterson had been sentenced to death by the jury that convicted him for killing his wife and unborn baby. Meanwhile, somewhere else in the Golden State, Robert “Berretta” Blake was acquitted in the trial in which he was charged for solicitation in the murder of his estranged wife Bonnie Bakeley. Surely he was guilty too, but the evidence was apparently too circumstantial to convict.

And perhaps most disturbingly, rivaling the outlandish nomination by Bush of his buddy Wolfowitz to take the reins at the World Bank, the Senate voted 51 – 49 on this day to allow drilling for oil in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge; a heinous prospect that will very likely only provide a drop in the bucket of additional fossil fuels for over-consumptive Americans in light of the fact that many economists predict that the majority of this newfound petrol will be shipped overseas to markets in Asia. Oh, Hallelujah…rejoice!!! Rejoice in the infinite lunacy of Dubya and his denizen of fanatically foolish followers. I mean seriously, can anyone say ALTERNATIVE FUELS?! Perhaps investing in new technologies would help to ween our nation from the oily teet of Middle Eastern dependency and relieve us from the scourge of engaging in frivolous wars to feed our ever-growing needs!

Thursday morning I’d watch a UEFA Cup match. Keeping an eye on the tube while plugging away on the computer, it was Partizan Belgrade going down 2 – nil (3 – nil on aggregate) at CSKA Moscow. The deadlock was finally broken on a breakaway in the 70th minute of the match, allowing the Russian side to move on to the quarterfinals of the year-long European continental competition.

Shortly after the noon hour I brought Stella – Annie B.’s dog – with me down to nearby Fernhill Park for what would be my final training run. I opted not run on the track, confident that my times would suffice, but rather jogged one big lap around the mile-long perimeter of the park. But I’d follow that up with ten uphill windsprints, reminiscent of my high school playing days during preseason training in the sweltering summer sun. As I sucked in some needed oxygen to feed my hungry red blood cells after my fourth sprint, a black dude walked his bike nearby smoking a cigarette, urging me back uphill. “I bet you’ll sleep well tonight”, he laughed after I’d acquiesced to his prodding to race back up the short slope.

When my brief training session was over I headed down the street to my former place of employment, Thai Noon, for a sumptuous plate called Rama Garden – chicken and veggies covered in sweet, tangy peanut sauce. I’d reintroduce myself to Anna, the endearing little Thai woman behind counter. She’d met me before, telling me that everyone around the shop tells her that I am “a very happy guy”. While that’s generally quite true, I was glad to know that that’s how others perceive me to be too.

Arriving back at home I’d grab the mail, which contained my 2005 USSF Referee registration card. I was a little surprised to learn that the bureaucratic organization overseeing such matters had already recognized me as a grade 6, State II Referee. This, ironically, after I had earlier in the morning told my friend Jill – perhaps the most devoted reader of these missives – that I won’t be a State Referee until after completing and passing the physical and written exams two days hence. She apparently had misinterpreted one of my previous weblog postings and emailed me to congratulate me on attaining my promotion. Well, despite what the USSF might think, until I pass those exams I still consider myself to be a grade 7, Referee I. And I planned to kick ass, having prepared assiduously for the impending tests.

Before heading down to Tualatin Indoor I watched some of the proceedings in a House subcommittee to investigate the prevalence of steroids in Major League Baseball. What resonated most with me wasn’t any of the testimony given by any of the sport’s heaviest hitters – Canseco, McGwire, Sosa, Palmeiro, and Schilling – but rather, one Congressman’s pointed plea to the assembled masses of media representatives. The level-headed legislator suggested that if such a massive media presence could attend a hearing on this, a primarily sports-related matter, perhaps they might want to consider paying more attention to issues of more far-reaching significance, such as the degradation of the American health care system for example. Hear ye, kind sir! But sadly, it’s a ratings game; and if it’s not about sex, drugs, or murder, it ain’t gonna sell, pal. That’s just the way it works in the so-called “news” business nowadays.

As my first game got underway, I was disappointed that neither team had enough players to field a full squad. One of my favorite high school players at the facility, Timmy Kagey, was actually a member of both squads, but ended up playing with his severely short-handed Westside Christian H.S. mates. Still in need of additional bodies, I stepped into one of the goals while the indoor center’s manager Dennis Medina minded the other net.

Nervous about somehow injuring myself just a couple days before my fitness test, I gladly returned to refereeing after eleven minutes once another kid joined the action. But after Timmy and his teammate Marshall left with eleven minutes to go to attend a mandatory soccer practice with their club team, I resumed playing goal for the rest of the game. In all, eighteen goals were scored in the 9 – all draw; a match that exemplified the spirit of fair play and sportsmanship.

Incredibly, the winners of each of the four games that evening would all finish with nine goals apiece; a strange sort of occurrence for this St. Patty’s Day. The last match, a men’s game, included a former coed teammate of mine – the ultra-fleet-footed John Schulz – who hit pay dirt several times throughout the match, in large part due to his outrageous pace. When it was over we’d chat briefly and I’d tell him about my impending promotion in the referee world. Being the super-nice guy that he is, John seemed genuinely excited for me, showering me with accolades saying, “Good for you…that’s fantastic…you always do a great job!” And this came from a guy who, like I said, got knocked around pretty hard during his team’s 9 – 2 victory.

Driving back to town to meet my friend Anna Miller for a bite to eat, I’d chat with my mom about a number of things, including the recent tragic loss of my former co-worker Graham Clark. Married with two young kids and a mortgage – living the idyllic American dream – he had been living the life my mother had always hoped for me. Obviously, Graham didn’t share that sentiment though as severe depression led him to take his own life. I guess my purpose in sharing this poignant anecdote with my mother was to remind her that we all find different routes to happiness. Mine, at least for now, doesn’t include all the traditional trappings of Americana.

After finishing this somber conversation with my mother, I headed into the Bold Sky Café to meet up with the always-effervescent Anna Miller. Seated with his wife and a group of friends at a nearby table was Zach Dundas – the feature writer for Portland’s most popular free rag, ‘The Willamette Week’, who I often see on the soccer pitch at Portland Indoor. Zach and I have been talking about my travel plans throughout the past year and it was he, actually, who fashioned the title for my future book, ‘Planet Soccer’.

Also on hand was Adam, a guy who I used to work with back in ’95 at a 24-hour joint called Fred’s Diner. He’s the chef now at this charming eatery (Bold Sky Café) and he’d entertain a few of us with outlandish stories of our former boss, Fred Brown – perhaps one of the most unpleasant human beings I have ever had the displeasure of knowing. Comparing this grotesque individual to “Jabba the Hut”, in both appearance and demeanor, brought cries of disbelief from those assembled. But I assure you that you’d agree if you were ever unfortunate enough to meet this oily character. And oh how I could tell you some stories, but perhaps I’ll save those for another time. Suffice it to say that Fred inevitably fired me, an injustice that I did not accept without one final full-scale verbal confrontation in front of a packed house at his greasy spoon.

With Anna seated to my left at the gorgeous copper-guilded bar, we happily included a solo traveler named Neal who was slowly drinking his beer directly to my right. Anna had been drinking for a few hours before I arrived and as usual, her discourse was laden with sexual overtones – including threesomes, gay porn, and commentary about her current and past lovers. Other topics I delved into – primarily with my pensive new friend Neal who seemed a politically kindred spirit of sorts – included existentialism, the exportation of the worst elements of American culture to Third World countries, complacency amongst the general populace to effect positive change in our troubled world, and again touching upon the recent heartbreaking loss of my former colleague – the fading promise of the American dream for all but the very luckiest among us.

Perhaps it was Neal’s dour mood (he was dealing with relationship issues) that directed our conversation on this downer tangent. Or maybe it was my continued pre-occupation with the disturbing suicide of an old friend, but whatever it was, we focused on issues that seemed relevant, timely, important, and yes, unpleasant. Despite that, our spirits were eventually buoyed when each of us shared our dreams, hopes, and aspirations with the other. Neal seemed genuinely excited about my project and my long-term commitment to fulfilling my five-year plan. Hopefully, I could serve as an inspiration of sorts to encourage Neal to make his dream of establishing a wholesale/retail winery to become a reality.

Back at home I’d see Annie B.’s one true love – a guy she’ll probably never truly get over – on the news. The band he plays in was shown entertaining the MASSES at the city’s most-renowned St. Patty’s Day festival – down at Kell’s Irish Pub, the place where they met more than a decade ago when Anne used to manage the operations down there. Opting not to put her in a downer mood when she arrived home soon thereafter, I decided not to share with her that I’d just seen Seamus on tv.

On an up note though – if you like cold, wet weather as I do this time of year – I was absolutely delighted to see the soggy seven-day forecast. Just in time for our backcountry ski trip to Wing Ridge out in the Wallowas. Perhaps conditions would be quite nice indeed for my upcoming adventure. What a pleasant surprise after this most dire of snow years in all of my fifteen winters here in Oregon.

Friday, would be a final day of preparation for Saturday morning’s exams. Not wanting to overexert myself, I decided to bike around town running a few errands. Along the way I’d stop down at Portland Indoor to poke around and see if the Fir’s bar manager Chris Cooley was there. He wasn’t, but his lifelong friend Lamont was. We’d chitchat a bit, discussing the thuggish play by the brute who’d bruised Cooley’s ribs and elbowed Lamont in the face the previous week. As I’d suspected, it was a ruffian named Eric who I wasn’t particularly fond of (as a player that is).

My next stop was the Fir for a healthful spinach salad and a little repartee with Jeremiah, the daytime bartender. But I had another item on my agenda too. My major task of the day was to read through the soccer rulebook, just to refresh my mind about the various nuances contained within it.

While assiduously reading through all seventeen Laws of the Game I had several noteworthy interactions. First up was an impish newcomer to town named Jamie – an artist who hails from Castlegar, B.C., not too far from where I’d recently spent a week skiing in the Valhallas. Among other things, we’d talk about my stellar performance as a leprechaun at the 1993 Kell’s St. Patty’s Day Festival. I joked about turning into the mean, angry leprechaun by day two, bogged down with loads of schoolwork. (It was the very end of my Masters program and I was finishing my field area paper – like a thesis – at the same time as I was editing the final product of a hundred-page long group project.) For her part, Jamie looked the part of the imaginary Irish character as well, which I think is why we got on that topic in the first place.

A short while later I’d bend my boss’s ear, reminding her of my ‘special’ needs as I’m looking to switch things up a bit now that the spring leagues are about to start and I’ll be running around the pitch almost every night. Jana promised to do whatever she could to work me into Friday nights.

As I thoroughly leafed through the FIFA rulebook I’d recognize a lovely woman named Andrea at table 136 who I’d met several years ago when she played on my friend Molly (Militello) Bell’s indoor team, not long before Molly met her husband Patrick. She’d slip out the door before I had a chance to say hello.

Seated down at the other end of the bar was my old friend Nan Curtis – a woman who is always to quick to remind people that I’m one of the very first people she ever met here in the Rose City, nearly twelve years ago. Nan was with her friend Wendy (as I would soon learn upon walking over for a brief gab session), and they were meeting to discuss an upcoming fundraiser that Nan was coordinating for the PNCA – the Pacific Northwest College of Art.

It was a Brazilian-themed event featuring the band that I was hoping would headline my Football for Peacefest, The Lions of the Batucada – a samba band featuring dozens of percussionists and rhythmic performers. It seemed serendipitous that I should run into Nan with the Lions on her mind. Hopefully she’d be able to help me to make some headway with their people. She promised to do all she could. And at that, I said goodbye, asking her to say hello to her husband Marty for me – a guy who’d been a teammate of mine for a number of years, including our memorable championship season with Thunder!. We’d win the title match that season in dramatic fashion, with me kicking in the final pk in a shootout after a 1 – all draw, and Marty in goal keeping us alive throughout and sealing the victory at the very end.

In the news of the day, more than 700 anti-war protests worldwide were slated for Saturday, the two-year anniversary of our country’s unwarranted and globally unpopular invasion of Iraq. That would be twice the number of protests that had marked the one-year anniversary last March. The maverick UN-hatin’ anti-diplomat Bush has single-handedly managed to transform America’s standing in the world from most-beloved to most-hated – adding greater purpose and meaning to my Football for Peace Tour. Hopefully my efforts can in some small way repair the damage that he has done to our country’s global reputation.

As usual, there would be some noteworthy encounters during my games at Portland Indoor later that evening. While refereeing a dreadfully boring coed U10 match, I thought I recognized one of the parents on the other side of the plexi-glass. Sure enough, it was my old grad school bud Andy Wilch, now a bigwig power broker with the Portland Development Commission. Among other things, we’d discuss the terrible loss of our common acquaintance who had taken his own life. Andy seemed to have more insight into Graham’s history of mental illness, shedding more light onto this terrible tragedy.

In the next match, an adult coed game, Freeman Tong – a guy who I played on a coed club team with at Portland State back in ’91 – was wearing a Gremio goalie jersey. This is significant because Gremio is a top Brazilian club from Porto Alegre, the first overseas stop on my Football for Peace Tour. Perhaps I’ll be seeing one of their home games this coming October.

As the match was about to get underway, Freeman would ask me how long I’d be going on my trip for and when I told him nine months, he half-jokingly replied, “Oh no…I’ll miss you Aaron. Who’s gonna ref our games?”

Among the many participants in my final game of the night was a gal named Anne who used to be a teammate of my dear friend Meg – a woman who I’d be dining with as soon as Anne’s game was over. I told Anne that I’d say ‘hello’ to Meg for her as I got ready to head out.

But before leaving I’d have a brief conference with the my replacement, the guy who’d be in charge of the next couple games – Mehrad “Marty” Neshvad – a native of Iran. He hooked me up with a pair of websites to check out regarding football in his homeland – irankicks.com and persiafootball.com – informing me that Iran’s domestic league runs from fall until spring. I’d hoped to check out a match in Tehran in January assuming Bush doesn’t invade there next. Marty seemed confident that he wouldn’t, but I wasn’t so sure.

On my way out the door, Brandon (not Brendan) – one of my biggest fans – told me he’d be filling out a referee evaluation form, giving me high marks for my solid work in my final match of the night.

Within minutes I was up at Gravy on North Mississippi to meet Meg and another deal old friend, Julia, for dinner. It would be my last supper before my big fitness exam the next day and I wanted some comfort food for the first time in more than a week of dietary austerity. The gravy fries seemed like they might do just the trick (along with a savory chicken sandwich with veggies and a salad) – providing me with the necessary carbs that would be converted into energy in just about twelve hours.

The company of my two old friends was comforting in advance of such a big day as I entertained them with humorous anecdotes of my checkered work history. Now, on the eve of what was to be arguably the most significant day in my ‘career’ as a soccer referee, I was poised to change that trend and become one of Oregon’s premier soccer officials.

So despite the fact that it was still before 10pm, I was ready to call it a night, hoping to get a rare eight hours of sleep. Walking out the door we crossed paths with Sean(y) – a slight-of-build British character who plays for NW Bike – the team that lost 6 – 2 in last fall’s GPSD Over 30 – Division III final; the game in which I passed my final assessment on my way to becoming a State II (Grade 6) Referee. I immediately interrupted Sean’s conversation with his female companion, certain I had seen him that very afternoon at the post office. However, after assuring me that I must have been mistaken, we quickly went our separate ways.

As luck would have it, I was a little tired and happy to jump into the sack shortly past eleven, and asleep very soon thereafter. It was indeed a very rare event for me to be in la-la-land before midnight.

As expected, I was awake Saturday morning before my alarm went off at 7:30am; my adrenaline already amped up for the impending fitness test. By 8am I was out the door on a perfectly wintry Oregon day – cool and wet, as it’s supposed to be this time of year. And just in time for my upcoming backcountry ski trip to the Wallowas.

Feeling slightly nervous, I headed down I-5 in a pretty good mood. I’d arrive down at Tualatin High School before just about anyone else, eager to get the fitness test behind me. When it finally came time to perform the Cooper Test, otherwise known as the 12-minute run, I was ready. And as I’d hoped, there would be a rabbit in the field to set the pace – young 19-year old up-and-comer Miles Crumley was hoping to finish eight laps. Me, I only needed to finish six, which afforded me two minutes per lap – nothing extraordinary, but a quick pace nonetheless.

With guns blazing, I fired off a quick first lap in 1:30, confident that I’d easily complete the required distance if I just kept up a slightly mellower pace the rest of the way. So I eased off the gas a bit, not wanting to burn myself out too quickly. Rounding the final turn of lap number five I thought about the cardio benefits of trundling up the mountains of Whitewater, B.C. the previous month and how that trip had provided the impetus to whip me back into shape after a sloth-like, mostly-ski-less winter.

As I coasted through the final lap, knowing that I had two minutes and twenty-five seconds to finish it off, one of my colleagues eased past me. But with only a hundred yards remaining and still plenty of vigor within me, I breezed quickly towards the finish in a respectable time of 11:40.

It was great relief, but I still had a couple of sprints to go – the 50 and then the 200. But I was certain I’d be able to meet these inauspicious requirements, 9.0 and 40.0 respectively; which I did fairly easily. Neither were particularly remarkable, but acceptable nonetheless – 8.1 and 32.5 seconds. With only the written test to go I was confident that promotion was now within my grasp.

But the written exam is always filled with outrageous curveballs and trick questions, many of which are the most unlikely of scenarios for an actual soccer match. Plus, the test for State Referees is considerably more challenging than the one for Grades 8s and 7s. Shivering from the recent workout as we sat outside under a covered walkway adjacent to the high school, I was the last to finish, taking my time to be sure that I’d answered each question correctly. I was hoping to score a 90, but I knew that a 75 would do.

When Dennis Carr placed the answer key over my sheet of circled bubbles I could tell he was concerned. “Oh shit!”, I thought. “I’d totally fucked it up”. But then he turned to our instructor, Shana Saavedra, who flipped the key over to its proper position. “Aha”, Dennis proclaimed, easing my worried mind. Still, I’d been fooled on quite a few questions as Dennis used his red pen with alarming frequency. But when it was over, I’d passed with an unimpressive, but fully acceptable score of 81%. And I couldn’t have been happier as the handful of my colleagues who were still on hand happily congratulated me.

It was over…I could rest easy now, knowing that my primary goal in advance of my global travels had been achieved. At last, after ten long years on the pitch, I’d reached the semi-elite status of State (II) Referee. All of my hard work throughout hundreds of soccer games had culminated in this moment. And as crazy as it might sound, this was one of the greatest events in my thirty-seven years of life!!!

And on that most upbeat note, I bid you farewell for now.

Until next time…

peace,
ac

A Week of Anticipation and Preparation – Part I (March 17th, 2005)

Feeling somewhat melancholy about the impending loss of Sid Kitty later that afternoon, I headed out for my day on the pitch – three indoor games followed almost immediately by three outdoor games. My first match of the day would feature the mother of one our country’s greatest-ever soccer players – Portland-native Tiffany Milbrett. It’s worth noting that her mom Elise would net the game winner in a 3 – 2 scoreline between a couple of Women’s division III teams.

In my next match, a hotly contested affair between a couple of Men’s division III teams I had a humorous exchange with the mostly British squad after a bit of argy-bargy. I thanked one of the guys for not retaliating after one of his opponents threw the ball at him (but not very hard I might add). One of his cheeky English teammates replied, “Oh, he would never do that…he’s Swedish”, referring to the stoic Scandinavian ethic. When the match – which had simmered down to a low boil as the second half wound down – eventually ended, one of the players thanked me for my contribution saying that I was the best ref they’d had all season.

Next on tap was my old squad the Lucky Lab who only needed to win this final match to end their winter season undefeated in division II. Their opponents – Kaya Construction – playing without any subs, put up a game fight but eventually lost the match convincingly, 9 – 3. Despite the lopsided scoreline I was challenged strongly by Kaya for making a controversial call that involved a rarely invoked infraction called “trickery”. I won’t bore you with this oft-misunderstood nuance, but suffice it to say that in the end, both teams (including Kaya) were satisfied with the game’s outcome.

Also of note was that my longtime friend Matt Kosokoff – who still supports our old club whenever he’s in town – showed up around halftime to root his team on. He had recently returned from Bangkok where he’s been wintering each year for the past decade. I hope to have my old buddy show me around his adopted Asian homeland when I stop by next December.

As I left the indoor facility for my set of three games out at Delta Park, my former outdoor team Thunder! was taking the pitch for the next match. No time for hellos though as I raced out the door to my next assignment.

Arriving at Delta Park I’d find one of my colleagues that day was a former teenage opponent from my playing days at Portland Indoor. Now at twenty years of age, Andy is a real up-and-coming referee.

And ironically, the first outdoor match of the day featured several of the players who I’d just finished officiating for at Portland Indoor – the guys from Kaya Construction. They’d gotten over their recent annihilation and were prepared for a pleasant afternoon on the pitch. And for what it’s worth, Bob (of Kaya) even stopped by to say that the controversial call I made could have gone either way, and since I was the ref, that’s just the way it goes. Good man Bob!

The boys from Kaya would go on to win their outdoor match 2 – nil over Oregon Chai, the team that I scored my finest goal against a few years ago with a well-placed header. I’d chat with Damon of Chai after the game about the dismal ski season. He told me he hadn’t gone up to Meadows all year, the first time he’d completely kept his distance from the mountain since he was in high school.

I’d also have a word with Kevin, the co-owner of Piazza Italia about his business partner Gino Schettini, a USSF National Assessor and former top level official in the Italian Football Federation. Gino and I have been communicating over the past year about my Football for Peace Tour and I wanted to get Kevin on board too. Sadly, I would learn that Gino’s liver cancer is very likely incurable. But, Kevin continued, Gino is a magnanimous individual and will definitely follow through with my request to meet some of his Italian brethren. In particular, I hope to meet and connect with the world’s most revered soccer official, Pierluigi Collina, who according to Kevin is a promoter of peace in his own right. Additionally, Roberto “Little Buddha” Baggio is a people person who relishes the opportunity to connect with all comers. Baggio, it should be noted is in fact a practicing Buddhist having shunned Catholicism, the religion shared my 95% of his countrymen.

My outdoor match in the middle featured much of the same cast of characters from my second indoor game of the day – a crew of mostly Brits who were happy to see me again. And it would be the third time that day that I’d see my former Lucky Lab teammate Adam French in action.

I felt good – fit – fully enjoying my work, engaging in witty banter with both teams throughout the 2 – 2 draw. At one point near the end of the first half I raced down the pitch next to Carsten – arguably the most skilled and quickest player in the match, sarcastically urging him on, “Come on you fucker…let’s go”. At the end of halftime he’d tell me with a hint of surprise in his voice, “Hey, you’re pretty damn fast.” I told him I was in training for my fitness test the following week. And just a few minutes into the second period he’d score on a breakaway, blowing past all the defenders, making me feel pretty good about keeping pace with him earlier. In the end, everyone seemed pleased with the outcome as well as my contribution to their efforts.

When I arrived home a short while later the house was empty; only a dog, Stella, was there apparently having torn into the cat food, leaving nothing but a shredded paper bag as evidence of her voracious act of selfishness. Perhaps Stella knew that the kitty was no more.

Anne would come home shortly after I did, looking understandably glum. I would reassure her that she had done the right thing. After talking some more about Sid’s final moments, the meaning of life, the loss of my brother and my dog, and the recent suicide of my former co-worker, we hugged – a rare expression of genuine love between the two of us.

While watching a replay of Barcelona’s 2 – nil victory over Atletico Bilbao, I would learn that Swedish FIFA referee Anders Frisk had decided to retire from the game, not for a lack of fitness or love for the work, but sadly, because his family had received death threats. This is a truly awful thing and the so-called “supporters” of teams who engage in such behavior need to recognize that the matches he officiates are nothing more than grown-ups playing childhood games. Sure, that’s a somewhat naïve viewpoint on what to many is big business, but to the fans it should be nothing more than that. I hope the perpetrators are identified and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. There is simply no room for these heathens in a civil society. Best wishes to you in your future endeavors Mr. Frisk.

On the news Sunday night I’d learn that Mt. Hood Meadows had closed…at least for now. But I seriously doubted that it would reopen, and even if it does it’ll be impossible to revive this horrendous ski season.

The BBC would report Monday morning that UEFA’s Referee Committee Chairman had labeled Chelsea manager Jose Mourinho as an “enemy of football” for whipping the masses into a frenzy of conspiratorial fervor against match officials. For it was after the first-leg of the Champions League matchup between Mourinho’s club and Barcelona that the Chelsea manager was highly critical of Anders Frisk’s performance. It was in the wake of Barça’s 2 – 1 victory at the Nou Camp that Frisk received those abhorrent threats on his family’s life and this is why UEFA places the blame squarely on the Chelsea boss. Referees are there to promote fair play and to keep the peace – nothing more, nothing less. And the sooner EVERYONE figures this out, the better.

I arrived at the Fir Monday morning in a good mood. And this was noted by my highly perceptive colleague Seantos who was working behind the bar. He’d insightfully comment, “AC, you seem robust.” I told him that I was feeling pretty good about things in light of my upcoming fitness exam that I’d been preparing for during the previous couple weeks.

To start of the day I’d wait on the girl band that had played down in the lounge the previous night – The Organ, from Vancouver, B.C. I told ‘em how much I love their province, having recently spent some time in the Valhallas near Nelson.

As lunch rolled around I’d wait on a couple of Italian/Bolivians – Pietro and Paulo – who were with Wayne, the friendly book publisher who I will assume simply forgot to leave me a tip.

Later on I happily served my GM Todd’s girlfriend Rachel with her equally attractive sister Melissa. As usual, Todd took care of me with a generous gratuity.

My last table of the first half of my day included two of the three “well put together” women from the previous week. They showed up this time with a male companion and once again, they’d tip me quite handsomely. Among other thing I’d learn that the bleached-blonde hottie is a native of Russia. Also, after asking if they worked in a salon they’d tell me that they’re all dancers – no, not strippers as a number of the dinner and late night customers tend to be, but rather, professional instructors and competitive dancers.

As I was closing up shop for the afternoon, Dan called regarding the upcoming Wallowas trip that I’d planned to abandon, but he managed to talk me back into it. Besides the fact that the snow is surprisingly decent according to Wing Ridge’s proprietor Roger Averbeck, all of my best friends will be going. Sure the opportunity cost of not working for several days will set me back a few hundred bucks, but the trip itself won’t cost me a thing since Dan – head of global marketing for Columbia Sportswear’s Titanium line of gear – has worked out a trade deal with Roger. So anyway, looks like I'll be getting in a little more alpine adventure before the ski season comes to an end. (I can’t help but wonder if it ever really began.)

Before dinner got underway I’d chat w/Annie B.’s former Widmer Brewing colleagues Robin and Chad (still a good friend of Anne’s) who work for Maletis Distributing – the local Budweiser-pushers who were having a private party down in the lounge for a few hours early in the evening. Then as dinner crawled to a slow start, Fir co-owner Mike Quinn would ask how the ‘peace train’ was coming along. I was glad that he took an interest in my pursuits and I’d fill him in on the latest details – still without a single customer at that point.

Things would start off quite slowly, and the few tables I did have were all water drinkers, a waiter’s worst enemy. Taking note of the nerdy guy dining with the dolled up dominatrix at table 123 we’d speculate about the nature of their relationship. Consensus seemed to be that perhaps the schlumpy character had purchased his companion’s services for the evening.

Seated at the adjacent table, 124, was tv news reporter Randy Neves of KGW fame. I’d met Randy one night in the bar back in October soon after the Fir had opened for business following an evening phone banking nearby with Annie B. for the Kerry campaign. The affable, thirty-ish Neves remembered that evening several months earlier when I stopped by to say hello again. I was impressed with his recollection of the details from our encounter the previous fall.

Things would pick up for me a bit, especially after LB took himself out of action around 8pm, leaving just Nikoli and I to run the show. The freaky dude who’d been chugging coffee while sitting at 136 ALL night (yes…for almost four hours) finally got up to leave, but not before writing me this pathetic note:

Dear Waiter Man,
I have left my wallet at my friends (sic) house and I’m glad I did not order food. May I come back to pay for my coffee?
Kirk (last name withheld to protect the guilty)

I never expected to see this clown again…nor did I want to.

In the end though, it ended up being a pretty decent day moneywise with sales exceeding $1,000 for my eleven hours on the clock, but because I had a number of good tippers throughout my double, I walked with a surprisingly decent hundred-and-thirty bucks. Thanks to everyone who helped fill my pockets.

At the mostly empty north bar after the day was done I sat down for a light meal – a cup of soup and some grilled green beans. A friendly character sat down to my right and we struck up a conversation. I’d soon learn that my dining companion was none other than DJ Evil One, the spinmaster who’d just finished working the turntables down in the lounge.

Evil One, or Eric as most people call him, would tell me that he attended high school at Jesuit – home to Oregon’s most prolific athletics programs, including soccer, which he played and coached for a number of years. We shared words of criticism for his alma mater – among other things we’d talk about the brainwashing of young minds that occurs at faith-based institutions. He’d go on to tell me that he’d continue along this vein in college, however, attending Gonzaga for three years before abandoning the religious zealotry for the secular world at Portland State. It had simply been too much God-talk for him after seven years of pious mind control. Eric and I would exchange cards before I headed out the door, promising to stay in touch.

Immediately outside the Fir I’d glance at the headline of the Oregonian in the newspaper kiosk outside of the Fir. It read “GOD BROUGHT HIM TO MY DOOR”, referring to the murderous rampaging escaped convict Brian Nichols down in Atlanta. The quote is attributed to the Christ-loving woman who was held hostage by Nichols for seven hours before he turned himself in to authorities. So I have to ask the question, ‘did got want those people to die that Nichols killed?’ And what about the ex-girlfriend that Nichols raped which put him in front of a judge in the first place? Was that part of God’s grand plan to? NO, if God exists he or she simply watches us from afar, allowing us to create our own realities. Otherwise, we’d all live an idyllic utopian world filled with peace, love, and joy everywhere. And as we all know, this is simply not the case.

On the way home the BBC reported that the world’s top referees might stage a protest of solidarity in support of Anders Frisk, the Swedish FIFA referee who has decided to retire due to recent death threats. I applaud this move as it will further highlight the grotesqueness associated with threatening referees for the decisions they make in the GAMES they adjudicate. Like all people, they are fallible, and with the prevalence of instant replay this is clearly evident. However, their mistakes (assuming they are in fact mistakes and not simply misinterpretations of the rules by an ill-informed public) are nothing more than that, mistakes. And as fans of athletic competition, we must learn to accept that reality or forever abandon the right to be a part of these gaming rituals.

Tuesday morning I’d learn that U2 – one of the greatest band’s of my generation – had been inducted into the Rock ‘N Roll Hall of Fame Monday night. I only mention this because frontman Bono continues to pursue methods to improve the lives of those less fortunate than him all around the world. And for this, I salute you Bono. You are a true hero, someone to be admired for your ongoing efforts to make the world a better place.

Right as I arrived at work I’d receive a call from the ‘king’ of the local referee community, Eric Beck. I knew what he wanted and since there was only one customer in the joint, I deferred clocking in until after we’d concluded our business.

Upon switching gears to Fir mode, I’d read a memo from our GM to all staff members that our kitchen manager, Kris Miles, had taken a 30 – 60 day hiatus from his duties in order to deal with “family matters”. Whatever they may be, I wish Kris well and hope to see him back in action very soon. In the interim, JK – John Kennedy – a guy I really get along with (not that I don’t get along with Miles) will be taking over the top post in the kitchen. I was very optimistic that JK would serve quite well in that role.

Slow to get things started, Hernan – the light-hearted Guatemalan dishwasher – and I would talk footie back in the kitchen. Like me, he’s a Barça fan. A short while later, Paco – the amiable grill cook – would tell me about the 2- all draw in the Mexican first division he had watched the previous weekend on tv between his favorite team Club America and one of Mexico’s most beloved clubs Guadalajara Chivas. He was disappointed that I hadn’t seen the match and therefore couldn’t share in his enthusiasm.

Eventually, we’d get hit with a small lunch rush. As that quickly came and went, I noticed one of my customers grab a magnum of water off the adjacent table once the party of four had left. Amazed that the two-top had already downed a whole liter-and-a-half of water between them, I quickly stopped by for an inquiry. Feeling the need to explain himself, the kindly character told me that he and his female dining companion had just given blood the day before and that they were downing prodigious amounts of liquid to re-hydrate as prescribed. Upon learning this I shared with them my own regular eight-week commitment to visit the local chapter of the Red Cross. As a relatively lazy person who doesn’t like to volunteer too much of my time, I admitted to them that I love giving blood because in only one hour’s time I have the capacity to save the lives of a minimum of three people. It’s a simple philosophy that I wished more people would adopt. So go on and get off your lazy asses and save a stranger’s life. It’s an incredible feeling!

I’d go on tell them that I was a little concerned that my blood donation days might be over soon what with globetrotting on my agenda and all. And I am so often wont to do, I offered up my business card with my web address on it, informing them that I’d put in a little plug for the virtues of regular visits to the Red Cross. They complimented me on my card’s design, suggesting that they’d probably share it with a friend who might find my Football for Peace Tour most intriguing. Thanks for the pr my fellow blood donor friends.

Towards the end of lunch, the Fir’s bar manager Chris Cooley would arrive. Upon seeing me he’d say with a look of concern on his face, “Hey, I need to talk to you.” Quickly, he followed that up, “Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad…at least not about work, that is.” I knew he had soccer on his mind. More specifically, he wanted to vent to me about some jackass who’d banged up his ribs and his buddy Lamont’s face the previous Friday at Portland Indoor – no, not in an actual match, but rather during ‘noon play’…just a pick-up game. Describing the mostly bald/blondish character, I had a feeling I knew who it was and I wasn’t terribly surprised by his thuggish behavior. Empathetic as I could be, I explained to him that this is why I’m reluctant to kick it around at all any more as my aging body grows increasingly prone to injury.

Shortly thereafter, an old acquaintance of mine from my building permit days with the City came in for a quick bite to eat. As he was getting ready to head back to work, Carter (Case) came over to say hello. The typical small-talk would commence, then I’d ask him if he’d been down to the Planning Department recently. Not exactly answering my question, he’d respond by saying that he had heard the sad news about Graham Clark – the former very upbeat colleague of mine who had decided to end his life less than a week earlier.

Carter and Graham had interacted regularly at Pearl District neighborhood planning meetings. We spoke some more about this extremely sad occurrence. Speaking my mind as usual, I voiced my belief that Graham’s final act, while being both desperate and heartbreaking, was also selfish (in light of the fact that he was married with two young children). Carter, perhaps understandably, seemed somewhat unnerved by my callous portrayal of what was obviously an act borne of severe depression and suggested that I read the obituary that was printed in the Oregonian. And with that, the architect abruptly left.

Feeling slightly ashamed, I immediately grabbed the paper sitting on the countertop nearby and was amazed to learn how much Graham and I had in common. Among other things, we both shared a love of maps that led to each of us earning a Masters degree in urban planning. Like me “Graham was happiest when he was outside…biking, camping, backpacking, and skiing. The outdoors was very important to Graham, and nothing soothed his soul more than a long hike or just being in the mountains”, a sentiment that particularly resonated with my sensibilities.

“As a geography major”, (which I minored in during my undergraduate studies), “Graham was a master of maps and an excellent navigator. He always knew the right way to turn. His lifelong love of maps broadened into his world view. He saw the world as an integrated whole, and he was thoughtful in his decisions because he knew how interdependent all living things are.”

I hadn’t spoken to Graham in a few years, but upon reading this, six days after his death, I felt incredibly connected to this kindred spirit. It troubled me as I struggled to understand the depth of his depression – a profound sadness that apparently didn’t seem to permeate his everyday life.

The authors of the obituary, most probably Graham’s bereaved parents, continue by making a plea for people to seek help for mental illness rather than hide it from loved ones and friends as Graham had seemingly done. It’s their hope that this important message comes from their loss; OUR loss. So on their behalf, I wish to share that same plea with you, my devoted reader. We all have more people out there who love and care about us than we might realize. Depression is not uncommon, so deal with it in a healthful way. Perhaps if Graham had done so his smiling face would still be with us today.

As the last of my tables was leaving on this, the slowest lunch shift for me to date – a shade under $200 in sales – Cooley and I would talk about procuring World Cup tickets. Hopefully I’ll be partying with him and many other friends in Germany a little more than a year from now.

Between shifts I’d call Blake over in Taiwan. It was a little after 8am (the next day) for her and I had caught her at a bad time. She said she’d call me back in fifteen minutes. So half-an-hour later when Jill called from the East Coast I answered, figuring Blake had been sidetracked and wouldn’t be getting back to me. So a few minutes into my conversation with Jill, I had to cut things short when I saw the overseas call coming in. Blake and I have a tough time connecting and I knew that Jill and I would just pick up where we’d left off when I’d call her back the next day. I hoped she’d understand.

Blake, as it turns out, was having a quasi-work-related situation that she needed to talk through with me, so I did my best to listen and provide support and advice. That’s what friends are for and helping them out in times of need tends to be something I’m particularly good at. So I was glad that I was there for Blake – one of the most important people in my life.

Soon thereafter I was back on the floor at the Fir as my dinner shift got underway. One of my first tables of the evening was a delightfully plump mom with her two young girls. They were celebrating the birthday of the younger of the two who was turning five. Very talkative and friendly that they were, the birthday girl innocently asked me to do a cartwheel. So since I wasn’t busy and the dining room only had a handful of customers at that early hour, I willingly acquiesced to her whimsical desires, impressing colleagues and diners alike. However, when she followed that up with a request that I perform a split I had to decline, citing the potential for serious injury.

As things began to pick up about an hour later, Kevin (yes, it is Kevin I was happy to learn) – the Portland Indoor playin’ reader of my blog who I’d recently written about – came in with his wife Sarah. They weren’t seated in my section, but I spent a good amount of time chatting with them anyway. I was happy to learn that they too were planning to be in Germany next year. I’d also discuss with them the complicated method for procuring World Cup tickets, allaying some of Kevin’s concerns in this regard.

Things would accelerate quickly after I said a quick hello to my old footie-mate, Dublin-native Declan O’Connor. I’d greet a new two-top who I’d quickly reseat at a table for eight – a party that would eventually grow to twelve or more. Declan and Brian Vargo (another former Green Room teammate) would ask to sit in my section at the table vacated by the two-top/twelve-top, convincing the hostess to let them sit there despite having my entire section seated virtually simultaneously. I told her - Rosie the adorable hostess - that it was ok, aware of the fact that they’d already grabbed their first round of drinks from the bar and that I could just ignore my buddies for a while as I got things squared away with the rest of my tables. As I’d suspected, Declan, Brian, and the rest of their crew were completely unfazed by the fact that I didn’t stop by for about ten or fifteen minutes.

After that, things were more-or-less on auto-pilot as most of my tables sat for the balance of the evening, leaving me nothing to do but run endless rounds of drinks. Sometime around 9:00 or so, Blake’s old friend Ben came in to join Jen & Jeff Kovel’s (Fir co-owners) large party in Nikoli’s section. I’d stop by for a quick hello and update him on our friend’s life. I was surprised to learn that he was apparently unaware of Blake’s move overseas back in October and proceeded to give him a quick update on her life, including the current situation that I’d advised her on earlier in the evening.

One of my favorite tables of the night was also one of my last. Their group would grow from two to four to five and then to six. The laid-back crew of folks in their mid-30s included a guy wearing a humorous t-shirt. On the front it read – ‘Office of Homeland Security’; and on the back – ‘True patriots turn each other in’. We shared a politically-left laugh together.

Soon thereafter I’d grab the credit card for a guy named Jesse Rauskauskas. Back in the kitchen I’d say to Nikoli, “Hey dude, watch this. I’m gonna walk out there and accurately call this guy on his Lithuanian heritage.” Sure enough, I was right as Jesse told me that most people think he’s Polish. I’d go on to tell him and his two companions that I’d be seeing his people’s national soccer team square off against Spain in Valencia on June 4th. Nevertheless, despite my geo-cultural erudition, Jesse was apparently nonplused, leaving me a meager two dollar tip on $18.50.

My final anecdote of the evening is the most humorous. It begins with Blake’s buddy Ben acquiring a free Doug Fir t-shirt from architect/co-owner Jeff Kovel. Ironically, the sixth and final person to arrive at my fun table with the Homeland Security t-shirt guy was an effervescent gal who I’d waited on a few months earlier when she was dining with a dozen or so co-workers. On that occasion she’d harangued me all night long about acquiring a free Doug Fir t-shirt, which I never did give to her. So ironically, as I was telling her about Ben’s procurement of a complimentary t-shirt he stopped over to say goodnight and to ask me to give Blake a “hello” for him. As Ben walked away, she facetiously asked me, “Hey, what do I have to do to get that t-shirt, give him a handjob?” Matching her sarcasm tit-for-tat, I replied, “No…you have to give ME a handjob.” That, of course, brought raucous laughter from the fun-loving group of revelers. Needless to say, though, she never did get her free snappy brown tee.

(to be continued)

Goodbye Sid Kitty: A Final Farewell (March 13th, 2005)

So I headed off to work my set of four matches down in Tualatin not with a heavy heart as I’d expected. And when my shift was over I got back into my car a little after 8pm (as usual) to the somewhat geeky intellectual sounds of the hosts on OPB’s broadcast of “Philosophy Talk” – a show that usually challenges one to think critically about any of a number of important social, cultural, or political issues. On this occasion the topic was the role that religion should or should not play in government. As a strict secularist, I must say that I don’t believe religion has ANY place at the table (at least not within our country’s political framework) when it comes to crafting public policy. Needless to say, I found this debate to be quite intriguing as I sped northbound on I-5.

Along the way I’d receive a call from my co-worker/friend Annamari who was interested in meeting me out. I was headed over to North Mississippi for the first-ever ‘Second Thursday’ – an art and music walk along the burgeoning commercial avenue. Anna Miller was hosting a fashion show of sorts at her shop Cuckoo and I wanted to be present for this affair.

Upon arriving at Anna’s boutique I was surprised to find so little activity, so I made my way towards the curtain, to the back of the shop where I assumed there would be a keg. But oh was I mistaken. “Oooops”, I yelled realizing my faux pas upon seeing a roomful of half-dressed women getting ready for their colorful parade. When I caught the eye of my bare-chested friend Paige, I sarcastically proclaimed, “Oh well, it’s only you anyway,” and then stepped back outside the shop, slightly embarrassed at my surprise intrusion.

Standing outside the Crow Bar across the street from Cuckoo I ran into my neighbor Jen who dragged me back across the street to a popular eatery called Gravy a couple doors down from Cuckoo. As Jen and I were making our way towards the laid-back lounge out back I spotted my longtime former Lucky Lab (indoor) teammate Doug McKubbin. I rarely cross paths with him now since my playing days ended suddenly nearly two years ago. It was great to see him and Lisa and make a new acquaintance with their friend George.

After my brief schmoozefest I connected with Annamari who by now had located me since arriving a few minutes earlier. The colored saran wrap-clad/fluorescent wig wearin’ collection of models had decided to call Gravy’s back lounge their home for the evening after wandering about the various shops and restaurants up and down N. Mississippi. I enjoyed their brilliant-hued stylings while easing into a mostly work (i.e. Doug Fir) related conversation with Annamari. (Oh, and if you’re interested in knowing more about where those wacky wigs came from that you see in my photo album, check out Stefanie Pinniger’s website – www.madame-bouffant.com).

My effervescent neighbor Jen would call for my camera to take some artsy photos of the unusually adorned models. I willingly handed it over only to have her show back up a few minutes later with a look of concern on her face. “AC”, she said, “you HAVE to erase the picture I just took.” “Why?”, I inquired, not exactly sure how to operate the myriad features of my camera. She explained that she’d taken a very inappropriate picture of our wild and gregarious friend Anna Miller. And when she showed me the ground-up view of Anna’s naked yoni I burst out into ecstatic laughter. Oh, I promised not to put this glorious image on my website, but I wasn’t able to erase it either. Well, this was an unsatisfactory response as far as Jen was concerned, feeling quite guilty about her photographic indiscretion.

Annamari and I were both a little surprised at Jen’s sudden change in demeanor which quickly went from easygoing to angry. “No AC, you have to erase it NOW!” But I plead my innocence, as I wasn’t the one who had snapped the image in the first place. Eventually, I managed to quell Jen’s concerns and return to my leisurely night out. Hell, even Anna seemed relatively unfazed by the fact that my camera contained such an explicit image of her tootie-cat (a pleasant euphemism that I have borrowed from my dear friend Mary Miller’s lexicon.)

A short while later my partner-in-crime Nizar would show up after spending some time with one of his co-workers earlier in the evening. Annamari and I would find alternate seating that would be more accommodating to include a third. And being the sweetheart that she is, my co-worker asked my former co-worker how his day at work was. His response was way beyond anything I’d expected.

“You remember Graham Clarke from the Planning Department?”, Nizar asked me. Of course I did; he was a perpetually upbeat family guy who never seemed to be in a down mood and always spoke kindly of others. “Well”, Nizar continued, “he jumped off the Ross Island Bridge yesterday.” Without explanation and with no telling signs of depression, Graham had ridden his bike up to the bridge during his lunch break and leapt off, ending a seemingly wonderful life. This was shocking news because Graham was the last guy you’d expect to do something like this. But I guess it just goes to show y’never really know what’s going on inside somebody’s head. That’s part of the reason why I sometimes wonder about people who are always so UP. Is it real or is it just a mirage? I guess in Graham’s case it was the latter. And in a way, his tragic loss really puts the impending demise of Sid Kitty into perspective. Yes, we’ll miss our furry little friend on NE 16th, but somewhere in Portland there are children who will grow up without a father and a widow who must now raise them on her own. A real tragedy to be sure.

Following this somber discussion we’d eventually follow the rest of the crowd back across the street to the Crow Bar for another round of drinks. Annamari would eventually head back to her place near the Safeway on Hawthorne and then Nizar too would soon call it a night. I, however, would go back to Gravy one last time – entering through the door adjacent to the back alley for an intimate discussion with Anna Miller, another fiery redhead named Teresa who not so long ago provided me with some emergency massage therapy, and Gravy’s owner Mark – a burly-lookin’ dude who is committed to providing quality service to his denizen of customers. Eventually though, the long strange night would come to an end.

On the radio Friday morning I would hear that another record high temp was predicted – a streak that had lasted throughout the entire week. It was also the one year anniversary of the Madrid train bombings. The nation of Spain had fallen silent for five minutes in memoriam.

I’d continue my prolific run of productivity, hell bent on catching up with my life via my writings. Before heading out the door to bike across town for what was sure to be an important meeting, I fed and watered Sid and rubbed him lovingly.

As I pedaled through my neighborhood to my noon meeting at a coffee shop in NW Portland, I received a call from Paul Goodrich, the guy who I’d be meeting. He was running behind a bit, but promised to meet me at 12:30, still enough time to chat before my 1pm appointment at the Portland Traveler’s Clinic.

When Paul arrived I was happy to learn that he was exactly who I thought he was, for we’d crossed paths before. It was during a Boys Varsity soccer game at Cleveland High School a few years back where he was the assistant coach. I recall that he had had some pretty harsh words for my colleague in the middle of the pitch that day. I would tell Paul upon formally meeting him that he’s an intense individual along the touchline, quite a contrast to his charming off-field demeanor.

Our short interaction at Caffe Torrefazione couldn’t have gone better. After Paul shared his vision and methodology for transforming at-risk African youth into productive members of society (using his football academies as the means to that end), I commenced to formalize a professional working relationship with this well-connected football aficionado. He was quite receptive to my proposal that we join forces, of sorts, in an effort to raise money and publicity for our idealistic endeavors.

Forging this necessary relationship I’m sure will prove to be an integral part of the future success of the Football for Peace Tour and I will be eternally grateful to Paul for having the faith to believe in me and my mission. And cheers to Professor Alon Raab for suggesting that I connect with Paul. And likewise to Amber Curtiss for telling me about the professor of her Sociology of Soccer class at Portland State. Because the Football for Peace Tour is a huge team effort and the more teammates I have the better. Working together we can collectively do great things. So thanks really to everyone who believes in this project. It would never be possible without your support.

I had to leave quickly from the café in order to pedal the ten blocks and make it on time for my appointment at the Portland Travel Clinic. My very down-to-earth doc would tell me that I was one of the most easygoing patients he’d dealt with in quite a while before poking me with an arsenal of immunizations – hepatitis A and B, rabies, meningococcal, polio, yellow fever, malaria, and maybe one or two others that I’m forgetting. When it was over I’d shelled out more than $700, an amount that is expected to double after my next two visits in the coming weeks. But it seemed like a worthwhile investment considering the huge potential downside of getting deathly ill in some remote third world country.

I’d spend the rest of the pleasant afternoon in Couch Park in NW Portland – my old stomping grounds – before pedaling back across the river as the sun arced towards the western sky. Before hitting the road, however, one of ‘my people’ from Portland Indoor – Brendan – would saunter on by the grassy knoll where I was whiling the time away. We’d had many conversations at the soccer center in the past, but this, I believe, was the first time we’d ever connected out in public. Soon thereafter he was off to root on his Fightin’ Illini in the Big Ten basketball tournament.

Upon commencing my journey back home, I stopped at a nearby mailbox to send in my consent form to Jeff at AirBrokers.com. That’ll be another four grand to get me as far as Thailand (via Brazil, Uruguay, Argentina, Chile, Peru, Bolivia, Mexico, and Japan). It was turning out to be a very expensive day indeed.

Back at home I’d chat with my high school pal Jeremy Manning who now lives in Santa Clara, CA. Jeremy’s one of those super-smart wonkish types who could never quite figure out what he wanted to be when he grew up; so he tends to get involved in just about anything that interests him. He went pre-med at Columbia before eventually getting a law degree. Most recently he worked on Dennis Kucinich’s campaign for President before working on a scathing documentary that called into question the efficacy of the controversial Diebold touch-screen voting machines. And now, apparently, Jeremy and ‘his people’ are interested in another documentary, this time about soccer. Interestingly enough, Paul Goodrich and I touched upon this issue as well and now the wheels are set in motion to include me in such a production. So while the deal with Reason Pictures might not have worked out, there is still the potential that the Football for Peace Tour could come to a theater near you sometime in 2007. I’ll keep you posted.

A short while later, my soccer playin’ 11-year old neighbor Martha Brown came over to see what I was up to. In talking with her about the somewhat adult nature of my website I remembered the first R-rated movie I ever saw in a theater. I was about her age as I recall and my parents took us to see the Burt Reynolds/Sally Field/Dom Deluise dark comedy called “The End”. It was about a terminally ill guy (Burt) who wanted to live it up before his days were over. I only mention this because as of late this theme had been quite prevalent in my life…again reminding me the importance of living life to the fullest since we don’t know when it will all end.

On the tube I’d learn that Argentine soccer legend Maradona – now an astounding 250+ pounds due to drug abuse and general disregard for his health – had undergone gastric bypass surgery in Cartagena, Colombia. It’s interesting really how different the lives of the world’s two greatest soccer legends have transpired in the aftermath of their prolific careers. While Maradona - almost two decades younger than the Brazilian master - has been living a life of grotesque abuse, Pelé continues to age with the grace and élan befitting of the greatest footballer in history.

That evening I’d join Martha and her dad Aaron as well as my other neighbors The McIntires (Scott and Jill, their 6-year old Quinlan, and their seventeen-month old Sean) for sushi and tapas down the street at Jellyfish, next door to my neighbor Jen’s pizza shop Bella Faccia. I was rather ravenous as I’d been keeping my distance from unhealthful foods as of late, so I eagerly gobbled up everything in sight, cognizant of the fact that fresh fish, marinated meats, and savory ceviches would provide me well-needed nourishment. And when the feeding frenzy was over the munificent Aaron Brown graciously picked up the tab for the assembled assortment of friends and neighbors. Thanks for dinner AB!

I kept things low-key that night, hoping to feel ok on Saturday after being pumped with a potpourri of anti-virals. On my way upstairs I’d stop in to check on Sid, still motionless, but purring gently on what will inevitably be his death bed. I rubbed his head lovingly and he rubbed back, enjoying the attention. He seemed content, almost happy as I stroked his furry head – a feeling that brought me pleasure as well.

The news was finally starting to recognize the dire water situation throughout the region, reporting that rivers this summer could drop to their lowest levels on record!!! Damn this beautiful weather!!!!!!!!!!!! As they say, ‘too much of good thing…blah, blah, blah, blah.’

Also on the eleven o’clock news that night I’d learn that Portland is the fourth most pedestrian-friendly city in the country, a factoid that brings me pride for my adopted home. Also, it was 75 degrees today, the earliest date in the year that we’d ever experienced such a high level of mercury. And what delightful weather for the opening of the newest segment of the Portland Streetcar – a testament to the Rose City’s commitment to a multi-modal transportation network. But oh, hey, the forecast calls for mountain snow late next week. ‘Right’, I thought, ‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’

Saturday I rubbed Sid Kitty a bit on this, his second-to-last morning then set about reading the latest entertaining missive from a kindred spirit – Alastair Humphreys – the adventurous Brit who’s cycling around the world (www.roundtheworldbybike.com). I crossed paths with Al when he was in Portland last spring and now he’s about to embark on a journey across China after completing a tour of Japan (following a brutal Siberian winter). I hope to cross paths with him again in a little less than a year – perhaps in Tehran if Bush doesn’t decide to bomb the hell out of it by then. It should be noted that a good portion of Alastair’s travelogue through Japan is focused around the horrors of war, paying special attention to the fiery hell wrought upon Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I admire Al’s commitment to idealistic values as he continues to promote peace throughout his five-year journey. Cheers and happy trails my friend…see you next year!

After a mellow morning I was off for a day filled with seven indoor matches on yet another bright, sunny day – four kids’ games down in Tualatin followed by three coed matches later in the evening at Portland Indoor. Things would start rather oddly, however, as neither team would arrive for the 1:10pm kickoff, leaving me to continue pounding my keyboard until the 2pm match. One of the teams had apparently headed south to Medford for the weekend for an outdoor game and contacted their opponent for the indoor game that they wouldn't make it to thie match. However, for whatever reason, they hadn’t bothered to inform management at Tualatin Indoor, leaving me in the unfair position of being present for a match that I would not be compensated for. It’s just a small injustice, but still one that didn’t sit well with me nonetheless.

At Portland Indoor later that evening before the start of my shift I’d chitchat with Jorge – a highly-skilled, pony-tailed, forty-something long-time regular at the facility - who hails from Guadalajara. When I told him about my impending travels he told me that he doesn’t know too many people in Mexico City; “that was my parents’ generation”, he added. When I suggested that Guadalajara is Mexico’s second city, Jorge replied, “you mean LA”. He went on to explain that there are more Mexicans in the City of Angels than there are in his hometown.

He went on to query me about my self-proclaimed ‘Ambassador of Goodwill’ status, wondering if it was an oxymoron for an American to take on such a moniker. I went on to explain that in these troubled times, perhaps more than ever, the world needs to know that not all of us share the warped values of our misguided leader and that having cultural curiosity is a virtue to be explored. Seeing my point, Jorge wished me well on my adventure as we headed out to the pitch for his division I coed game.

My set of three games was an unusually skillful trio of encounters with the other two matches being coed division II affairs. (Remember, the lowest level is Div VI). These upper-division matches are usually fairly easy to control as the players are typically quite well-behaved and respectful of their opponents. All six teams would earn ‘Excellent’ sportsmanship ratings as I cruised through my shift.

The second match included a former coed outdoor teammate of mine who I hadn’t seen in a few years – Alison Adair – who seemingly hasn’t aged one iota since I first met her nearly a decade ago. My final match of the night would feature one of the more spectacular goals I’d ever seen at Portland Indoor - an overhead kick with his back to the goal by a guy with the unusual name of Hercules Silverstein. Playing in goal against Herc (as he’s known) was Meredith Vandenberg – the woman who suggested that I become a referee nearly ten years ago while I was unemployed and playing for the Lucky Lab indoor team. It should be noted that Meredith is the first woman ever to serve as the center referee in an NCAA Women’s Final Four game, a feat she accomplished back in the mid-90s.

It should also be noted that in keeping with my health regimen I have adopted a wholesome diet and sworn off booze for the week preceding my fitness and written exams a week hence. So I came home after work feeling a little light-headed from yesterday’s battery of inoculations and saw on the news that the first wildfire of the season occurred at a tree farm about thirty miles west of town. And remember, it’s only mid-March – typically the wettest time of the year.

Sunday morning I was awoken before 8am by the brilliant sunshine streaming into my bedroom. Stopping downstairs to relieve my bladder I caught a glimpse of Sid lying motionless on his chair with his eyes transfixed on something far, far away. I thought, or maybe hoped, that he had passed away on his own overnight. But then upon further examination I realized he was still barely clinging to life. So I gave him some love – rubbing his head wistfully and raising a tiny bowl of water to his mouth. He was so weak that he could barely lift his head enough to get a drink, but he still purred gently, almost happily as I showed him some tenderness.

Among the many things that my Dad and I would talk about later in the morning was the story he had seen on the news earlier in the day about the vibrant, brilliant colors abounding in what is typically our country’s most arid climate – Death Valley. It served as a bitter irony to the desperately dry winter we’d been experiencing all winter long here in the Pacific Northwest.

And with death weighing heavily on my mind I prepared for my day in the sun – three indoor games followed immediately by three outdoor games just a few miles away. I would spend my final minutes at home stroking my little buddy one final time, fully aware that he would not be there when I arrived home later that evening. Sid would meow softly, thanking me for my love.

Looking at the calendar I would be reminded that today is the fourteenth anniversary of my brother’s tragic death. March 13th will forever be a day associated with sadness and pain…and now with Sid’s passing I am reminded of that awful, dreadful hole in my heart that time has managed to mend somewhat.

But like all sentient beings we too will come to pass. Perhaps this is why saying goodbye to loved ones is so difficult, it reminds us of our own mortality. However, in Sid’s case unlike that of my brother, we can rejoice in the fact that Annie B.’s furry little friend lived a long, happy life (for a cat that is…fifteen years is quite old indeed).

So to you my dear friend Sid, I say goodbye and best wishes to you in the great beyond. Your gentle love will most definitely be missed.

Until next time…

peace,
ac

Goodbye Sid Kitty - Part II (March 12th, 2005)

Tuesday at the Fir, thankfully, was vastly different from the snail’s pace the previous evening. I would sell more at lunch than during dinner Monday night despite being fairly slow at points during the noon hour. Among the day’s highlights, I waited on The Futureheads – a British punk band who were headlining the sold out show later that night down in the lounge. They were a really decent and polite bunch of guys.

Later, I would overhear a woman at one of my tables say to her companions, “Democrats think good will prevail…well y’know what, evil has prevailed.” Within earshot I retorted, “Tell it like it is, Sister”, in full agreement with that sad-but-true sentiment.

Back in the kitchen chit-chatting with mi amigo Hernan, the amiable 31-year old Guatemalan dishwasher, I would learn that people from his country are referred to as either Guatemaltecos or Chapines – a moniker taken by a local Portland amateur footie team.

Towards the end of my lunch shift my former neighbor Heidi – the attractive fifty-ish friend of film director Gus Van Sant - came in with a group of her girlfriends. She would comment on my tan, which I told her comes in part due to my week backcountry skiing in Canada. “Oh”, Heidi commented, “my two friends here live near the Wallowas, in Joseph and Imnaha”. I forlornly explained to them that I have/had a trip planned in a few weeks in the Oregon Alps (as the remote northeast Oregon range is often called), but that I might skip it due to a lack of snow. And as I had expected, the two Wallowa locals know the proprietor of Wing Ridge Ski Tours – Roger Averbeck – who would also be serving as our guide (assuming the trip actually comes off, which I seriously doubt).

As the first half of my day was coming to an end I opened the guest book from a table of three well-put-together middle-aged women who had left me a $10 tip on a $33 check. It was like a sight for sore eyes and I literally thanked God even though my faith in a higher being is not entirely certain. After my lousy night the previous evening it seemed that I would never get another top-shelf tip again. I was glad to be back on the right track.

During my late afternoon break I would call the adorable Jill Connell back in my hometown. She would tell me that my good buddy had named his new baby boy Paul C. Doyle III; no real surprise there I suppose.

Around 5:30pm, as my dinner shift was getting underway, Mike the bartender excitedly yelled out, “Hey everybody, Mt. St. Helens just blew.” (He had just received a call from his girlfriend who works at Portland City Grill atop Portland’s tallest building.) En masse, employees and customers alike ran outside and up the stairwell alongside the northeast facing side of the Jupiter Hotel. From there we had a fantastic view of the massive mushroom cloud rising eight miles high. In the coming days we would learn that the eruption was fairly benign, but perhaps this was a harbinger of greater pyrotechnics to come. It should be noted that a few days earlier while driving north on I-5 I had noticed a thin vertical plume of smoke rising from the mountain’s crater, so this new geothermal activity wasn’t terribly surprising to me.

There would be many more high notes throughout the evening. Prime among those was an eight-top of easygoing heavy drinkin’ (mostly) couples. Their tab alone was almost as much as my entire night's sales the day before – in excess of $300. During their lengthy stay I would meet and greet a couple of my footie colleagues. First, there was Rick Johnston, boys varsity coach out at David Douglas High School who in recent years has also joined the dark side as a referee. He brought his 21-year old daughter in for a couple of drinks and I would stop by and visit periodically as time permitted.

Also on hand Tuesday evening was Franz – a solidly stout character much like myself who plays and works as a manager down at Portland Indoor. I was happy to see ‘my people’ enjoying themselves down at the Fir.

Later, I’d connect with an easygoing younger Indian fellow with his world-traveling female companion who found my Football for Peace Tour to be very intriguing.

And then there was the young deaf couple who I enjoyed helping, but was slightly disappointed when their non-hearing impaired friends showed up. I had hoped to rise to the challenge of meeting their needs through hand gestures and written word, if needed.

Next up was a most bizarre and wonderful occurrence. At the table next to the Indian dude was a gal wearing a pin that said I'Heart'AC (heart symbol, not the word). “Holy shit!”, I yelled when I realized what it said, then verifying the text to make sure I was seeing things properly. Turns out that Susan (the woman’s name) was sitting next to her boyfriend AC. We all shared a good laugh and then she most graciously handed me the pin on her chest, explaining that she had plenty more at home. Now how cool is that?!

Around 10pm, half-an-hour before the late night crew were to arrive, the hostess told me that a party of ten had arrived. Being the glutton for punishment that I am (and having the necessary space in my section) I took them. They were there to celebrate the 21st birthday of one of the guys in the group, which was comprised of an eclectic mix of young and middle aged folks – a few of whom hailed from Italy.

As my night was coming to a close and I pondered all that I needed to do the following day, Miguel – the charming and fastidious diminutive homosexual host – approached me with a look of concern on his face. “AC”, he said, “Michelle called in sick for tomorrow morning and I’ve called everyone. Only you and LB are left.” Before he could say another word I spoke up. “Well, I know LB won’t want to do it, so I might as well.” The consummate team player that I am, I reluctantly stepped up to the plate. Plus, I figured, since I won’t be working for the better part of a year in a few months, I ought to just work as much as possible while I can.

With nothing left to do but wait for the ten-top that included the Italians and Sue and AC’s table to pay up, I spotted the Fir’s sassy booking manager, Alicia Rose. I wanted to put a bug in her ear about my big event on 9/21, the International Day of Peace. She seemed quite receptive to my ideas, including offering up a few of her own as well. I felt more confident than ever that my big fundraiser would take place as planned.

In the end, it would be a very lucrative day as I walked with more than $170 in my pocket for the double, helping to erase the dismal memory of the previous day’s financial failings. Still amped up from my long day though, I sat down at the bar for my customary Black Butte Porter, hoping to run downstairs and catch the end of The Futureheads’ set. But just as my beer arrived, the throng of revelers from the downstairs music venue surged upstairs in a wave of humanity. So, as it turned out, I would not have a chance to catch any live music on this occasion.

Not terribly disappointed, I opened my laptop to get a head start on tomorrow, especially since I’d be working at the Fir instead of on my own personal affairs as I’d originally intended. But I didn’t make much headway, instead striking up a conversation with Simon – the footie lovin’ Aussie to my left. We would commiserate about the dismal snow year up in the Cascades, each of us having bought a season’s pass at Mt. Hood Meadows for the first time in our lives.

Soon, however, the conversation returned back to football and Simon suddenly and excitedly said, “Hey, how about that incredible 4 – 2 win by Chelsea over Barcelona today!” “NOOOoooooo”, I shot back, “I taped that game and was gonna watch it when I got home.” But since I now already knew the outcome, I was curious to know the details. He would tell me of Ronaldinho’s brilliance for Barça at Chelsea’s home park Stamford Bridge after the West London side had taken a commanding 3 – nil lead inside of twenty minutes. It sounded like an incredible game and I was still determined to take it all in, assuming of course that it was the game that had been televised on ESPN2 earlier in the day.

Sure enough, it was in fact that very game that I’d DVR’ed earlier that day; but still, I was compelled to watch the opening minutes of this match, with the notorious Italian Pierluigi Collina blowing the whistle in the middle of the pitch. The goals came quickly as Icelandic international Eidur Gudjonssen would score Chelsea’s first in the 8th minute against the run of play after Barça’s Xavi slipped near midfield to return possession to the home side. Chelsea 1 – Barcelona nil (2 – 2 aggregate with Chelsea in the lead thanks to the ‘away goals’ rule, following their 2 – 1 loss at the Nou Camp during my weeklong adventure to Valhalla). Soon thereafter I called it lights out since I needed to be back at work at 7:30am and it was now close to 2:00.

Wednesday morning, my mother’s birthday, the news would report that the Annual Western Wildfire Conference was getting underway. There was some serious concern that Oregon National Guard soldiers stationed in Iraq would not be at home to help with the dangerous season ahead as record highs were predicted for the fourth consecutive day.

As I raced to get showered and out the door on time, I’d stop into the tv room where Sid Kitty had peed on Anne’s favorite chair overnight, probably too week to make it to the cat box ten feet away. Confused as to why he was banished from the cozy red cushion, he struggled on his hind legs to reach his former bed, but then fell over, his legs atrophied from days of cancer-induced inactivity. It was a truly sad and pathetic sight watching the once proud feline lie helpless on the floor like a geriatric patient at a nursing home. I wished there was some way I could help Anne, but I had to race out the door to make it to work on time.

Things at the restaurant would get underway rather quickly, a steady stream of patrons flowing past the hostess station. Around 9am one of the previous night’s bands with a Germanic (Dutch perhaps?) accent came in for a mostly-healthy breakfast – several of the clan ordering oatmeal or granola. They were off to San Francisco later in the day and on to their next gig.

It should be mentioned that there was a bit of a technical snafu that put me in a downer mood, sort of. The printer in the kitchen wasn’t working and it was causing unnecessary headaches that otherwise wouldn’t have existed. But things were only screwed for about an hour and we’d all quickly get beyond that brief setback.

As soon as the band left a group of five older men came in to celebrate the birthdays of two of them. They would get the royal treatment from me, complete with song for the occasion.

During the noon hour my friend Roy Notowitz would arrive with his wife Beth Alport – an adorably charming couple to be sure. I was pretty busy during their meal and we didn’t get to talk much, but it was great to see them nevertheless.

As per my agreement to cover Michelle’s shift on this day, I did manage to break free for my pre-arranged meeting with Dan Root at 2pm. Dan is the childhood friend of a guy named Jeffrey Weitz who I used to issue building permits to back in my paper-pushing days for the City. When I had told Jeffrey about my Football for Peace Tour he was emphatic that I meet Dan. A kindred spirit of sorts although he’s never played the game, Dan travels the world as a contract photographer for Nike, shooting stills of footie action across the globe.

Each of us was a little unsure what would be achieved from this encounter, but it seemed like connecting could prove to be purposeful. Among other things, I would learn that Dan and I share the same birthday - September 20th - when I told him about my fundraising event at the Fir on the 21st. In addition, Dan’s commitment to undertake a footie-based photographic project about youth around world seemed to mesh wonderfully with my mission. We parted knowing full well that we’d see more of each other in the months ahead.

Minutes before the 3pm floor division staff meeting at the Fir, I’d chat with Annie B.’s former Widmer Brewing colleague/good buddy “Big Daddy” Chad(dy) Carbis. He had recently driven past a massive empty reservoir in the foothills on the west side of the Central Cascades. I’d heard that it’s normally drained this time of year, but typically fills up with spring and summer runoff from snowmelt. This, obviously, will not be occurring this year I’m sad to say. Desperate times are definitely ahead for the rustic resort community down at Detroit Lake.

My conversation with Chad would be interrupted by a call from the birthday girl, my mom. She was calling me back from my message minutes earlier. Our conversation would be put on hold for the time being by the start of the staff meeting, which would occur on yet another gloriously pleasant if not downright warm winter day.

I struggled to stay awake during the series of short presentations by several of my co-workers, then slipped out as usual so I could make it down to Tualatin in time for my 4:40 kickoff. En route, Mom would call back to thank me for my birthday gift – a pair of wacky kitty earrings that I’d bought at Anna Miller’s boutique Cuckoo. She wouldn’t be able to wear them though as anything other than 14-karat gold causes her to have an allergic reaction. “Ah well”, I told her, “it’s the thought that counts.”

Down at Tualatin Indoor I’d discuss the weather with one of the dads/coaches before the third youth game of the day. He, like me, was lamenting the endless stretch of rain-free days. It was “deadly nice”, he told me, genuinely concerned about the viability of the tree farm he’d purchased as a hobby only a couple years earlier. It put my angst of the inability to go skiing into perspective. The drought was becoming all too real.

As my fourth and final game was winding down my Egyptian colleague Ahmed Shams waited his turn to take over. Between matches we’d chat some about my impending travels. He lobbied the case that I should visit Cairo along the way, a place I’d very much like to check out when my journey takes me to Africa next winter.

Back at home Annie B. was in a state of morning as Sid Kitty’s condition had not improved. Tomorrow, Thursday, was sure to be Sid’s last. But Anne still seemed unsure and I tried to help her weigh both sides. When she began questioning me about the final days, hours, and minutes of my beloved Nutty I became emotional, remembering the depth of my loss on Valentine’s Day 1999. We would talk and cry a lot throughout the next hour, very much saddened by Sid Kitty’s impending fate.

Later that evening, finally with an opportunity to watch the rest of the ‘Battle of the Titans’ I lost myself in entertaining footie action – Chelsea still a nose ahead of Barcelona on the away-goals rule in the return leg of their home-and-home series. Within a matter of moments, Chelsea would score their second of the match (in the 17th minute) on a rebound by English midfielder Frank Lampard, thus taking a 3 – 2 lead over Barcelona on aggregate. And just like that, two minutes later, it’s Irishman Damien Duff who received a perfectly weighted through ball before firing it past Victor Valdez from the edge of the box. 3 – nil Chelsea and now 4 – 2 on aggregate after only twenty minutes of play. The English Premier League leaders were completely shredding apart the defense of the Spanish Liga Primera leaders.

Less than ten minutes later Collina would whistle for a seemingly harsh penalty kick for a handball against Chelsea’s Portuguese defender Paulo Ferreira. Upon further inspection, Collina’s call seemed reasonable enough and FIFA’s World Footballer of the Year, Ronaldinho, would sneak in the spot kick just past the outstretched keeper Peter Cech. 3 – 1 Chelsea, 4 – 3 on aggregate as Barça now seemed poised to mount a comeback.

And then ten minutes after that, in the 38th, the tables turn dramatically as Ronaldinho cleverly pokes the ball past Cech from the top of the box after performing a hip-shiver that left his marker transfixed, like a deer staring into the headlights of an oncoming car. Barcelona were back in front now on the away-goals rule…Chelsea 3 – Barca 2, 4 – 4 on aggregate. What a smashingly exciting first half, even if I did know how the game would conclude!

Each team would have more chances before the end of the half, however, there would be no additional scoring before the interval.

In the second half there was more attacking play with Barça nearly scoring on a diving header by the Catalán Puyol off a Ronaldinho corner in the 61st minute. Cech cradled the ball while lying along the goal line with the ball inches from being completely across it.

Barça almost scored again in the 74th, hitting the post. The ball rebounded directly to two-time African Footballer of the Year Samuel Eto’o. The Cameroonian sent it over the crossbar on the empty net rebound and Chelsea clung to life. Just a couple minutes later though it’s the Blues who regained the advantage as John Terry banged the ball in with a powerful header off a Damien Duff corner. Chelsea 4 – 2, with a 5 – 4 lead on aggregate over Barcelona.

I’d watch the remaining quarter-hour of play even though I knew there would be no remaining goals. Chelsea would go on to the Champions League quarterfinal draw following what many are saying was one of the most thrilling matches in recent memory. Hopefully, in just a year from now I too will be at an equally compelling Champions League match somewhere in Europe. I can’t wait!!!

The following morning, Thursday, an arrest warrant would be issued by the presiding judge in Michael Jackson’s sexual misconduct trial as the self-proclaimed ‘King of Pop’ failed to appear in court for his 8am appointment. The media circus surrounding this case was in a frenzy a little more than an hour later when MJ would arrive in his PJs – perhaps a publicity stunt designed to deflect attention away from the real issue, sexual misconduct with a minor, on this, a very key day in the litigation.

While conducting my affairs that morning, I’d receive email confirmation from FIFA that my application for World Cup tickets had been received. It would be another month or two until I would expect to hear from FIFA again.

In another email I would learn that my buddy Paul’s new baby will be nicknamed “Peli”, Latin for happy. At the bottom of Paul’s missive, which contained a few photos of the newborn, the following quote was attached - "The miracle of birth should drown the impetus for war in all men." The thoughtful quote was spontaneously crafted by Peli’s dad.

Soon thereafter I would hand-feed Sid Kitty a little turkey. He seemed to enjoy it, but could barely lift his head enough to sip water from the bowl I held for him. It made me sad to think that today would be his last. But he seemed ready to accept this fate that we all must face someday.

A short while later I would try to pick up his frail body to hold him and give him some love, but came to fully realize his dire situation when he peed on my leg. His perpetually reclining state had apparently put his urinary system into a stasis that gravity had suddenly reawakened. Our furry little fifteen-year old feline friend was surely not long for this world.

A little later I called Jeff at Air Brokers to confirm my travel plans through South America, Mexico, Japan, and Thailand and purchase my $4,000 ticket. Very quickly, the Football for Peace Tour was becoming a reality.

Anne would call around quarter-after-eleven and we’d talk for exactly thirteen minutes while discussing Sid’s health, or lack thereof. The decision to pull the plug on a loved one is extremely difficult, even if it’s just a cat. It makes me cry just to type these words, knowing that Sid will be dead in just a few hours. Saying goodbye is so very hard. This is a big part of the reason why I never got another pet after my ten years with Nutty – THE GREATEST DOG WHO EVER LIVED.

Ironically, minutes later I would hear on the news that fewer people in Oregon were getting prescriptions for drugs to help them end their lives due to terminal illness. Maybe it’s because, as I mentioned above, this is such a tough decision to make.

After my morning with Sid (and Stella and Franken), I reaffirmed my own vitality with another half-hour run to regain my fitness. I picked up my pace during the opening twelve minutes, trying to emulate what will be required of me a week from Saturday. I would sprint (sort of) the final fifty yards back home, again sending my head into an endorphin-induced daze.

Soon thereafter I pedaled a short distance to my neighborhood post office to pick up a package from my dear friend Eleanor in Madrid. I was a little surprised I suppose to open it and find that the contents within were none other than the team scarf of my favorite Spanish side – Catalán giants Barcelona. ‘Surprised’ I say because Eleanor had spent many hours with me watching footie from my loveseat in my cozy space up in Annie B.’s attic and had probably seen that very same scarf dozens of times as it was draped along the top/back of the small sofa. “Oh well”, I thought, “it’s the thought that counts.”

And ironically, those are the very words I had used the previous day when discussing the birthday gift that my mother had received from me. She had called to tell me that she couldn’t wear the funky non-14k gold kitty earrings that I’d bought for her at my friend Anna Miller’s shop Cuckoo because they would cause her to have an allergic reaction.

And adding to the irony, Anna was the first person I saw upon arriving home from the post office. She was in front of my neighbor Jen’s house and I would share the story about my mom with her.

But turning to more pressing concerns, I called to Jen who was in her front doorway. For she apparently had the magic naturopathic know-how to help Sid transition more peacefully from this life to whatever lies beyond. Like a neighborhood Florence Nightingale, Jen called her knowledgeable friend Jeffrey to identify the proper naturopathic medication. Together, we walked across the street to our neighbor Jill’s house to acquire the Arsenicum, which Jen then showed me how to administer to the dying kitty. I would repeat this simple task each half-hour until the vet arrived a couple hours later at 3:30, stroking and loving the venerable feline throughout this time while a couple of Concacaf Champions Cup (North and Central American version of the European Champions League) games aired silently on the other side of the room.

On the radio, around 1:30pm I would learn that a drought emergency had been declared by the newly-elected Governor of Washington, Christine Gregoire. I knew it would only be a matter of time until such measures were taken by the other leaders throughout the northern half of the American west. It’s definitely gonna get ugly out here in the months ahead.

Knowing that Sid’s time was close at hand I caressed his head in the minutes before Annie B. would arrive home from school. But the vet was late and hadn’t called Anne yet as expected and again, Anne got cold feet. When the doc did eventually call, Anne decided to put off the inevitable for a few more days. Sunday would definitely be the day she acknowledged after she got off the phone. She wanted to spend some time with her sickly feline in the days and hours leading up to his last breath. I, having gone through this most unpleasant circumstance before, could only look on and provide support for whatever decision she chose. For I knew how heavily such a decision weighs on one’s mind.

Rest assured, my next post will conclude with the passing of Sid Kitty. That, I am quite certain of.

Until then…

peace,
ac

Goodbye Sid Kitty – Part I (March 10th, 2005)

Saturday down at the Fir was a good one. I’d work my first shift ever with cocktail waitress turned restaurant server, Michelle – a delightfully pleasant small-town girl (from the Tri-Cities in Cenral Washington) with a surprising big-city edge. It was never overwhelmingly busy, but my sales still exceeded a fairly respectable $700 for the day.

The highlight of my shift was greeting fellow referee Roger DeVille – an easygoing fifty-ish local high school administrator who had finally brought his family in to check things out for himself. I’d first told him about my new life at the restaurant back in October right before opening day and he’d been regularly reading all about Portland’s newest Eastside hotspot on my weblog ever since.

Stopping tableside for a quick chat, Roger introduced me to his family then proceeded to compliment me for my entertaining prose. “Really, you enjoy it?!”, I asked excitedly with tinge of surprise. Roger simply replied by saying “Valhalla parts I, II, and III”, implying his diligence with keeping up with my stories.

Oh, it should be noted that the high temp on this Saturday in early March hovered around seventy degrees…and the weather was expected to last for a while.

At some point during my shift, Tod Breslau, the co-owner of the Jupiter Hotel (adjacent to the Doug Fir) excitedly told me that he’d recently joined a local soccer team. He used to play goalie in high school (nearly three decades ago) he told me and he was upbeat about the prospect of stepping between the pipes on the pitch once again. I looked forward to the opportunity to perhaps referee one of his games later in the summer.

When my shift was over I headed over to my colleague Michelle’s apartment nearby for a little pre-birthday celebration celebrating. And soon thereafter I traveled the four blocks over to Portland Indoor for a set of three coed matches. But on my way to my car I was disturbed to read the headline of the newspaper in the kiosk about how our military had accidentally killed an Italian peacekeeper who had negotiated the release of female journalist Giuliana Sgrena from her captors in Iraq. She believed she had possibly been targeted by US troops, according to the BBC. More likely, however, this is yet another example of battlefield miscommunication; but regardless, it’s a terrible tragedy nonetheless.

At Portland Indoor that evening there were a variety of entertaining occurrences during my three matches. There was a wicked funny moment as graying Vasily schooled the highly-skilled Craig, eliciting hearty laughter from a couple of players gearing up for the following match. Playing in a division he didn’t really belong (coed division SIX…the very lowest), I jokingly told Craig that he sucked when he sent an errant pass out of the field of play. Minutes later – perhaps still feeling the sting of my not so subtle sarcasm – Craig would shoot a hard, low knuckler from a kickoff to embarrassingly beat the immobile, aged keeper seventy feet away.

Before the start of the second match I’d get more compliments from Kevin (?), a friendly guy who decided to check out my writings and found that he liked them. In his match, a powerful shot would glance off his teammate’s head and into the rafters – something that occurs many times each game. On this occasion, however, a huge splinter about six inches long and one inch wide came loose and fell onto the pitch. Decades-old dust is quite typically sent raining down on the field at such times, but this, however, was the largest piece of the building’s structure I’d ever seen break free. This seemed like a noteworthy event to be sure.

My third game of the night included a bunch of folks who had suffered mightily at the hands of a new referee when I was away the previous week. It felt good to be loved as they related to me the scope and breadth of their dissatisfaction from their game a week earlier. And when this night's game was over I’d sit down and have a couple beers with the friendly folks from Evolution. They complimented me saying that having me as their official, “it’s like you’re not even there.”; a testament to my ability to manage with a hands-off approach.

Following the post-game brews I eventually excused myself, planning to connect with Annalisa and her gang of merry pranksters just a few blocks away at the Holocene. It was a full shakedown as Tim, La Brie, and the rest of AL’s crew kept up a high intensity, completely enjoying the techno tempos.

In need of a breather though, I headed down the street to Chopsticks where Michelle’s birthday party was breaking up and the birthday girl was out the door no sooner than I’d arrived. So I went straight back to Holocene for some more boogeying. And during the brief time that I was there I agreed to spend this coming Labor Day weekend at Burning Man where among other things, they apparently play soccer there on the floor of the windswept Black Rock Desert.

The next morning, Sunday, I’d head downstairs to find Anne’s little sister Kate cuddling with Sid Kitty. She'd come down from Seattle to say goodbye to her old friend. She would put the question to me “should we do it?”, referring to whether or not to put the venerable feline to sleep two days hence. He was heading downhill fast, but thankfully this wasn’t my call to make and I could only provide support and advice regardless of what Anne decided.

Following this relatively somber start to my day I was off to work three outdoor ‘winter league’ games on another record-warm day. As the previous match came to an end I struck up a conversation with its referee, Argentine Juan Barone – one of Oregon’s top soccer officials (as well as being a super-nice guy). We chatted a bit about his homeland and my impending travels. Juan would provide me with some useful advice that I intend to incorporate into my itinerary. I subsequently decided to travel overland from Montevideo, Uruguay to Santiago, Chile. The ferry from Montevideo to Buenos Aires across the River Plate is sure to be an experience I’ll enjoy. And Juan’s suggestion that I visit the mountainside city of Córdoba in central Argentina seemed to be a pleasant alternative to the hot and sticky confines of the über-urban Argentine capital.

I would cruise through my match in the middle before working the lines in the following two games. Before the second match got underway I’d have a chat with my friend and former teammate Kevin Richards who plays for the Old Lompoc Galacticos, a local pub team. He and a bunch of his mates are planning to play in an Over 30 international tournament to be played concurrently with the World Cup next year in Germany. Hoping to maybe kick the ball around with Kevin’s team in Europe, I confirmed that I am more than welcome to join their squad. That will probably be the next opportunity I have to play any competitive ball and I very much look forward to having this be a part of my global journey.

Before Old Lompoc’s kickoff commenced I had a conversation with one of my colleagues, the graying yet spry State Referee Pat Duffy. Pat, the personification of professionalism would inform me that only 3% of Oregon referees rise to the level of State, which I very much hope to soon become.

The final match of the day would feature Kells, an Irish restaurant that Annie B. managed for several years in the mid-90s. Gerard (pronounced Jared) McAleese, owner of Kells, was fresh off a week of partying at the Bellagio in Vegas where his establishment had been recognized as one of the top Irish bars in America. On the pitch for the club that bears his business’ name, Gerard would go on to set up the first goal in addition to scoring the third, a demoralizing breakaway for their opponents after he had dispossessed the sweeper near midfield. The older, more wily Kells boys would go on to beat the younger, but less disciplined FC Hut squad (another pub team) 3 – nil.

At the end of the day, as I looked at my dusty, dirty car, I recognized that my decision not to clean it is a form of protest of sorts against the unreal weather we’d been experiencing. As I was thinking about this, the goalie from Kells jokingly said to me, “Hey, there’s no water shortage yet.” ‘Yeah, right’ I thought, ‘not yet’. I forlornly told him of my devotion to alpine pursuits as he looked smilingly at the shiny set of golf clubs in his trunk. The lack of rain didn’t seem to bother him one iota.

Later that afternoon, in speaking with my delightful hometown friend Jill Connell, I would learn of my old buddy Paul Doyle’s new baby boy. We speculated that the newborn would soon take his father’s and his grandfather’s name, thus becoming Paul C. Doyle III. Welcome to the world little buddy.

With some well-needed down time after a busy weekend, I sat down that evening to watch some footie on the tube. English Premier League leaders Chelsea would concede their first league goal in more than SEVENTEEN HOURS of play. It’s an incredible streak, in large part due to the acrobatics of their Czech keeper Peter Cech. Despite Chelski’s defensive lapse, the fashionable West London side would cruise to a comfortable 3 – 1 victory over relegation-threatened Norwich City.

While watching a French Ligue 1 match a little later I would learn from my friend Paige that she and my Mom share a birthday (March 9th). This conversation occurred as heavy snow fell on the pitch with Marseille down a goal away at St. Etienne. Oh, how I wished for some snow on our dry, barren mountaintops here in the Pacific Northwest.

It would prove to be a very productive Sunday evening for me as I dialed in my travel plans through the end of the year before sitting down to watch “Control Room”, the graphically explicit portrayal of the American invasion of Baghdad as seen through the Arab community’s most popular media outlet, Al Jazeera. I’d been wanting to see this controversial film since it had been released last year and went to sleep with disturbing images of maimed, burned, and blown apart human beings in my head – the horrors of war that our antiseptic media is so loathe to present to a populace that is more than happy shell out millions of dollars each year on staged acts of ultra-violence on the silver screen.

Monday morning I would awaken to another glorious day – a record high of 69 was predicted with even higher temps in the days to follow. I was beginning to find the endless sunshine sickening as our rainy season quickly slips away.

Jeff would call from AirBrokers.com to re-work the changes I had in mind, in particular allowing me to travel overland through Argentina across the Andes to Chile and then also to do the same along the Inca Trail from Cuzco, Peru to La Paz, Bolivia. I trusted that Jeff would ably work his magic.

Listening to one of Al Franken’s environmentally-conscious guests – a tree-planting advocte – I was struck by her profound statement that the image of a newly planted sapling is a very real symbol of hope. This woman’s words resonated with me as I typed about the demise of Easter Island’s populace for my previous post.

At the midday hour I went for a thirty minute run to begin my new fitness regimen in advance of my upcoming exam to become a State Referee. It went quite well, in large part, I believe, due to my recent exertions in the backcountry up in Whitewater, B.C. When I arrived home I was so hopped up on endorphins that my head was spinning. There something quite exhilarating and satisfying about this natural high.

Back at home I continued to coordinate my upcoming global travels. First I’d contact my Pop who would be meeting me and the rest of his side of my family in Cincinnati in October for my cousin Glenn’s son Alec’s Bar Mitzvah immediately preceding the South American leg of my journey. And I called Blake to coordinate our late-December rendezvous in Bangkok. The pieces of the puzzle continue to fall in to place.

I’d only work dinner on this particular Monday (having lost one of my five shifts as a result of my recent vacation because several of my colleagues were also out of town, thus forcing my boss to hire a few new people.) It would be by far my worst shift at the Fir in my five months there. I’d walk with a paltry $22.50 after two of my biggest tables of the night each left me lousy tips. Both were on corporate expense accounts which made me even more incredulous. The first was a group of three thirty-ish technical consultants who spend a lot of time here in the Rose City. When they asked me for advice about upcoming shows at the Fir I plead ignorance, but offered up the super-sexy, bleached-blonde, 50s-style food-runner Kara (who was wearing a pair of crazy tight brown shorts). Kara reluctantly did my bidding for me and spent several minutes sharing here musical wisdom with them. And despite that astounding effort at customer service, the dork who paid the bill left a miserly seven bucks on a $55 check. Very lame!

The other fiscal transgressor was a very attractive female British Nike executive who picked up the $63.50 tab for she and her two male colleagues, one of whom was also British and graciously said “Cheers” every time I brought him something. The blonde beauty left me a very weak $6.50 despite being clearly pleased with my service. It irks me that an international business exec would lack the cultural acumen to know that 10% is simply not acceptable when dining out in the United States.

Needless to say, this final slap in the face only served to punctuate what a truly dreadful night it had been. With the restaurant virtually empty, I clocked out before 9pm.

Upon arriving home I would learn that tomorrow – Tuesday – would not be Sid Kitty’s last day. Still, I knew his end was near. Conversely, I was happy to learn that my soccer ref colleague’s surgery to remove a uterine tumor had gone well. Deana, it seemed, would live to see another day as Agatha (the name she’d given to her cancerous growth) had been successfully evicted. Godspeed to you Deana as you return to health.

(to be continued)

Back to Reality (March 7th, 2005)

Upon arriving home, the neighborhood ‘girls’ were on the porch enjoying a few cold ones. It was a pleasantly mild late-afternoon just before sunset and it was nice to come back to my happy little community. All was not well, however. It had been a rough week at Grant High for Annie B. One of the kids on the basketball team had died the previous Thursday during the last league game of the season. He was on the bench at the time (having recently been subbed out) and had a lifelong history of heart trouble. I wondered what would come of the doctor who’d given the deceased the green light to play on the team.

And what of Sid Kitty? Had he lasted through week? 'I didn’t see him around the house', I thought as I sat down to watch a replay of Manchester United’s 2 – 1 victory over Portsmouth in the 5th Round of the FA Cup. The young pitbull, Wayne Rooney, would score both of United’s goals.

Next up, I’d watch a mid-week match (also a replay) between United and Rooney’s former club Everton. The England prodigy didn’t manage to score in this affair, however, United would cruise on to a 2 – nil victory that I barely glanced at as I multi-tasked my way back to reality. This, as I tred to get my life back together back home before heading out for a night of merriment.

But then one final FA Cup match to catch up on – a game that I knew Newcastle had surprisingly won over English Premiership League leaders Cheslea thanks to Keith’s reportage from the pages of the Vancouver, BC paper that he’d picked up on our ride home. I didn’t know the specifics, but Patrick Kluivert’s cracking top-shelf header early in the match was a harbinger of things to come. That would be the only goal of the first half…and then I headed out.

The super-sexy Anna Miller had called me the day before to invite me to a fashion show she was involved with at a new boutique just down the street from her shop Cuckoo on the burgeoning N. Mississippi commercial district. As expected, it was a typically eclectic affair with an interesting cross-section of Portland’s artsy-hipsters.

While sipping my beer and waiting for things to get underway, I struck up a conversation with the guy to my left. The edgy-lookin’, fifty-ish Portlander with a hint of a British accent and I recognized one another from a brief and comically memorable interaction we’d had at the Fir a couple weeks previous. We laughed a little, remembering that day, then got to know each other a bit.

Dave, it turns out, is in a well-known (not by me apparently) post-punk band called Gang of Four. My Brooklyn-born redhead friend Eileen was beside herself upon learning this information. I was completely ignorant with regard to his fame or his music, but as irony so frequently tends to slip into my life, I would receive an email the following day from Ticketmaster offering up tickets to their band’s show on 05/05/05. Sounds like it could be a pretty cosmic show.

As a sidenote, and not all too terribly surprising, upon telling Dave of my footie-focused universe he asked me if I know the infamous Matthew Moss. Naturally, of course, I do. Much like myself, Mossy knows everyone here in the Rose City; not to mention the fact that we used to play footie together on the Green Room (Irish pub formerly owned by our Dubliner friend Declan O’Connor) team.

Oh, by the way, the fashion show was quite a scandalous affair as the models – while not stripping all the way down to their birthday suits – did in fact change outfits en masse in front of the closely massed crowd. The treasure chest of oddly assorted garments was front and center for everyone to focus their attention on throughout the proceedings.

But after the show had ended, the crowd quickly filtered out. Annie B. and the girls (and a few neighborhood boys too) headed down the street to the nearby Crow Bar, but I had another, more entertaining (and less smoky) agenda in mind. A couple of my former Thai Noon colleagues had coordinated an event call Incognito. As you might have guessed, costumes were encouraged, although I didn’t see too many.

Everyone was lookin’ good, however, and I was happy to run into a couple of other former co-workers – the very pleasant Megan and the man pouring the drinks on this occasion, Colin II. (II because when he started working at Thai Noon there was already a Colin on the staff.) It was a cool scene at the Scarlet Ballroom on NE Dekum – just a mile or so north of my house. I’d kept a fairly low profile for a while, watching the entertainment unfold in front of me. But when my friends Nizar, Melissa, and Amy showed up I eventually got things moving. It would end up being a pretty late night upon my return to the Rose City.

The next morning, Sunday, I awoke at 9:30 to the sound of my phone, but chose to ignore it, assuming that it was my father. It was a little early for his regular weekly call and I wasn’t capable of engaging in a meaningful conversation, so I just planned to call him back when I was awake.

Within an hour, I was watching Palermo’s 2 – nil victory over Roma. But somewhere during the match I checked my phone and saw that it wasn’t my Dad who had called, it was the Doug Fir. ‘What could they have wanted?’, I wondered. 'Did they need me to cover somebody else’s shift? Or, perhaps, was I actually scheduled to work? ‘Cuz if so, my day was booked, primarily with my duties as a soccer official.' In any event, I opted not to call the Fir back because, either way, there was nothing I could do to help them.

My first match of the day wasn’t as a referee, but as a mentor/supporter/friend for perhaps my oldest friend in the world – Sue Fletcher – who lived a block away from me growing up in Delmar, NY. We splashed and played together at the same neighborhood pool as kids and now we both live in the same community 3,000 miles from where we grew up.

She had left me a message while I was in Canada letting me know that I’d inspired her to get back on the pitch and asking me to give her some tips and advice on how to play at Portland Indoor Soccer. This would be Sue’s first competitive soccer match in nearly two decades – since playing on the varsity team in high school. And I wanted to be there to support my childhood friend.

After sitting down with her and going over the rules, strategy, etc. for about fifteen minutes it was game time. As we made our way towards the team benches, several of the Brits who’d just finished playing – a couple of whom are former teammates of mine (Adam and Jimmy in particular) – greeted me as we passed.

Soon after Sue’s game got underway her husband Tim (also an old high school friend of mine) and their little boy Jackson showed up to cheer Sue on. She seemed to have some muscle memory and innate awareness as she raced around the field and I wished her well before racing off to referee a few outdoor games on yes, a fantastically gorgeous and pleasantly mild winter day.

Walking from the parking lot to the field I connected with one of the most prolific strikers in the Men’s Over 50 league, an amiable, soft-spoken, stocky fellow named Sergey. I had guessed that Sergey was Ukrainian, but in fact he hails from the beautifully historic city of St. Petersburg in northwestern Russia. Sergey boasted of his homeland, but lamented the disrepair of this once proud city that the Communists had neglected for so long. Still hopeful, however, Sergey acknowledged that St. Petersburg was on the upswing again since the demise of the Soviet Union more than fifteen years ago.

All the games that afternoon would go quite swimmingly and then I was off to Freddy’s (grocery store) to pick up a few things. On the way in I’d cross paths with another former teammate, Marty – a super-nice guy who still plays on one of Portland’s top amateur teams. We talked about his team’s promotion to the Premier division as well as my own impending promotion to loftier heights amongst refereeing circles. Soon thereafter, we went our separate ways.

Early in the evening, after checking my messages and learning that I was in fact scheduled to have worked that morning at the Fir, I called my awesome boss Jana to plead my innocence. Before I even had the chance to worm my way out of any culpability, Jana accepted the blame. “Sorry”, she told me, “I don’t know what I was thinking putting you on the schedule on a Sunday.” After all, I pride myself for being the quintessence of reliability and I didn’t want anyone to think I’d shirked my responsibilities.

My first day back at the Fir – my regular Monday double – was pretty lame overall (from a financial standpoint that is). It was pretty slow and my total sales for nearly a dozen hours on the clock were a shade over $800 – less than what I might sell on a decent dinner shift alone. The highlight of my day was waiting on my wacky neighbors Jen Lyons & Aaron Brown.

But even this bit of joy was tempered somewhat by the ever-increasing throbbing in my right big toe. The oozing wound on the top of my toe where it meets my foot had been created by the week-long punishment up in B.C. It was slowly healing, and the long day on my feet had only served to exacerbate the otherwise mild discomfort.

Towards the end of my long shift, a group of (mostly) heavily made-up youngish women seated themselves in my section. Their birthday celebration quickly grew from two to six to ten and then to fifteen or more people. For the most part, they weren’t too difficult to deal with, but they certainly weren’t my favorite customers either. And as I do with all large parties of six or more, I intended to add in the obligatory 20% gratuity, which would have been explained to them had they allowed a hostess to properly seat them at a table.

I became a little annoyed at one particularly foxy bee-ahtch who kept going up to the bar to get some random poor sap to buy her drinks. It irritated me on a couple of counts, 1) because she was seated at my table and she should've been ordering drinks from me, and 2) because this type of bumble-headed blonde cocktease really offends my Y-chromosome sensibilities.

So when it came time for the bill, which somehow eventually exceeded $150 for the group of a dozen or more, it was this cheesy chick who had the audacity to give me shit about the 20% grat I’d added in. “But we’re not one large group”, she pleaded ridiculously, “we’re a bunch of little groups.” Not budging an inch, and not at all impressed by her thick make-up and fake boobs, I shot back, “No, sorry, but you ARE one large group.” And really, there was no denying it as she stammered some unintelligible thought that I ignored, walking away leaving them to figure out the bill for themselves. And nearly half-an-hour later, after performing complex algebraic formulae and rigorously working with an abacus, the pleasant-ish blondie (different gal than before) who I’d designated to be in charge of the bill had finally acquired the required amount of money. Soon thereafter, I’d head out the door, not sticking around or stopping off anywhere for a nightcap.

Tuesday started out like Monday, but things would soon pick up. I waited on a friendly, youngish dude named Ryan who was wearing a Kamloops (B.C.) Sports Dome t-shirt with the image of a soccer ball on it. There was also Sebastien from Lille, France who is in Portland working for a local hospital. I was as surprised to learn of his complete disinterest in football as he was to learn of my fanaticism.

Towards the end of the lunch, with everything well under control, my GM Todd approached me and quietly asked me to step out back for a quick chat. ‘Hmmmm’, I wondered, ‘what could I have possibly done to raise his ire?’ Well, it turns out that Todd didn’t have discipline on his mind, but rather, its more light-hearted cousin positive reinforcement. He wanted to thank me and my co-worker Claire for doing an excellent job pre-bussing all of our tables. This, after all, is one of Todd’s pet-peeves, so I was happy that his walkthrough went smoothly on this particular Tuesday afternoon.

My dinner shift went quite smoothly that evening as I’d sell a shade under $1,000 for the evening. I waited on a really cool five-top who easily rapped with me about the dismal ski season as well as a number of other topics. We connected as though we were old friends and they added to the positive vibes of an already-smooth dinner shift.

Local rockers Nordic, who I’d waited on for lunch a few weeks earlier, showed up and ate dinner at the north bar before their gig downstairs in the lounge. They would encourage me to come downstairs to check out their lush Scandinavian stylings if I got the chance. Their show would begin before my shift would end, but I promised them that I’d poke my head down there for a couple minutes.

Taking a cruise through the south bar (not to be confused with the downstairs lounge) shortly thereafter, I stumbled upon a familiar face from Portland Indoor. The sharp-dressed guy who plays on one of the mid-level coed teams introduced himself as Rob. Like music to my ears, Rob would sing my praises as one of his team’s most-favored match officials.

As the night would wind down I’d realize that I hadn’t noticed my foot hurting so badly. I was glad that things seemed to be on the mend.

And then shortly before getting off work, my friend Melissa would show up. She was waiting for Nizar to arrive for the free show and then they’d head downstairs to catch the musical entertainment.

Eventually, in fact moments after clocking out (not an hour as required by Doug Fir edict), I joined them as well. Nordic had already finished playing, but I’d had a brief chance to enjoy their sounds briefly just before dealing with my day’s finances. West Indian Girl was up next, and they’d also eaten up in the restaurant before their show. Their exotic ethnic-looking (West Indian, perhaps?) singer added a sultry verve to their edgy rhythms. I was pleasantly surprised by their sound and would later compliment 'the exotic one' whilst sitting back upstairs in the south bar eating my favorite dish – the Joe’s Special. She demurely thanked me for my kind words then went off to enjoy the rest of her night with her bandmates.

On Wednesday I would be awoken ridiculously early by Eric “The King of Refs” Beck. I’d ignore this call, but when he called again less than an hour later, I figured I’d better see what he wanted. As usual, he had a lot on his mind and he’d prattle on relentlessly for the better part of an hour. When he was eventually out of breath I finally broke free from this potentially interminable diatribe.

Kicking back to watch a few footie matches, I’d learn from the radio that Portland Trailblazers Head Coach Maurice Cheeks had finally been relieved of his duties. I like Mo’s laid-back style, but this group of overpaid overgrown adolescents needs a stricter disciplinarian to get them to return to their former glory.

With Franken in my ear and footie on the tube I was quite productive before heading out in the afternoon for my games down in Tualatin. Italian Serie A leaders Juventus crushed Siena 3 – nil and Nottingham Forest were dismantled at home by Tottenham in the 6th round of the FA Cup with a similar scoreline while simultaneously, Real Madrid faced Real Betis of Sevilla in a Liga Primera match, winning handily, 3 – 1.

That evening as my shift down in Tualatin was winding down, the referee to take over after me showed up. I’d never seen him before and we’d chat a bit after my game ended. Ion is his name, but for the purposes of linguistically-challenged Americans, he just goes by John. My new acquaintance originally hails from Romania I would learn, but before I could play ’20 Questions’ it was time for his game to start.

I would be remiss if I forgot to mention the biggest international news story of the week, the resignation of Lebanon’s Damascus-backed government. This, probably fallout from the recent assassination of the former Lebanese Prime Minister, possibly at the hands of Syrian extremists.

I’d get home before Annie B., who was out surprisingly late on a school night. When she did at last return a little before ten I could tell it hadn’t been a good day. The grim pall of death was on her mind. First she told me that Sid Kitty would be put down the following Tuesday, six days hence. She seemed a little unsure still, but Sid’s days are definitely numbered. He had been going downhill fast as of late and her decision was borne of pragmatism.

Next, Anne would tell me that she’d been at Grant High’s (where she teaches) playoff basketball game at perennial powerhouse Jesuit High School in Beaverton. This would be Grant’s first game since team member Eddie Barnett had died during a game less than a week earlier. It was obviously an emotional affair – a packed gymnasium that included a pregame ceremony in memory of the fallen youth. And “just like an after-school special” as Anne would put it, Grant got crushed by the well-financed private parochial institution.

Anne’s final bit of melancholy news was that she’d seen a doctor about her persistent ear condition. Apparently, it turns out, she has a benign tumor that might require some surgery. Looking for reassurance that she’d be alright I tried to sound as encouraging as possible even though I really had no idea.

My day would end with more bad news, although not quite on the same scale as the issues in which Anne had been mired. KGW meteorologist and fellow backcountry ski enthusiast Matt Zaffino would report that we’d likely be seeing record high temps as the weekend came to a close. And with that, I’d officially given up on winter in Oregon. It simply would not happen this year and I was assured that a long, dry summer was in the offing along with the attendant scourge of rampant wildfires. Even Zaffino couldn’t hide his obvious disdain with the ceaselessly tiresome stretch of warm and pleasant days – his ever-present faux cheer all but completely absent.

Thursday morning I’d give Sid a little rubdown to start the day. I wanted to give him some love in what short time he had left.

And then it was time for business – first making an appointment to visit the local traveler’s clinic and then contacting AirBrokers.com to discuss my global travel plans. Jeff was EXTREMELY helpful in tailoring an itinerary that matched my whimsical desires.

In the early afternoon I’d receive an extremely disturbing email from an old college buddy, Grant Braddish, who lives the American dream in Vermont with his gorgeous wife Jill and two beautiful little girls. Grant shares the same left-leaning, progressive political perspective as me and I appreciated his impassioned attempt to pound some sense into the sheep among us who still support the misguided Bush foreign policy agenda. He (Grant) had sent out an article called “The Crazies” by Ray McGovern – a former CIA analyst who served his country for 27 years -- from the administration of John F. Kennedy to that of George H. W. Bush. During the early 1980s he was one of the writers/editors of the President's Daily Brief and briefed it one-on-one to the president's most-senior advisers.

McGovern has dubbed the NeoCons like Cheney, Rumsfeld, and Wolfowitz as ‘the Crazies’ for their dangerously misguided, yet ambitious foreign policy agenda. If this military insider’s prediction is right, things are gonna get even uglier as Bush has his weapons of mass destruction trained on Iraq’s neighbors to the east, Iran. God help us all if Bush continues his ill-advised crusade against the Muslim world.

Later, cruising downtown on my bike on yet another spectacularly stunning and mild mid-winter day I farcically pondered, ‘Maybe Dubya’s right’. Perhaps we should just learn to embrace global warming as an opportunity rather than a threat. Right…and maybe we should also try to convert the whole Muslim world over to the American version of democracy – a fundamentalist Christian theocracy. Hmmm…on second thought, maybe not.

Over at Bishop’s on NW 21st I took note of the sexy photos of Arsenal’s Swedish midfielder Freddy Ljungberg that were pasted to the wall in front of the chair where my hair was being cut by the sassy gay stylist. I was impressed that he, Will, knew of Freddy for his footballing prowess and that modeling is only a side-pursuit for the Scandinavian superstar. Kudos to you my Euro-savvy friend.

On the way down to Tualatin Indoor I’d listen to my favorite NPR program – ‘The World’. Alarm bells would go off inside my head when a virologist warned of the growing bird flu pandemic. I couldn’t help but wonder how this might affect my global travels.

The highlight of my shift was an 11 – 8 thriller in my third of four youth games that evening. When it was over I headed to my friend Jane’s for a particularly smoky, low-key affair that didn’t manage to maintain my interest. So, not feeling particularly “well”, I ducked out with Nizar and his friend/my former colleague (and friend, sort of) Paul Van Orden – the City of Portland’s Noise Control Officer who ironically used to play in a punk band on the East Coast in the early 90s.

The three of us bolted to a nearby haunt called Yur’s where we stayed for only one beer. The hyper-enthusiastic Van Orden would lobby me heavily to join him and Slim (Nizar) at next August’s Burning Man Festival in Nevada’s Black Rock Desert. For a change, I actually considered going to this highly touted weeklong affair seeing as that’ll be good timing for me.

Nizar soon called it a night, but Paul and I would cruise down to the Tube, an aptly named über-hipster hotspot crawling with Portland’s tattooed and pierced crowd. Paul seemed to be on a mission to connect with some lovely women, acknowledging that his trusty hi-end digital camera is often utilized for the purpose of photographing nude shots of some of Portland’s most notorious online strippers, the Suicide Girls.

Just as we were about to take off after a drink and a bite to eat, Paul told me that he’d met a woman while waiting to use the bathroom and the two of them were heading around the corner to Berbati’s to go dancing. ‘Did I want to join them?’, Paul inquired. But feeling like I’d had enough for the night I declined, leaving my friend with his camera and his potentially new subject.

Back at home I’d watch that day’s “Daily Show with Jon Stewart” for a good dose of laughter before heading to bed. In their standard faux-interview format, Rob Korddry queried a blogger about some subject that escapes me now. But what I found particularly humorous about this was when the ultra-sarcastic Korddry thanked the blogger for wearing pants for the interview. I had to laugh as I so often do my best work in nothing more than my underwear…including right now for example.

The big news Friday morning was that media maven Martha Stewart had been released from prison and is now serving five months of house arrest. Her main complaint throughout the unlikely ordeal was the constant buzz of helicopters, inhibiting her ability to sleep peacefully.

In footie news, UEFA – the Union of European Football Associations – has warned that it could exclude clubs from their competitions if their fans are found guilty of racist behavior. Several Spanish clubs have already been fined this season, with Deportivo La Coruna the latest after Real Madrid's Roberto Carlos was racially abused last week. "There is no limit to the actions that we will take," said UEFA spokesman William Gaillard. "We are ready to exclude a team from our UEFA run competitions if we have repeat offenders." And I must applaud Europe’s governing body of football for taking such a bold stand on this scourge against humanity.

My Friday morning would be a busy one. I finally connected with Bristol Baughan again down at Reason Pictures in LA. As I’d anticipated, the movie deal was too good to be true. The footie film’s director Michael Apted had shot down many of Reason’s ideas, apparently, and Bristol told me not to take it personally, which I assured I did not. After all, I already knew that I might make for some reasonably high quality entertainment, but how was Apted to know this without meeting me.

Bristol continued by telling me that they’ll likely be following around American superstar Landon Donovan as he helps to lead the US Men’s team to the World Cup Finals in Germany next year. I had to laugh, realizing what I was up against. “I guess that makes some sense”, I laughingly told her. But still, I knew that my celluloid services were not to be ignored, and promised to visit Reason Pictures in October in the hopes of perhaps providing them some footage for their documentary. I simply will not be deterred.

While watching Sky Sports News soon thereafter, I would learn that FIFA Coach of the 20th-century, Rinus Michels – the architect of the Dutch “total football” system with Ajax of Amsterdam throughout the late 60s – died at age 77. With Holland’s #14 – the great Johan Cruyff – running the show on the pitch, Michels’ revolutionary style of play led to the creation of Holland’s nickname “Clockwork Orange” throughout the 70s as the Dutch operated elegantly, like a well-engineered Swiss watch.

Next, I’d call my boy, the super-helpful Jeff at Air Brokers, to further discuss air travel throughout South America and eastern Asia. Knocking New Zealand and Australia out of the itinerary quickly saved me a couple thousand dollars. There would be more editing to do in the days ahead.

By 11am I was down at Portland Indoor Soccer, not to referee, but rather, to kick it around for noon play. The Fir’s affable bar manager, Mississippi-native Chris Cooley, had told me what a good time he’d had down there the previous Friday, providing the impetus for me on this day. Cooley wouldn’t be coming down, however, saddled with inventory down at the Fir. But his childhood pal Lamont – yes, “like on ‘Sanford and Son’”, he acknowledged – did, and served as one of my defenders while I struggled to protect our goal.

One of ‘noon play’s’ only regular females – an eclectic, enigmatic mom of a fourteen-year old – Candace, told me she would be heading to Easter Island two days hence. She was going, she told me, to conduct some environmental research to study the reasons behind the demise of civilization there. The foolish islanders had apparently rendered themselves extinct by cutting down every single tree to the very last, thus destroying the raw material required to provide them the means for transport away from their barren landscape. Hmmm…maybe there’s a lesson to be learned from this. I wonder…

Towards the end of the pick-up soccer match I sat on the bench next to Igor, a likeable sturdy Russian with a powerful shot. Curious to learn more about this American emigrant, Igor would tell me that he comes from a city in the Far East of his country called Kharbovsk. It’s about the size of Seattle he told me. The thought of living through a Siberian winter made me shudder. Maybe that’s part of the reason he ended up in perpetually pleasant Portland.

Stopping by the Fir for lunch I’d learn that “the wicked witch” was dead. Who am I referring to? The much-reviled evening kitchen lead, Rick, had finally been relieved of his duties due to an inability to amend his surly demeanor. His toxic aura had at long last done him in and not a single tear had been shed by any of my colleagues.

Back at home that afternoon, chillin’ before my set of four matches at Portland Indoor, Anne came home from school a little worried about the benign tumor in her ear. Needless to say she was feeling quite melancholy about this, Sid’s impending departure from this world, and also the continuing fallout from the Grant High basketball player who had died during a game. I multi-tasked as she debriefed me on her lousy week, keeping an eye on the tele. Futbol Mundial was featuring an amateur Finnish soccer game played on a field of snow. ‘Oh, how I longed for some mountain snow’, I thought.

My matches that night at Portland Indoor went completely smoothly with all eight teams earning ‘Excellent’ sportsmanship ratings. (Referees are required to rate the coed teams with respect to fair play – excellent, good, fair, and poor). I would hear more about how much I’d been missed the previous Saturday when some newbie ref destroyed the games that I usually work. It made me feel good that they were so happy to see me.

Between a couple of the games I’d stop into the office to chat with Ken (the manager) for a second. Surfing the net he’d tell me that he’d just read that in the corporate workplace bloggers tend to get fired more prevalently than their non-blogging counterparts. This, I must say, did not come as a surprise to me, knowing full well the power of the pen.

When my work on the pitch was complete I headed back over to the Fir to see and hear one of Portland’s most beloved local musical acts – a surprisingly powerful two-man (drums and guitar) act called Helio Sequence. On the way in I’d run into my friend Zach who was with his roommate Steve and a couple of lovely women – Laura from Chicago and Jen from Webster (suburb of Rochester, NY), the latter of whom I really connected with perhaps in part due to our Upstate New York roots and sensibilities.

Kristin and Ryan – one of my favorite footie playin’ couples from Portland Indoor – were also there enjoying the sonic wave produced by the two Beaverton natives. And for that matter everybody seemed to be having a good time. It was a quintessentially perfect Portland evening.

Yes, I was fully back in the swing of life in the Rose City…the place where I am happiest of all. I looked forward to the months ahead here in advance of my journeys abroad. With winter all but gone (or never really here) it’s almost springtime and soon thereafter the Football for Peace Tour will commence.

So until next time…

peace,
ac

Valhalla III - (March 2nd, 2005)

Getting back to the cozy confines of the Alpine Hotel (www.alpine-motel.com) after our second and final day of cat-skiing, we met our next door neighbor Olivier in room fifteen. He is a Frenchman living in Calgary, working as a Principal for one of only four French-language schools in Canada. He was an interesting character, traveling with a half-dozen family members and friends and seemingly willing to talk endlessly. Needing to sort out my gear and clean up before dinner, I eventually excused myself from this verbose vacationer.

The Canadian news would continue to warn of the coming apocalypse in light of the demise of the entire NHL season. I’d had enough of the national media’s non-stop mourning. At least they still had the National Curling Championships to look forward to.

Having had enough already, I started flipping channels and stumbled upon the Real Madrid – Juventus Champions League match on some Italian(?) station, Channel 21, I believe. Minutes after we found it (and called Dan down in room twenty) Madrid won a specious foul along the side of the penalty box thanks to some good acting by Zidane. The score finally flashed up on the screen, 0 – 0 after thirty minutes, just before Beckham stepped up to the ball. The English superhero took the free kick, sending it perfectly to Ivan Helguera who rose high above the mass of bodies to nod the ball past the helpless Juve keeper Gianluigi Buffon. 1 – nil Madrid at the Bernabeu.

And the game quickly heated up before halftime, several players from both teams receiving cautions. When Greg our guide at Valhalla Powdercats showed up early into the second half, he immediately got a call from one of the members of the hardcore Pro 'big air' crew going up with him the next day.

We’d watch the rest of Madrid’s 1 – nil victory over Juve down at Pat and Dan’s room before heading down to the pan-Asian themed restaurant Rice, where Greg’s lovely, blonde girlfriend Tessa is the manager. Before heading out the door, Greg would provide us with detailed instructions regarding where to find the best lines at Kootenay Pass, a couple hours away, should we go there. I hoped that Pat and/or Dan were paying attention as I was primarily focused on the tv.

At dinner, Greg would open up and admit to us that conditions were really quite bad up in the mountains despite the marginally decent snow. He was quite candid, acknowledging that unless you have a huge wallet, SnoCat or Heil-skiing just really isn’t worth it. I’d have to agree.

Upon arriving back at our room after dinner, we stumbled upon a replay of that day’s Bayern Munich – Arsenal Champions League match, with the home German side leading by a goal right after the halftime interval. Germany’s top two keepers were featured – the Bavarian stalwart Oliver Kahn for Munich versus Jens Lehmann, the sometimes #1 keeper for both club and country. The Bayern fans would whistle and hoot every time the Arsenal netminder touched the ball.

In the 58th minute, the man that Dan earlier in the day on our ride up the mountain had been singing the praises of – the dangerous Peruvian striker Claudio Pizarro – smashed the ball into the back of the net with a powerful header off a free-kick from the right-hand side. This would be his second of the match. Dan would call moments later from his room fifty feet away, not to gloat about his clairvoyance, but rather, to criticize Arsenal’s perennial failures in European competition.

Pizzarro would set up Bayern’s third, the ball eventually finding an unmarked onrushing Hasan Salihamidzic – a man I hope to see playing for his country in Valencia’s Mestalla when Bosnia take on the Spaniards June 8th – at the far post. The skillful striker gracefully volleyed the ball past Lehmann with a wicked blast.

Dan would immediately call again to question Lehmann’s chances in goal for the national team in next year’s World Cup. His hopes all but slipping away as his arch-rival/teammate watches on at the other end of the pitch. Former Bayern striker/current national team coach Jurgen Klinsmann watched on smilingly from a distance, probably also already convinced that Kahn would be his man come next year. In the end, with my eyes getting very heavy and my body sore from two days of abuse and punishment, I would doze off as Bayern Munich would roll on to an impressive 3 – 1 victory over the reigning English champions; Kolo Toure scoring the all-important away goal in the 87th minute of the match on a rebound in the goalmouth.

On Wednesday we would head up to Whitewater ski area about a half-hour south of Nelson. The British parking attendant noticed my Spain warm-up jacket and we talked a little footie. He’s a Londoner and a Crystal Palace fan – one of the last place teams in the Premiership. I gave him my condolences as relegation is all but assured for his club.

The gal in the lodge who I paid for my sandwich lamented the long-term forecast – three more weeks of bright blue skies. The drought would apparently continue well into March.

After filling out the obligatory paperwork exonerating the resort from any liability for allowing us to access the backcountry from their rickety, old chairlift, we headed up the hill to an area known as '5-mile'.

From the top of the chairlift we were still only about halfway up to the many ridges and bowls rising gloriously into the azure sky. After throwing our skis onto our packs, we began the arduous, backbreaking task of heading uphill. Within minutes I was gasping for air, slowly slipping behind my friends. Months of inactivity due to drought conditions in the mountains have left me fat and out of shape. Now I was paying for it.

But the one thing that motivated me to press onward (besides, of course, visions of fluffy bottomless powder) was my need to regain a modicum of conditioning before my upcoming fitness test in March to become officially certified as a State Referee. ‘This trip to Canada WILL help to put me on the road to health’ I kept telling myself.

Drenched in sweat, I finally reached my friends who were waiting for me at a notch along the bottom of the ridge that would lead us to the bowl that we needed to traverse in order to gain elevation. Wearing nothing more than a t-shirt, I slogged my ass up the mountain relentlessly for more than an hour to another notch along the high ridge above us. Feeling the fatigue that comes with extreme exertion, I crumpled to my knees when at last I had reached the access to the grand valley beyond.

The payoff was well worth the effort as the vast Whitewater backcountry would provide us with champagne powder that sometimes had the consistency of meringue. We reveled in our alpine glory, shouting jubilantly as we floated down the valley.

I joyously screamed out “Peace to the World” as Pat was filming me, skiing directly behind me. Moments later I was sliding on my face – tripped up by some mysterious, invisible feature – leaving everyone, including me in hysterics.

After regaining my composure I would head down for another, hopefully more successful take. With the camera rolling again, I made another plea for world peace, giggling at the thought of my previous comedy, effortlessly schussing past the camera with my friends looking on. The creamy consistency of the snow urged me downhill, beckoning me to bask in the glory of the moment. This was unquestionably the superlative moment of the past three days, easily eclipsing anything we had done in the Valhallas - perhaps it was because we were the only ones in the expansive wilderness and we’d used our own locomotive powers (mostly) to reach this fantastic place.

Not wanting the run to end, we continued downhill through glades and then an old burn, finding incredible stashes of super-kind powder along the way. And remember, this is a drought year.

Despite the variable snow conditions near the bottom, Dan used his extreme kung-fu tele-master skills on the steep, lower treed section – the skiing surface alternating from perfect to sun-crusted within just a few feet, depending upon the aspect of the slope.

We would reconvene at the bottom the valley, eating lunch and enjoying the mild midday sun. From there, however, it was back to work for more than an hour of grueling, heart-pounding uphill, the beginning of which was a little sketchy as we ascended the steep, shady section of the slope. It was torture, but I loved it, knowing that the payoff was well worth the effort.

Our second run down took place during the fading sunlight, which was by now well hidden beyond the impressive peaks to our south. These moments skiing downhill in the backcountry, short as they may be, are amongst the most pleasurable in my life. It’s an indescribable sense of oneness with the earth, in the peaceful solitude of the off-piste wilderness. This is what I dream about both conscious and otherwise.

Only going down about half as far as our first world-class run, I knew that the coming uphill would be my last of the day. And I was spent – slowly, methodically making my way up to the ridge. Again I would fall to my knees, in dire need of some rest. But first we had one more trip down – down the front side that we had traversed uphill earlier in the day. The snow here was spectacular, helping me forget momentarily the depth of the fatigue in my quads and elsewhere.

Eventually we made it back to the ridge that led us back to the spring-like south-facing boot track that we’d headed up earlier in the day. Sidestepping various obstacles and variable snow conditions, I cautiously labored my way down to meet my friends. Together, we cruised a mellow groomer, legs still burning, back to the empty base area, with our cars patiently waiting only a hundred feet away. And thus ended an epic six-hour ski tour that took us deep into the backcountry adjacent to the homey, old-school Whitewater ski resort in south central British Columbia.

We would arrive back ‘home’ in the 60th minute of a nil – nil draw, AC Milan playing at Manchester United’s so-called ‘Theater of Dreams’, Old Trafford. Milan passed the ball around like child’s play, eventually leading to a well-hit strike by Clarence Seedorf in the 78th minute. Roy Carroll was unable to control the knuckleball and the Argentine Hernan Crespo was there to pounce on it, knocking the ball easily into the back of the net. Manchester United nil – Milan 1. And that’s how it would finish, as we voraciously chowed down a couple of pizzas from Leo’s Pizza and Greek Taverna…voted ‘Nelson’s best pizza’.

In what is arguably the dream matchup of this round of 16 in the Champions League, Spanish leaders Barcelona won 2 – 1 versus English leaders Chelsea, reduced to ten-men after Dider Drogba was sent off for his second caution early in the second half.

Next up on the tube would be Inter Milan visiting the famous Dragao Stadium in Porto. Both teams would exhibit stylish play before Obafemi Martins would run onto a perfectly weighted low cross from the crafty Serb Stankovich. Porto nil – Inter 1.

English referee Graham Poll hadn’t issued a single caution as the final ten minutes of the first half commenced. There had been many opportunities for the referee to calm things down, but he seemed reluctant to do so. Dan and I wondered what type of violence was likely to occur during the remainder of the match. Poll was having a tough time keeping things under control.

With two-thirds of the game complete, Inter goalie Francesco Toldo flailed aimlessly at a cross, missing it and taking himself out of the play in the process. A Porto player was able to push the ball back to the middle where Ricardo Costa was waiting to slam the ball into the back of the net. Porto 1 – Inter 1.

Finally, in the 73rd minute, Favalli received the first caution of the full-tilt, physical affair for a reckless challenge on the surging young skillful Portuguese player, Ricardo Quaresma. Poll would be quite liberal in distributing more yellow cards throughout the final quarter-hour of the match in order to prevent things from getting completely out of hand. And in the end there would be no more scoring, and Inter would leave with the all-important ‘away’ goal in a 1 – all draw.

Crushed from the day’s adventure and hobbled from various minor injuries, we would lick our wounds before heading to bed early, hoping to heal our aching muscles before doing it all over again the next morning.

But I awoke before 7am feeling surprisingly good, still wondering if my body was up for another epic tour in the backcountry. However, whether I was up for it or not, we hopped on the chairlift at 9:30 to the top of Whitewater’s ski area. A little more than an hour later we were on top of the world, ready to investigate some new terrain. But before I could really get my day started, it almost came to an end…and quite stupidly I might add.

I won’t give you the full details of the incident in question for fear of self-incrimination, but the actual act that caused my injury is ridiculous nonetheless. Like a fool, I grabbed my ski to slam it into the snow to prevent it from sliding away down the mountain. The surface was quite unforgiving – a little icy – and my ski didn’t go in very far before hitting the bottom. Unfortunately, I had slammed it pretty hard and my fingers were sliced cleanly on the inside of the lowest knuckle by the well-tuned metal edges.

I knew immediately what I had done and calmly said “Oh, Shit”. Pat looked at the still bloodless gashes on the pinkie, ring, and middle fingers of my left hand and repeated my sentiment. Before I had the chance to voice my optimism that it wasn’t a bad cut, blood began to ooze quite rapidly from all three fingers, particularly the ring finger which was dripping little red droplets all over the pristine white snow.

Pat acted quickly, at first helping to locate some napkins – which were more or less ineffective – before eventually wrapping my fingers in athletic tape. Blood continued to seep through the makeshift bandages, but then a second round of tape seemed to stem the tide. I would sit with my hand above my head for ten minutes before checking to see if things had improved.

I checked the bloody wrappings and was very conflicted. I really wanted to keep going with my friends, but didn’t want to be a burden if the blood-letting continued. Plus, I wasn’t too thrilled with the idea of putting myself in danger so far from medical care. If I went down into the valley with Pat, Dan, and Keith, it would be at least an hour hike back up to get to the point where I could ski a few thousand feet back down to the lodge. Or, I could just head back by myself right then, which also presented a certain amount of risk as skiing alone in the backcountry is a potentially dangerous proposition.

Not wanting to be a burden to my buddies, I decided to head back. But after getting all my gear together and taking another look at my bloody hand, I changed my mind. Everyone was in support of this decision, knowing full well that the terrain was of the highest quality. And the snow was still outstandingly light, especially in the shadier locales of the broad valley.

My decision turned out to be a good one. The bleeding seemed to have subsided as we traversed the alpine landscape underneath towering ramparts and ominous-looking hanging cornices. With a gorgeous north-facing valley serving as our destination, we gained a nearby ridge, went as high as we could, traversed a narrow bowl, then continued uphill to a southeastern exposure – which provided another perspective of the seemingly endless ranges of snow-covered peaks.

Again we would revel in the alpine bliss, joyously floating through untouched fields of powder before arriving at the well-spaced sub-alpine flora. In a state of near-ecstasy, we decided to head back up for another, longer run.

It was more of the same and it couldn’t have been better. We all spread out across the slope, finding our own perfect lines as we reached tree-line. I stayed furthest left, hoping to lead us back towards our route home. Catching glimpses and sounds of my friends below, I eased my way through the forest, rolling over a knoll and onto an Elysian slope of sugary goodness. Keith was waiting down below as I made exaggeratedly deep, low turns, carving symmetrical S’s, bounding in virtual slow motion. It was a divinely transcendent moment that will forever be etched in my memory.

From our spot deep in the belly of the backcountry, we slapped our skins back on and endeavored upon a long traverse out. Working our way uphill and to the right for more than an hour, we eventually reached a narrow gap in the rocky spine separating us from the Whitewater Ski Hill a thousand or more feet downhill on the other side.

The notch was nothing more than an icy windswept shelf, with barely enough room for the four of us. It was an awkward and difficult place to de-skin and gear up, but eventually we leaped down from our gnarly perch to the softer surface below.

Suspended high above the resort, blasting through sunlit fields of joy, we worked our back towards the base of the colossal bowl. The top section was a little choppy, but the scenery was stunning – cliffs towering high above us as late day sun streamed into the valley from the southwest.

The middle part of the day’s final run was outstanding as the snow attained that creamy consistency that we’d been enjoying for the past two days. My legs began to tire, turning to jell-o as we continued down towards a super-steep shot. The soft-orange sunglasses that had been a staple of my wardrobe for the better part of a year would finally meet their demise when my quads rebelled against the unyielding punishment that they’d been forced to endure throughout the day. Securely attached to my chest-strap on my pack, the glasses never had a chance at surviving the crushing impact when I landed squarely on them with an extraordinary faceplant.

Shortly thereafter, the hair-raising descent through a narrow couloir led us down to a gentler slope and then to the safety of a mellow groomer, on which we sped along, eventually reaching the bar down in the old-time lodge. Both humorous and tasty, we’d celebrate the day’s adventures with a jug (i.e. pitcher) of Nelson Brewing’s Faceplant Ale. A beautifully fitting conclusion to another fantastic day in the backcountry just a few clicks south of Nelson, B.C.

Later that night at Mike’s Place in downtown Nelson, it was a night of nostalgia as they had the 70s Rock station playing on their digital radio system. First off, it was my favorite song off the very first album I ever bought at the age of ten – “Fox on the Run” on Sweet’s record ‘Desolation Boulevard’ (same album that produced "Ballroom Blitz"). I probably hadn’t heard that song in more than twenty years. Soon thereafter it was the ‘Motor City Madman’s’ “Cat Scratch Fever”. Ted Nugent was the first concert I ever attended – up at the Glens Falls Civic Center at the age of thirteen. It should also be noted that Pink Floyd – my first favorite band – was also featured on the sound system as we melted into yet another food coma, languidly enjoying our nourishment.

Stopping into Nelson’s nouveau-hipster nightclub – RendeVous – we scoped out the local Thursday evening nightlife. We’d catch a glimpse of Martin Keyserlingk – the youngish co-owner/guide with Valhalla Powdercats – working the crowd. It made me realize what a diminutive town Nelson is and how it wouldn’t take long to meet all its inhabitants if you live there.

Day 3 at Whitewater – our final day of skiing in BC – was another phenomenal day in the backcountry. It started off poorly – first Keith forgot his skins back at the motel and then the chairlift was having problems getting going. But the chair did eventually get off the ground and we started up the hill without Keith, knowing full well that our wiry, high-strung friend would soon catch up with my ass-draggin’ pace. And sure enough, thanks to the lift-imposed delay, he managed to catch up to us minutes after we’d reached the low ridge where we put our skis on each day.

From there we powered uphill, stopping very infrequently, for what would be our quickest uptrack to the summit yet – a little more than an hour from the top of the chairlift to the top of the ridge. The pace was brutal as I still, typically, was the last to reach our high resting spot.

On this, our third and final day in the expansive Whitewater backcountry, we headed back towards skier’s left – the same general part of the valley we’d shredded up two days earlier. I’m not sure what our original agenda was for the day, but I think we sort of abandoned it once we realized how good things were on this, the sunnier side of the valley.

Each turn was a thing of beauty and perfection. The terrain’s gentle rolls allowed us to fly, if only momentarily, as we cruised down this alpine wonderland. The skiing was so effortless and predictable that I didn’t want to stop. But as all good things must come to an end, so too did this particular run. Eventually, as we lost more than 1,500’ of elevation, the snow lost its consistency, becoming more sun affected.

So again we slapped on the skins and headed uphill, eventually deciding to veer to our right to an as yet unspoiled slope angling slightly away from the fierce sunshine – an east/northeast facing aspect. Pat, Dan, and Keith would hike up along a ridge, leaving me in a perfect position to snap a few dramatic photos with a massive mountainous expanse off in the distance.

My dear friends, this was yet another life-affirming moment, reveling in this most liberating of activities. Words simply cannot do justice to this most astounding of experiences, and I’m finding it quite difficult to come up with new ways for you to feel the joy that we knew in the backcountry at Whitewater. But just know that it was awesome, powerful, spiritual, and wonderful! I think that pretty much sums it up.

And still reveling in the midday sun at our stopping point, we rested for a few minutes before setting a track uphill and to our left – in an effort to reach a far off part of the valley, closer to the high exit-point that we’d labored for so long to reach the previous day. Not going quite to the top, our last run of the day on this far side of the high ridge was like all the rest…spectacular. The northeast-facing forested slope led us all down a shady, narrow, snowy streambed that we bounded through, again with great ease.

Stopping several hundred feet above the lakebed at the bottom of the steep, dense forest, we headed uphill for the very last time on this weeklong Canadian adventure. Despite my obvious fatigue, I knew that my fitness had increased greatly over the course of the previous five days. Spending countless hours with a heart rate well in excess of 150 bpm is bound to either make you stronger or kill you. And I only had one more hour until the pain would be over.

But eventually, we would cross the high threshold that led to Whitewater Ski Hill and lodge far, far below. It would be another awkwardly tight spot to deal with my gear, but within minutes I was back on firmer footing. We’d ski briefly downhill before traversing hundreds of yards to our left in an effort to reach a shadier section of the grand valley – with the promise of sweeter snow for the long descent back home.

Along the way, Pat and Dan would slap on their skins one last time to assist them in gaining elevation as they traversed the broad slope at the base of vertical, rocky crags that served as a brilliant contrast to the deep blue sky beyond. Keith and I would wait what seemed like an eternity for Pat and Dan to appear above the roll that hid them from our view. Still a couple hundred yards away when I first saw them, I snapped a series of fantastically dramatic photos of my backcountry mentors that were amongst the best I’ve ever taken. Hopefully you’ll see one of them in ‘Couloir’ or ‘Backcountry’ magazines next year. Dan’s got a connection at the former and I hope to get something published about our memorable touring through the drought-stricken wilderness of south-central BC.

Happy to have survived this epic five-day ordeal, I enjoyed every second of this final descent of our trip. The obligatory Nelson (B.C.) Brewing Faceplant Ale would be consumed in celebration down in the rustic lodge when it was all over. And then it was time to head back down to town.

But alas, we would face one more obstacle on this day. It seems that Keith’s decision to not get any gas (even though the gas light had been on when he got in the car) when he headed back to our hotel to pick up his skins would come back to bite us in the ass. Careening down the 10km-long access road, all of my car’s dashboard warning lights would suddenly come on. Sure enough, my tank was dry.

We came to a rest at the bottom – the intersection with the highway. Luckily, Dan was behind and not in front of me. So I waved to him to stop and help us out, which he dutifully did.

Keith and I sat in silence for next 1/2 hour. It was sort of a bummer of a way to conclude the week, but my annoyance soon faded once Dan returned with the needed petrol.

It would be another early night – dinner, a few beers, and then lights out before eleven despite the need to rise early the next day. But we were wiped. Running around town ‘til late in the evening would’ve been pointless in our pathetic state.

Needless to say, we were up early the next day and on the road by eight. Before leaving, we’d say goodbye to our Dutch hosts and their dog Sugar. We were surprised to learn that Henk and Karina are actually Rob & Emmy Vuik. The business cards in the motel office still have the name of the previous Dutch owners who still live in the Nelson-area.

Keith and I would take a different route home than Pat and Dan. Consequently, our more westerly border crossing went considerably more smoothly. At our remote outpost, the querying guard even asked me if I was actually looking to be on the little-used highway in north-central Washington. “Yep”, I told him. We were taking the scenic route…which it most certainly was.

Pat and Dan on the other hand took a more heavily-used road to Spokane and got the third-degree at the border – being detained for half-an-hour and filling out pages of paperwork.

The nine hours seemed to go by quickly as new landscapes would unfold with each passing hill. Only a couple hours from Portland, on yet another pleasant spring-like mid-winter day, we stopped for a bite to eat in Goldendale, WA on the east side of the Cascades. The amiable young sandwich-maker would tell us of a coming change in the weather. I thought to myself, ‘It sure would be nice if we’d finally get some winter around here, but at least I’ve had a spiritual renaissance of sorts with this most outstanding of journeys to the Great White North even if it were never to arrive.'

Hopefully you too can find the sense of joy and delight that I had the good fortune of recently experiencing. Best wishes to you in achieving that reality.

Until next time…

peace,
ac