Planet Soccer

Footie at Home and Abroad: A Typical Week (April 29th, 2005)

Despite the fact that I was enjoying myself with the McFadden’s guys after refereeing their game, I left shortly after 9pm to pedal a mile or so over to the Fir to catch some of Josh Rouse’s act. You might remember from my previous post that I’d waited on him earlier that day.

Before heading down to the lounge I’d update Cooley – the off-duty soccer-playin’ bar manager – about my game earlier that evening. When I ordered a Grey Goose and tonic he razzed me about desecrating the sanctity of the pure French vodka. So ordered it on the rocks instead then popped downstairs to check out the show.

Over at the bar I’d catch the eye of the guy who I’d waited on earlier in the day who’d suggested that I come by. He seemed pleased that I’d made the effort to follow his advice.

Next, I’d cross paths with Alicia Rose – the scarlet-highlighted Fir booking manager with “moxie” (as so eloquently put by the Willamette Week in their recent cover-story about the Fir’s capacity to transform the local music scene). She wanted let me know that for whatever reason, September 21st was becoming a highly coveted day for musical acts rolling through town. OK, so the International Day of Peace wasn’t going to work for my Football for Peace fundraiser, but perhaps my birthday – one day earlier – would. Alicia promised to do what she could to make it happen.

Josh had a wonderful voice as I’d been told, but I only stuck around for a couple of songs since I had to be back at work at 6:30am the next day. But I’d stop up at the north bar to join Cooley and his girl Leslie for another drink or two before my slow pedal back to the ‘hood. Back at home I’d watch the first mass of Benedictus XVI as I went to bed with a pretty good buzz goin’.

Wednesday morning after a very slow start I’d wait on Josh Rouse’s gal, telling her that I’d checked out her boy upon their acquaintance’s advice. I voiced my satisfaction that I’d made the effort to hear his soulful sound.

Later I’d wait on Anne Connell, the somewhat eccentric local artist who is close friends with Nina Olsson (of Dan & Nina…two of my dearest friends). Anne was with a handsome man who also appeared to be in his mid-40s. She’d inform me that her friend John was on the original pilot episode for the lighthearted 70s tv drama Emergency! – a show I used to watch religiously as a kid.

Next up I’d greet a friendly guy from Kentucky who was on a road trip from San Francisco to Seattle. He only had a day to spend in town and wanted a few good suggestions of places to check out. I advised him first to stop at Powell’s Books to pick up a map of the downtown area and its environs. I knew he’d be able to entertain himself cruising around our very walkable urban core, also encouraging him to check out Waterfront Park and the Eastbank Esplanade. The other nearby no-brainer was Washington Park with two outstanding gardens – the phenomenal Rose and the peaceful Japanese.

And then Josh Rouse came in with his female companion who I’d already served a light breakfast to an hour earlier. He would come and go and soon thereafter the sound tech dude who the day before had encouraged me to check out Josh’s show would come in. We’d debrief a bit and then he’d tell me that he’d gone to college in San Francisco with Alicia Rose. He hadn’t seen her in a decade or more before crossing paths with her down in the lounge the night before. He recalled the days when she used to run the show at a popular club when they were still in school. Somehow, it didn’t surprise me one bit.

Anne Connell and her former tv-actin’ friend John were still hangin’ out at table 142 when I learned that the soft-spoken character is a liberal priest who very much dislikes the policies of our president. I wondered how prevalent John’s perspective is inside the Church. Naturally, we’d move on to discussing the new Pope and the old one too – who served the third-longest papacy in the centuries-old history of the Church. John’s an advocate for reform within the Church, but doesn’t expect much from Benedictus XVI. He was optimistic, however, that whoever comes next will be a departure from the most recent decades of misguided social policy.

With the fairly slow morning behind me, my colleague Nicholas told me that he’d be taking a few of my tables to accommodate a fifteen-top in his section, leaving me with one third of the restaurant and him with two-thirds. I told him that if he wanted to do that then we could either switch sections or I would take the fifteen-top since my section was more accommodating to very large parties. Nicholas balked at first, complaining that he hadn’t done anything for the first hour that he’d been there, but eventually realized that I had a point. (His selfish attitude sort of pissed me off as I’d been there for FIVE hours at that point and had probably made twenty bucks or so. Needless to say, I didn’t have much sympathy for him, especially since he gets all the prime dinner shifts and was only filling in on this day shift.)

And good thing too since the dining room filled up fairly quickly. He would’ve never been able to handle such a large section, especially when they all come in at once like often happens for a lunch rush. I’d wait on the aging British punkers Broken Bones again. They’d tell me that their show had been a good one. I was more interested in another t-shirt that one of the guys was wearing. It had the McDonald’s logo altered with the words McProfits, McMurder, McGarbage, and McJunk…a strident political message indeed.

As my shift was coming to an end around 2:30 and I was about to sit down for a bite to eat I greeted a guy named Jason, who I’d met a couple months earlier when he was staying at the Jupiter getting ready to move his family up to the Rose City from the Bay Area. Now here he was with his lovely wife and adorable baby. I was glad to see that his family’s emigration northward had gone well.

Sitting down to lunch and a look at my emails I was struck by the headline on my daily missive from the Institute for Public Accuracy – www.ipa.org. It read “Earth Day: Sleepwalking into an Apocalypse?” – an ominous and potentially accurate portrayal of the future in light of seeming global indifference to the nightmare that threatens to destroy us all.

Somewhere on the web I’d read that Benedictus XVI suggested that he will be a friend to other faiths, but the Muslim world in particular is a little concerned about some of the comments Ratzinger has made regarding Catholicism’s superiority to other faiths. It’ll be interesting to see what the future holds and in what ideological direction the German Pope takes his people.

Upon the recommendation of one of the Fir’s customers that afternoon, I headed over to Costello’s Travel Caffé to watch the 5pm replay of the compelling Chelsea – Arsenal match from earlier that day that I’d forgotten to record. Bradley, who plays for McFadden’s (one of the clubs I’d refereed for the night before) showed up minutes before kickoff and joined me for the match.

The highlights of the weighty affair between England's top two clubs are as follows:

Minute 3 – Robert Pires, the flashy French Arsenal midfielder, cracked one off the crossbar.
Minute 10 – It’s Pires again missing just wide of the far, left post with Chelsea’s defense all sixes and sevens.
Minute 31 – Lehmann comes up big for Arsenal with a solid denial of Drogba’s cleanly hit shot.

A couple folks who I recognize from Portland Indoor Soccer, one after the other, show up at halftime. One of them is a guy named Dave who saw the tsunami from an island called Ko Lanta after spending a few months in Asia. He tells me of seeing it off in the distance before running for the nearby hills. That must’ve been quite an incredible experience.

As the second half got underway I overheard an obvious non-footie fan comment to his friend that “soccer looks like an exhausting sport”. There was something rather humorous about this naïve realization.

Minute 56 – Chelsea’s Ivorian striker Didier Drogba misses inches wide of the right post after a counter-attack led by his Irish teammate Damien Duff down the left flank.
Minute 58 – Bergkamp outmuscles the more youthful Glenn Johnson deep in the Chelsea box before touching it back to his surging teammates, but a Blue toe gets to it first, poking it from danger.
Later in the match with Arsenal’s defense all sixes and sevens it’s Lampard’s turn to stroke one inches wide of the near left post.
Through ninety minutes there would be no goals and then Pires committed a foul about twenty-two yards from goal. Drogba’s shot sails less than a foot over the crossbar and the game ends moments later. Chelsea 0 – Arsenal 0. And the draw moved Chelsea one step closer to their first English title in exactly fifty years as second-place Arsenal lag more than ten points off the pace with only a handful of games remaining.

Next on my agenda was to head over to Powell’s to hear the words of the “country’s premier intellectual provocateur and social critic”, Camille Paglia. She definitely didn’t disappoint, skewering both conservative and liberal viewpoints alike.

I was happy to learn that like me, she’s from Upstate New York. As Syracuse is only a couple hours west of Albany, I felt like we were old neighbors. Her opening remarks provided a historical analysis of the literary arts. She’d go on to say that understanding a society’s religion provides insight into its art and culture. Along those same lines she’d continue by saying that The Bible is an epic poem that could sustain one for their entire life as it seems to do for so many devout Christians.

Regarding what she thinks is the method to restore a sense of balance in these politically divisive times, Paglia suggests that the left has to move back to art in order to prevail. I had difficulty following this thread, especially in light of the fact that this woman expounds her take on the world at an amazing rate of speed. It was a blazing stream of consciousness to be sure.

She’d share with us that she’s “on strike from Hollywood”, although she admitted that she might venture to see a film if it particularly intrigued her.

Before cutting off the emcee/timekeeper by acknowledging that she could talk for hours, Paglia acknowledged that the loss of arts programs in our schools is a national tragedy. Following this current, she’d argue that she’s a strong advocate of self-education. I thought to myself, ‘that’s was the Football for Peace Tour is all about’. I’m sure she’d approve.

I found it to be incredibly ironic when she commented negatively upon the increasing pace of the world. After all, her verbal communication style seemed to condone this hamster wheel of life that we all seem to be on.

Oh, and she’s an avowed atheist. But when commenting on the backlash by the right against the demands from the left that gay marriage should be legal, she acknowledged that she had predicted that this would happen. And since she finds the whole notion of marriage to be arcane and silly, she didn’t seem terribly sympathetic to the homosexual cause, despite being outspokenly bisexual. She’s definitely an enigmatic woman of philosophical contrasts.

Her final word, and being that she’s a former university professor, seemed well-informed indeed. Commenting on the deterioration of the American education system she told the audience “Good teaching is improv”, poking fun at the notion of lesson plans. I immediately thought of Annie B. who often wings it over at Grant High.

As I was getting ready to head out I crossed paths with Eileen, a funky forty-ish gal with brash New York sensibilities that are only enhanced by her thick Brooklyn accent. As she was just about to get off work (she works at Powell’s), we decided to pedal back across the river and grab a beer and a slice of pizza. And that’s how I spent my rare night away from the pitch.

Oh, in case you haven’t been paying attention, the burgeoning freedom and democracy in Iraq hasn’t been met with a reduction in violence. The daily stories and images coming out of that hellish land continue to disturb and offend. Among the many horrific tales I’ve heard recently came sometime on Wednesday when I learned that twenty Iraqi national guardsmen were taken to a soccer stadium by armed gunmen who summarily executed the young recruits. And the beat goes on…

Thursday morning I’d learn that ‘Talkers’ magazine had awarded Al Franken their prestigious ‘Freedom of Speech’ honor. Ironically, (unless Franken was joking, which I didn’t think he was), Rush Limbaugh won the award last year.

Annalisa called me around noon to tell me that she’d been excused from jury duty and wanted me to meet her downtown for lunch. Less than an hour later we’d connect at Piazza Italia exactly at the stroke of 1pm. Before even greeting her I’d see fellow referee colleague Mann Tong enjoying lunch with a friend at a table along the sidewalk. Later as Mann was leaving he told me he’d given up on trying to become a State Referee, frustrated with the annoying bureaucracy of it all. And frankly, I couldn’t blame him as he’d been getting the runaround for almost two years now.

I’d say hello to Gino Schettini – the affable restaurateur – who immediately recognized me, promising to take my letter with him to Collina when he visits Italy in May. Gino is a former Italian football official who is now a National Referee Assessor with the USSF. I’m hopeful that he’ll be able to connect me with the world’s most well known soccer referee – Italy’s Pierluigi Collina – when I visit there next spring.

Annalisa and I would have a fairly decadent midday meal even indulging in dessert on this rare occasion. When it was over we’d ride together through Waterfront Park and across the Hawthorne Bridge before splitting up at the east end as I headed north along the Eastbank Esplanade and she headed south towards Division.

After arriving back home it was time to soon head out to Tualatin Indoor for my set of four matches. The first three were all decided by only a single goal: 5 – 4, 2 – 1, and then 4 – 3, the last involving the Frenchies who I’d seen quite a bit over the past few weeks. The final goal in their match would come from the industry of their opponents who successfully countered the play with only nine ticks remaining on the clock.

By now I’d become well-acquainted with these guys and they had worked at making small inroads in order to endear themselves to me after the unfortunate termination of their match two weeks earlier. I would learn that the ‘angry’ goalie who I’d red-carded on that night is actually a nice guy and the owner of La Provênçe, a much-beloved French pastry shop in Lake Grove. Somehow knowing that he’s a pastry chef made him more human to me now. I promised to stop by next time I was in that part of town (which isn’t very often).

My pal Nizar and I would connect for a few drinks and a bite to eat at Jo Bar on NW 23rd. It had been another rough day at work for my friend and former co-worker, who seemed to be having more and more days like these as his languishing career mired in bureaucracy seemed to be going nowhere. I could only empathize as I had fortunately been pushed out years earlier for being too much of a rogue employee.

Friday morning Keith would wake me at 7:30 with the news that he’d been allocated a ticket for the World Cup. After checking my emails I’d find that I too had received a ticket for the same match – a quarterfinal in Berlin. The game is to be played June 30th, so while mapping out my itinerary throughout Germany next summer, Liverpool’s ‘other team’ – Everton – kept their Champions League hopes alive for next season. Paul Scholes was deservedly sent off for a second yellow deep into stoppage time as Manchester United finished with only nine men. It was the Scot Duncan Ferguson who repeated history by scoring the winning goal for Everton over Manchester United, something he’d done nearly ten years earlier – the last time the Merseysiders had defeated Fergie’s boys.

Later that morning Air America radio reported that environmental progress is slowing down; this, according to Carl Pope of the Sierra Club. Happy Earth Day everybody!!!

Keith, having felt ill lately and not going in to work, called me a little before noon to go for a hike. Around 2pm, after I’d stopped by Thai Noon for a Rama Garden, we headed east to the Gorge to celebrate the annual holiday when we pay homage to the planet that keeps us alive.

But instead of heading to the Gorge, we headed up towards McNeil Pt. for an early season hike up on the mountain. As I’d suspected, there was still a little bit of snow on the road within a couples miles of the trailhead, but it didn’t seem like much. But it was sorta warm out and the three or four inches of snow was kinda mushy. And there came a point where I started losing traction with the road, despite having all-wheel drive. Seeing as I was only going about ten miles an hour I decided to steer into the slide, hoping to regain a grip on the road.

But I miscalculated and steered my car into a ditch on the right side of the road. For the next half-hour Keith and I strategized what to do as my right rear tire was too deep and the road was too slick for me to pull myself out of this mess. We threw rocks and large sticks into the ditch hoping to fill the void, but eventually all the revving in the world only seemed to overheat my engine. With the stench of burning engine parts I decided to give up, choosing to save my car in the hopes that we’d be able to hike out (since neither of us had any cell service) and call AAA.

So instead of hiking UP to McNeil Pt. as I’d hoped we would do, we starting hiking DOWN Top Spur Road 765 and then back onto Forest Road 1825. It was at least seven or eight miles out to East Lolo Pass Rd. (aka Forest Road 18), but I hoped we’d cross paths with a random pick-up truck if we didn’t get cell service beforehand. I knew the road well and suspected that after a few miles we’d pick up a signal after rounding a corner that provided visual access to the valley to our west (where I hoped there might be a stray cell tower).

Sure enough, I was spot on. There was about a one hundred yard stretch of road that afforded me the most marginal of signals. In fact, my phone didn’t even register a signal, but I was still able to connect with the folks at AAA nonetheless. But just as I was giving the voice on the other end of the line my vital whereabouts, the phone went dead. ARGGGHHHHHHH!!! I didn’t want to have to hike for another four miles. I had some indoor games to ref that night at 10:15 and I didn’t want to miss out. We were still in pretty good shape though as it was just past 4pm.

So I dialed again with my fingers crossed. When I got through I prayed that we’d be able to get through the torturously long information gathering process before my phone died again. We did, but since I was on a little-known road she patched me through to Purdy’s towing, but put me on hold for more than a minute before getting them on the line.

Fortunately, Purdy’s Towing was just down the hill, about ten miles away in the nearest town, Brightwood. The guy on the other end of the line seemed to know exactly where I was, so after our fairly brief conversation I walked downhill to catch up with Keith who had left me once I had stopped to make the call.

As I finally caught up with Keith and Henry (his Border Collie), I could hear the tow truck racing up the steep road. There wasn’t room for all four of us (two people and two dogs – Henry and Stella), so the driver and I headed back uphill leaving Keith and the dogs to fend for themselves as the clouds above us began to release their cold, liquid burden upon the sub-alpine landscape.

I have to admit, I was slightly worried that the tow truck wasn’t beefy enough to power through the snow. It seemed hardly more rough-and-tumble than my Suby. And when we eventually reached the slushy snow it had a little trouble, even sliding to the right just as my car had done.

That’s when the driver, in his early-twenties, stepped outside to manually turn on the 4WD. Much to my delight, he didn’t have much trouble winching my car out of the ditch. I gave him ten bucks for his troubles and as the rain really began to pour down, he guided me through a precarious three-point turn with my rear bumper hanging over the edge of a very steep hillside. And just like that, my self-imposed troubles were over.

I raced downhill to pick up Keith and the dogs and then we headed down to Ramona Falls just a few miles away. We were all set to head up the trail but were deterred by two things: 1) the sign at the trailhead indicated that the footbridge over the headwaters of the Sandy River hadn’t been put back up as is done each spring, and 2) piles of broken glass all around seemed to indicate that this was a popular spot amongst local thieves (most likely meth-heads). So with this it was time to turn to plan C.

We headed back to Highway 26, crossed over it to Salmon River Rd., and headed up to Salmon Butte trailhead which is located within the Salmon-Huckleberry Wilderness about ten miles away. Quickly we were in a deep, dark second-growth forest. The gentle rain felt good, what little of it was able to sneak down through the thick canopy above. The grade wasn’t lung-busting, but it was definitely uphill, and it was great even as nighttime approached to finally be on the trail…any trail, the dogs enjoying it most of all.

We never did reach the summit, more than 2,000’ uphill, but that’s because daylight was our primary obstacle. By the time we arrived back at the car a little before 8:00 it was already getting dark; what little light that was left was almost completely obscured by a thick layer of clouds that had grown with each passing hour.

A little before 9pm we were back at Keith’s place where his live-in girlfriend Deb had prepared a scrumptious salmon dinner for herself and a few girlfriends. As there were plenty of leftovers, Keith and I quickly dove in to platefuls of delicious pink fish. But I didn’t stay long as my games at Portland Indoor were less than an hour away and I still needed to head home to drop Stella off and put on my uni.

My first game of the night included David, the guy I had run into at Costello’s Travel Caffé two days earlier who spends a lot of his time in SE Asia. (He does taxes for a living and likes to spend the ‘off’ months overseas). Before the match got underway I’d put in a good word for my buddy Chris Cooley, the bar manager over at the Fir, who’d be trying out the following morning at 10am with FC Hut (the Sandy Hut that is – a smoky old haunt just a few blocks from the Fir) – a Men’s Open 2nd division team that includes a couple guys whose game was just finishing up as I arrived.

My second game – at 11:15pm on Friday night – would include my friend Beth and her crew of no-nonsense smokers. They were missing a few of their key threats, including Mike & Drew – the easygoin’, Bush-supportin’ brothers from North Carolina. Needless to say, it would be another loss for my friend and her squad against an older, but better organized team.

In my last match of the evening, featuring Gentiana in a 12:15am kickoff, I’d keep the action flowing and generally fun for everyone in an intense 5 – all thriller. I never did connect with my friend Annalisa after work was over as we’d planned and was home and in bed soon thereafter.

And thus ends just another snapshot in time as the Football for Peace Tour inches ever closer.

Until next time...

peace,
ac

The Essence of Football for Peace

Back in Portland after the long day in Seattle I’d cruise over to the Fir for a bite to eat before heading over to Portland Indoor for the ‘late shift’ – kickoffs at 10:15, 11:15, and then at 12:15AM. Moments after parking my car I’d cross paths with Dan Sherwood again. I hadn’t seen Dan in quite a while until running into him two days earlier (Thursday) at the big hippie-music-fest fundraiser for the Pangaea Project at the Crystal Ballroom. He’d told me that night to check out Zilla on Saturday, which was part of the reason why I had stopped by the Fir on this occasion.

Before heading down to the lounge where bands play I stood at the north end of the north bar scarfing down a celebratory Joe’s Special – a flavorful hash of sorts. Seated at a table nearby was my old pal/former Lucky Lab teammate Scott Eberly. We hadn’t seen each other in a while so we caught up briefly on each other’s lives as Scott held a bouncing baby (that a belonged to a friend I believe).

After checking my emails I headed downstairs to check out the band for a bit. Zilla was an unusual three-man lineup – bass, drums, and DULCIMER. But they rocked and kept the hippie-style crowd grooving as I soon wandered out to make my way over to Portland Indoor.

The night would prove to be fairly unenjoyable and somewhat irritating. In the first match I had a disagreement over one of my many decisions with a woman who is usually a solid ally. She also admonished me for my tone in explaining that restarts are always taken from the red line when the ball hits the ceiling. If only she had any idea how mind-numbing it is to constantly remind players of this basic rule, especially when they play indoor soccer week after week, year after year. Needless to say, it had been a very long day, and maybe I was a little more tightly wound than usual.

The second match was a game-time forfeit, but thankfully still enjoyable as players from the previous game helped round out the lineups. The third, at 12:15am, was a return to the unpleasant air of the opening match as players from both teams were chippy and sniping throughout. When it was over, Ann Kloka – the pleasant owner of the facility who plays for FC Bamako, one the two squads in that match – even commented to me on what a difficult game it had been from my perspective. And she was right, it had definitely posed some serious challenges and really wasn’t what I was looking for at the end of a very long day.

Back at home I’d watch the final half of a compelling 3 – all draw between Crystal Palace and Norwich City, two of the English Premier League’s four relegation-threatened teams (three of the four will be sent down at the end of the season). It took two fairly late goals – the second a pk (penalty kick) - to draw the home London side back to level terms in this scintillating affair.

Finally, around 3am I decided to go to bed. And what a day it had been, indeed – at last coming to an end twenty-one hours after it had begun.

Sunday morning I’d stop into Annie B.’s bedroom for our first chat in days. She’s always looking for a little gossip to start her lazy weekend days. I’d fill her in on my professional coming-and-goings, including my conversation with Jim Sernoffsky of the OISOA who had told me to “know my audience”. Anne, knowing me better than perhaps just about anyone, once again voiced her confusion at how I – somebody with an occasional short fuse – could be a self-proclaimed Ambassador of Goodwill and promoter of peace. And while I am fully aware of my personal shortcomings, I implored her to look at the big picture. While my words might occasionally be harsh or perhaps even belligerent, I am a strong advocate of nonviolence and promote a philosophy of peace AND justice. This, in large part, is what helps me effectively manage soccer games. After half-an-hour I still didn’t have her totally convinced that I’m the guy to spread the message of peace through soccer. But that’s ok, I know she’s just playing devil’s advocate, helping me to refine my ideas.

Minutes later I was on the phone with Eric Beck, the ‘Godfather’ of Oregon soccer officials. I’d mentioned to him that Simon and I had traveled up to Seattle together which set Eric off on a tirade. It seemed that Simon had somehow ended up on Eric’s shit-list. I pleaded with Eric to show some compassion for my injury-riddled friend, but he wouldn’t listen. Simon’s fate seemed sealed.

Eventually I’d have to get Eric off the phone so that I could get ready for my two Men’s Over 50 games down in Tigard. I’d arrive to a field that had no markings, but we managed anyway. Before the first match I’d chat about justice with an amiable grandfatherly-looking character named Jerry. I don’t even recall how we got onto that topic, but I was happy to have found a kindred spirit.

Jerry’s team would get thoroughly crushed, 8-2, by a bunch of whining, complaining grown-up little boys. Even when victory seemed all but certain they continued to level abuse at me. Lucky for them I have a thick skin. I found it a little ironic that it was the two opposing British central midfielders who were the voices of reason for their respective sides throughout this oft-times annoying affair.

Late in the match David – a solid, foreign-born (Middle Eastern?) forward for the constantly kvetching side that won by SIX goals – made a humorous comment trying to justify the nonstop whining by his teammates. “Our wives are constantly yelling at us all week long telling us what to do, so the soccer field is the only place where we get to yell back.” I had to laugh as this gave me further justification to relish in the glory of being a bachelor at thirty-seven.

The second match was much friendlier and much less chippy. Sure there was the usual amount of sniping from the old-timers (who are gradually closer to my own age…or is it that I’m getting closer to theirs?), but nothing compared to the ever-present dissent in the first match.

The rain that fell gently towards the end of the first half eventually gave way to more sun again as the game neared its 8-1 conclusion. The players thanked me and I was soon off for a bite to eat downtown at McCormick & Schmick’s before crossing the river for three coed indoor games to end my workday.

The first game was super-mellow. It included the friendly face of Brazilian Tarciso Velho who went to college in Porto Alegre, the first stop on my tour. The second game included Jack, who’s game ended out at Cook Park just a couple hours earlier where I had been refereeing. There would be more mellowness, much to my relief and delight.

The third was a faceoff between the two squads that I have beers with most frequently, Evolution vs. Team PEU (Pub at the End of the Universe). In fact, before the game began, my friend Beth confirmed that I’d be joining her and the rest of her squad for a beer or two just a few blocks away at the Basement Pub – a super-smoky joint popular with the eastside hipsters.

I’d stop in for a quick one, but soon left so that I could breathe again, then headed back to my ‘hood to visit my former employers over at Thai Noon. I hadn’t had the yellow curry in quite a while and was planning to bring dinner home, but ended up sitting down at the bar to eat and have a good chat with Noon – who still includes me among her all-time favorite employees.

My dear old friend Mary Miller (who I hadn’t seen in quite a while) came by to join me and we’d head over to Binks, a nearby watering hole. We’d have a pretty far out conversation about quantum physics and the need to feed your soul as well as your brain. Living in the moment is one of the primary methods to making that a reality. And in case you haven’t figured it out yet, my soul is very well fed.

Oh, since she hadn’t seen me since before my recent foray into improved fitness, Mary was quick to point out that I was lookin’ pretty good. I believe her exact words were, “AC, you’re lookin’ hot.” It was a nice way to end the day.

The next morning (Monday) I’d read an op-ed piece by Nicholas Kristof. In it, he skewers the Bush administration’s silence and inaction regarding the ongoing genocide in the Darfur region of western Sudan. I hope you are just as outraged by this as me.

April 17, 2005
OP-ED COLUMNIST
Mr. Bush, Take a Look at MTV
By NICHOLAS D. KRISTOF

When Turkey was massacring Armenians in 1915, the administration of Woodrow Wilson determinedly looked the other way. The U.S. ambassador in Constantinople sent furious cables to Washington, pleading for action against what he called "race murder," but the White House shrugged.

It was, after all, a messy situation, and there was no easy way to stop the killing. The U.S. was desperate to stay out of World War I and reluctant to poison relations with Turkey.

A generation later, American officials said they were too busy fighting a war to worry about Nazi death camps. In May 1943, the U.S. government rejected suggestions that it bomb Auschwitz, saying that aircraft weren't available.

In the 1970's, the U.S. didn't try to stop the Cambodian genocide. It was a murky situation in a hostile country, and there was no perfect solution. The U.S. was also negotiating the establishment of relations with China, the major backer of the Khmer Rouge, and didn't want to upset that process.

Much the same happened in Bosnia and Rwanda. As Samantha Power chronicles in her superb book, "A Problem From Hell: America and the Age of Genocide," the pattern was repeated over and over: a slaughter unfolded in a distant part of the world, but we had other priorities and it was always simplest for the American government to look away.

Now President Bush is writing a new chapter in that history.

Sudan's army and janjaweed militias have spent the last couple of years rampaging in the Darfur region, killing boys and men, gang-raping and then mutilating women, throwing bodies in wells to poison the water and heaving children onto bonfires. Just over a week ago, 350 assailants launched what the U.N. called a "savage" attack on the village of Khor Abeche, "killing, burning and destroying everything in their paths." Once again, there's no good solution. So we've looked away as 300,000 people have been killed in Darfur, with another 10,000 dying every month.

Since I'm of Armenian origin, I've been invited to participate in various 90th-anniversary memorials of the Armenian genocide. But we Armenian-Americans are completely missing the lesson of that genocide if we devote our energies to honoring the dead, instead of trying to save those being killed in Darfur.

Meanwhile, President Bush seems paralyzed in the face of the slaughter. He has done a fine job of providing humanitarian relief, but he has refused to confront Sudan forcefully or raise the issue himself before the world. Incredibly, Mr. Bush managed to get through recent meetings with Vladimir Putin, Jacques Chirac, Tony Blair and the entire NATO leadership without any public mention of Darfur.

There's no perfect solution, but there are steps we can take. Mr. Bush could impose a no-fly zone, provide logistical support to a larger African or U.N. force, send Condoleezza Rice to Darfur to show that it's a priority, consult with Egypt and other allies - and above all speak out forcefully.

One lesson of history is that moral force counts. Sudan has curtailed the rapes and murders whenever international attention increased.

Mr. Bush hasn't even taken a position on the Darfur Accountability Act and other bipartisan legislation sponsored by Senators Jon Corzine and Sam Brownback to put pressure on Sudan. Does Mr. Bush really want to preserve his neutrality on genocide?

Indeed, MTV is raising the issue more openly and powerfully than our White House. (Its mtvU channel is also covering Darfur more aggressively than most TV networks.) It should be a national embarrassment that MTV is more outspoken about genocide than our president.

If the Bush administration has been quiet on Darfur, other countries have been even more passive. Europe, aside from Britain, has been blind. Islamic Relief, the aid group, has done a wonderful job in Darfur, but in general the world's Muslims should be mortified that they haven't helped the Muslim victims in Darfur nearly as much as American Jews have. And China, while screaming about Japanese atrocities 70 years ago, is underwriting Sudan's atrocities in 2005.

On each of my three visits to Darfur, the dispossessed victims showed me immense kindness, guiding me to safe places and offering me water when I was hot and exhausted. They had lost their homes and often their children, and they seemed to have nothing - yet in their compassion to me they showed that they had retained their humanity. So it appalls me that we who have everything can't muster the simple humanity to try to save their lives.

E-mail: nicholas@nytimes.com

Sadly, Monday would also be the day that we’d find out about the unfortunate death of one of the world’s greatest warriors for justice – Marla Ruzicka, 28, - founder of the Campaign for Innocent Victims in Conflict. The young woman who had dedicated her life to helping the peoples of war-torn lands had died in an explosion caused by a roadside bomb in Iraq where she was going door-to-door conducting surveys of the human and financial losses suffered by the families of those affected. She was single-handedly responsible for working with Congress to allocate $20 million to the families of the victims of those killed or injured as a result of U.S. aggression. Marla was a true hero and her loss is a terrible loss for the whole world.

Later in the morning I’d call my Mom to check in and say hello. I was bummed to learn that she was feeling lousy and having a battery of tests run to find out why. Besides the fact that I hope her condition generally improves, I’d be really disappointed is she’s not able to make it to Spain in little more than a month for my cousin Gabe’s wedding in Valencia.

I, however, was feeling quite good after my recent fitness test a couple days earlier and headed over to the Red Cross for my ritualistic commitment to helping others continue to live. During the routine pre-screening I was happy to see that my blood pressure and pulse were a little lower than usual, a testament to my solid health. After the blood-letting was over, I’d almost walked out before picking up the most important thing. No, I had plenty of cookies. I’m talking about my EIGHT GALLON PIN! (And that doesn’t even include the one-and-a-half gallons I gave before migrating out west.) It’s taken nearly fifteen years and sixty-four donations, but I’ve finally reached this noteworthy milestone.

Over at the Fir I was delighted to see that Kris Miles was back at work. He’d been on a leave of absence for more than a month and I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever see him again. He seemed to be in good spirits and quite happy to be back in action.

Down in the office I’d have a good chat with my boss Jana. It was the first time I’d seen her since our serious discussion a week earlier. I complimented her on her professionalism and communication skills in dealing with important managerial matters, especially as they pertained to me.

As my shift was just getting underway I momentarily caught a glimpse of a guy named Robert who I’d met at the Pizza Hut near Duniway Park way back in ’90. It was my first job in Portland and Robert, a native Portlander, was about my current age (thirty-seven) at that time. I hadn’t seen him around much in the intervening years, but I was glad to see he was still alive and well.

Soon thereafter I greeted my pal Nizar’s old buddy Rashid who was out with fellow PDCer Sarah (colleague of my friend Keith – who also works down at the Portland Development Commission – but not his ex-fianceé). They were obviously enjoying a relaxing moment together cuddled up next to one other at table 139.

A short while later I’d drag Mike Quinn – one of the troika of Fir owners – outside for a private chat. Proving what a small town Portland can sometimes be, I shared some personal gossip about him that I’d learned from my friend Mary Miller the night before. He apparently had his eye on one of Mary’s close friends and I thought I’d feed him what little bit of info I could to help the cause. Quinn would occasionally pepper me with random questions over the next couple hours as he sat at the north bar keeping a low profile, watching the dinner shift cruise along at a mellow pace.

The night itself was more-or-less a dud, saved somewhat by a delightful group of four sisters (about my age and slightly older) who I took care of for a couple of hours in the early going. They were a joy to serve and eventually built up a tab in excess of a hundred-and-fifty bucks. And as their meal was winding down I was ordered to sit down and relax for a moment. They were insistent. Suddenly, a pair of very strong hands were massaging my shoulders, the kindly sisters concerned about my well-being.

When it came time to pay up I grabbed the credit card of the one whose married name was Vasilieff. She was impressed that I pronounced her name correctly and could also identify her husband’s Russian heritage. Well, naturally, that launched me into a dissertation about the Football for Peace Tour, which intrigued them all. The one named Vasilieff would go on to tell me that she and her husband were preparing for two years of travel, suggesting that we should connect somewhere out there during our global meanderings.

It should be noted that ‘the massager’ was quite impressed earlier when I brought a glass of ice for her water without ever asking for it. (I knew that she’d want it though because she’d asked for ice for her water earlier and it had eventually melted.) And this was after I sold her a $31 steak (that’s what it’s called) after she’d originally ordered the salmon ($18), which we were out of. Yes, the sisters were quite happy with me and I was quite happy with them. I wish all my tables could be so pleasant and trouble-free. And I wish my soccer games could all come and go without complaint (actually, not really as I do sort of enjoy the controversy). But I do truly wish that the world was all gumdrops and sunshine.

Back at home I’d see that someone (perhaps one of my old XPAC compadres who I’d reconnected with recently?) had posted a story about my website on www.blueoregon.com (a forum for progressive politics) . Little by little I’m happy to see that Planet Soccer is making waves.

Tuesday, April 19th would be the the ten-year anniversary of the horrific Oklahoma City bombing, conducted not by Muslim fundamentalists as first believed, but rather, by homegrown terrorists with a serious axe to grind. This was a day for me, at least, that will be forever unforgettable because it was also the day that Joleen fired me. Joleen’s a notorious lifelong bureaucrat who’s been entrenched as a paid apparatchik for the City’s neighborhood associations. As I was a whistle blower of sorts, it was completely reasonable that Joleen would eventually let me go in order to stop the bleeding. And despite the untimely roadblock in my career that day, I felt quite fortunate in comparison to the unlucky souls whose lives were extinguished at the hands of hate-filled Timothy McVeigh.

I’d spend the hours before heading off to the Fir engrossed in the whole ridiculous Papal conclave saga. The smoke poured out and it looked white, but all reports were saying it was black. Couldn’t they find a less arcane method of announcing the election of the new Pope? I mean, hey, it looked white and everybody in the crowd seemed convinced, but the bells weren’t ringing. There’d already been one false alarm and the MSNBC papal pundits were nervous about making another bad call. Is this really NEWS? Well, I couldn’t wait for the results; I had to hop in the shower.

By the time I’d cleaned up a few minutes later the bells were tolling. One can only wonder what kind of back room politics were occurring during the past few days, not mention the entire lengthy period of John Paul’s failing health. What strings had the still-anonymous new Pope pulled to rise to ascendancy?

Before heading off to work a Cardinal addressed the square in Latin, introducing the new Pope. It was Ratzinger, the German Cardinal who seemed to be the frontrunner from the beginning. Franken and Sarducci joked about the man who presided over John Paul’s funeral. He is apparently very conservative, not much of a departure from the old guard. ‘That’s ok though’, I figured, Benedict XVI as he’ll now be referred to is seventy-eight and will likely only serve in this über-pious capacity for no more than a decade or so; a long time by our own personal standards, but just a blip in the long history of the Church, which is in dire need of serious reform.

I couldn’t help but wonder what a strange thing it must be to go from being just one of many to becoming the mouthpiece for God. Which direction will God instruct Benedict to take us?

Down at work my boss Jana would ask me about my friend Anna Miller who she recently met through their roller derby club, which seems to be making a resurgence here in sleepy ol’ Stumptown. Another rambunctious friend of mine, ‘Hot’ Molly, is also part of the troupe of roller-skatin’ ruffians – all of whom seem to be taller-than-average, tough, but sexy gals. I look forward to catching them in action if they ever get it together enough to perform in front of the public.

Keith would call as my shift was getting underway to inform me that the results of the lottery for the first go’round at acquiring World Cup tickets would be announced that coming Friday. Hopefully the chips would fall in my favor.

At Claire’s table 137 was an aging British punk band. The back of one guy’s shirt read “Propaganda feeds the hate machine, No lessons learned from history – War is Hell…Hell is War!”. Those aren’t just empty words. It’s a sad reflection of the world today.

Back in the kitchen I’d learn from the new cook Carl that the shirt was for a band called Discharge and the guys I was serving were Broken Bones, in town for a show at a nearby club.

Meanwhile a short while later at table 136, the male customer there wanted to hear more of my rant against John Paul II. I really feel like his arcane perspective on pragmatic birth control methods has contributed greatly to the burgeoning population growth and proliferation of sexually transmitted diseases in the developing world.

Towards the end of my shift I’d wait on my manager Jana, our GM Todd, and their friend Denny who just got a job as a golf instructor out at Pumpkin Ridge – the course made famous by Tiger Woods when he won the U.S. amateur championship (twice I believe) before becoming the mega-superstar that he is today.

My last customer of the day was a sound technician who was in town to take care of business down at Berbati’s later that evening. But he told me that after setting things up he intended to come back over to the east side to catch the show downstairs at the Fir. He was raving about the guy who he’d just finished chatting with – a singer/songwriter named Josh Rouse who I’d served over at table 142. I told him that I’d try to make it down for the 9pm show after refereeing later that night.

While eating my lunch and chatting with the super easygoing Brent – the Fir’s Production Manager – we’d chat a bit about my other job. He’d acknowledge that I am “probably a good referee” since I seem to have a real love for the game. He was right (about my love for the game that is) and later on in the day I’d prove him to be right. You’ll soon see what I mean.

Throughout the day I’d heard from three different people that their games out at Delta Park had been cancelled. First it was Keith in the a.m. and then it was Cooley when he showed up for work at the Fir and the latest was via email from my friend and former teammate Kevin Richards. He even passed along the email that had been written by the league scheduler and sent along to team managers. ‘But why had nobody bothered to tell Eric?’ I wondered.

So I called him, even relating the email to him, and this was all news to him (Eric that is). It was already past five and the games started in little more than an hour, so there was really nothing he could do to get ahold of us all before heading to the fields. So not expecting to get a workout on the pitch, I decided to ride my bike down to Delta Park with all my gear in my pack just in case.

Upon arriving I saw mostly-empty fields with crews of yellow-shirted referees standing around scratching their heads. Luckily for them, I had the inside scoop on the communication breakdown that had resulted in us not getting word of the sudden field closures. (It had rained a lot over the weekend and the fields needed some recovery time.)

But there were a couple of teams that hadn't gotten the word either. One was the All-African squad formerly known as the Abyssinians but reborn this season as The New Born Tribe with a mostly different lineup. They were on the field I was supposed to be at and on the adjacent field was a team clad in silver jerseys. Their goalie came over for a chat and it was Jeremy, a guy I’d gotten to know over at Portland Indoor. He was playing on a new team called McFadden’s (a popular spot downtown which seems to cater to the metro area’s younger set of the ‘bridge and tunnel crowd’. The team was mostly comprised of players formerly with SAFC and the Green Room. The SAFC bunch includes more than half-a-dozen guys who I used to play on the Lucky Lab indoor team with, and the Green Room was a team I played with back in the mid-to-late 90s. The Green Room squad has reconstituted themselves somewhat for this season as Green Dawn SC. Confused yet?

Suffice to say that I encouraged The New Born Tribe to take on McFadden’s in a scrimmage with me in the middle. They’d accept and eventually we’d get things underway. Now keep in mind, I already knew I was being paid whether I stuck around or not, but I wanted to get a good run in, plus I really love to officiate a good game as I suspected this might be.

Both teams were very grateful for my generosity in sticking around. However, this didn’t stop them from occasionally screaming at me anyway. But it never got out of hand and the game was mostly played with a spirit of sportsmanship, which pleased me greatly.

During the game, MacFaddens' defender Hugh asked me how my bike that he’d sold me was treating me, happy to see me riding it to the game. Little relationships like this are what make my forays onto the pitch generally so enjoyable.

My friends would easily dismantle the undisciplined, yet skilled African side and after the game I chilled along the touchline with my old mate Andy and a few others as the sun was setting in the western sky. Sean and Erica generously drove me over to the Rose & Thistle to join the others for a few cocktails. And once there, Martin from Belfast bought me a drink, thanking me for my troubles. I must say that moments like these more than make up for the seemingly ceaseless abuse I must occasionally endure.

Games like this epitomize the spirit of camaraderie, sportsmanship, and goodwill that serve as the very foundation of what the Football for Peace Tour is all about. I was glad to have been a part of such an affair and hope to see it duplicated many times over before the summer is through.

Until next time…

peace,
ac

The Pro Clinic and Lessons Learned (April 25th, 2005)

On the way up to the mountain Thursday morning I’d learn that the spring run of Chinook was remarkably low. An estimated 230,000 had been predicted to make their way back up the Columbia on their annual trek to their spawning grounds. But at this early stage only TWO HUNDRED had been counted out at Bonneville, leaving fish biologists scratching their heads wondering why.

About half-an-hour later news of the devastating decision by the State Supreme Court to advocates of gay marriage. In a sweeping move, the Court not only nullified more than 3000 marriages between gay couples in Multnomah County (Portland), but they also ordered that the marriages never existed in the first place since the County didn’t have the authority to grant licenses to gay couples. It was a decision with national implications for this extremely divisive issue.

The snow up at the mountain – five fresh inches of superlite – wasn’t enough to keep me afloat. The firm surface underneath was hard and strewn with death cookies, threatening to undo me at any moment. Once Cascade Express finally opened I headed up to the top (of the resort, still 2,500’ below the summit) to see what the mountain had to offer in the way of fresh. But the windswept landscape posed a variety of challenges and I, frankly, wasn’t interested in getting tossed anymore after a clandestine drift sent me into a somersault at a high rate of speed.

So in search of a low impact, cardio workout I headed just a few miles away to the White River Canyon Sno-Park to check out that familiar valley one last time this year. With my Pro ref clinic only a couple days away, I wanted to get my heart-rate going one last time before the fitness test at 8am on Saturday morning. I had considered poaching some more runs down Heather like I’d done the other day, but avy danger seemed sort of high and I didn’t want to chance it. Sometimes you just have to play it safe (a statement primarily directed towards my mother).

So I skied up to the moraine – a couple miles up the coulee – and then up a steep ravine to the ridge that leads to Timberline Lodge. There was just barely enough new snow on the lower part of the trail (actually, a road) to cover up the larger rocks underneath, but it was actually quite pleasant cruising uphill amidst a few inches of fresh.

The last ravine was a heart-pounding challenge. The deep, undamaged snow combined with the steep angle of the slope made for slow, methodical going. But once I finally arrived at the top of ridge I scouted about a bit for the line that I’d spied on the way up. Things looked different from this perspective and I was a little nervous about bashing my knee into invisible obstacles. Part-way down I caught a clean line and pointed ‘em downhill for a couple hundred yards to the gentle valley below. My adrenaline rush was soon over, and less than fifteen minutes later back at my car so was my abbreviated ski season. For it seemed unlikely that I’d be slapping on the boards again this year as a return to more springtime weather was in the forecast.

Back down in town I’d chat about my alpine exploits with Frances, the cute girl behind the counter at Toney Bento where I ate lunch. She’d apparently spent a few years as a ski bum up at Stevens Pass in Washington and was curious to know how my day had been up on the hill.

Nearby at Powell’s on Hawthorne later that sunny, pleasant afternoon I ran into an old friend. I grabbed the seat in the coffee shop next to Andy Berlin, a friend of almost ten years who I hadn’t seen much of in the past five. (We live on opposite sides of town now and we don’t play on the same soccer team like we once did back in the day.) I was happy to learn that Andy’s a high school teacher at Jefferson, helping shape the minds of Portland’s inner city youth – a very diverse group indeed.

But eventually, as with most days, I headed off to the soccer pitch. And as had been the case throughout most of the winter, it was Tualatin Indoor where I’d spend my early evening. Before things got underway, the facility’s owner – Monty Hawkins – slipped me ten bucks to compensate me somewhat for the recent spate of forfeits I’d endured. It was a generous move on his part; and he even got my name right finally, calling me Aaron, not Arnie as he’d been doing since last fall.

In charge of the next three kids games I’d witness some massive blowouts – game 2 was 20 – nil (yes, you read that right) and game 3 was only 9 – nil. My last game of the night featured Southside Dads Rock (which includes several Frenchmen) – the same team that had given me holy hell a week earlier in a match that would end in fisticuffs thanks to the fierce play of their keeper. With him sitting out serving a two-game suspension things were vastly different in a very tight affair. With only eight seconds remaining, a six-all deadlock was broken as Southside won the match with a well-struck header by a potential hothead (but not on this occasion) named Kerry. I was glad that things proceeded much more smoothly than they had a week earlier.

Back at home to unload all my gear and prepare for my trip to Seattle I sat down to watch a tape of that day’s UEFA Cup match between AZ Alkmaar (a Dutch squad) vs. Villarreal (a Spanish side). The home Alkmaar side scored an early opener and then in the 20th minute each team had a player sent off, and deservedly so.

I’d leave after the first half at around quarter past ten to head down to the Crystal Ballroom for the Everyone Orchestra – a hippie-fest featuring Jon Fishman; an event produced by my friend Deb Delman, co-founder of the Pangaea Project… www.pangaeaproject.org. My neighbor Dahna was there with a crew of her Oregon Country Fair-lovin’ friends. I’d also cross paths with Dan Sherwin (and his wife Deb). We’d banter about our mutual passion – backcountry skiing…as well as Football for Peace. They’d been to Bolivia and weren’t particularly fond of La Paz, but encouraged me to check out Lake Titicaca – particularly Copacabana and the Isla del Sol – the spiritual heart of the Incan gods.

After that I’d soak in the show as a dozen or more musicians jammed together up on the stage. Eventually I’d get off my ass, enjoying the scene even more. The highlight was a revved up version of “Tangled Up in Blue” – the Bob Dylan classic that Jerry Garcia performed so masterfully and soulfully over the years.

When it was over I’d planned on sticking around to schmooze with Fishman, having purchased a VIP ticket for an extra fifteen bucks, but lost momentum as the crowd filtered out. Soon thereafter, I was in my car listening to the BBC. Ironically, it featured an interview with a Harvard economist who helped solve Bolivia’s hyperinflation woes during the mid-80s at the start of his career.

Back at home I’d watch the second half of AZ Alkmaar vs. Villarreal, the Spanish side evening things up in the 73rd, still in need of another tally to take the two-game series into extra time. But in the end, the Dutch side managed to hang on at home despite relentless pressure by Villarreal. And finally, my long day would come to an end, Alkmaar moving into the semis of the UEFA Cup.

Friday morning on Franken I’d learn that the FCC had clamped down on the Bush administration’s release of bogus “news” releases. From now on when you see one of these canned infomercials there will be a disclaimer alerting you to this fact. Oh, and by the way, the Senate voted 98 – 0 in order to enact this bit of common sense legislation.

Then, after taking my car in for an oil change, I walked a few blocks over to Portland Indoor Soccer to do some writing and to see if the Fir’s bar manager, Chris Cooley, would be roughed up again by that clown Eric who I really don’t like. As things were about to get underway I’d see someone I’d never seen there before, Danny Rhee – my referee colleague (one of the top few in Oregon) who’s moving back to Hawaii soon. We’d tentatively make plans to go skiing together the following week.

Over the course of the next couple of hours I’d shoot the shit with a large number of “my people” while plugging away on the keyboard. And I’m happy to report that Cooley managed to finish the day virtually unscathed, perhaps in large part due to the fact that “Eric the Thug” never showed up.

As things were winding down I’d chat a bit with Igor, a stocky Russian from Kharbovsk (a ‘Sister City’ of Portland he’d inform me) who I’d written about before. After looking at my ‘business’ card and handing it over to Abbie – a 50-something regular at PIS who originally hails from Somalia – Igor came back over to where I was sitting and said in his accented-English, “Hey Mr. Ambassador, give me another card. I just gave it to Abbie.” Then he asked me if I wanted to know the Russian word for ‘peace’ since I have it printed in several different languages on the back of my card. “Sure”, I said, “what is it?” When he replied, “Mir”, I said, “Oh, like the space station.” That made sense. We tried to find the Cyrillic lettering for it on my computer, but came up empty-handed unfortunately.

When ‘noon play’ was over and a group of the internationals (a Brazilian, a Somalian, a Russian, a Puerto Rican, a Scot, a Romanian, a few Americans, and maybe one or two other nationalities I couldn’t quite identify) were sitting around drinking beer and laughing, I overheard Abbie say, “Ask him, he’s a referee.” When all the heads turned my way at the desk nearby where I was plugging away, I sheepishly (and sarcastically) replied, “No I’m not.” They were curious about a rule interpretation and wanted my input. In typical referee fashion and because it was one of those gray-areas, I gave them what I thought to be the correct answer, but took Abbie’s card, promising to do a little research and get back to him via email. Besides looking for the truth in the rulebook, I felt quite certain that I’d find the answer at the following day’s Pro clinic up in Seattle. ‘Maybe my buddy Simon could enlighten me during our three-hour drive up I-5’, I thought. (In case you're wondering, the question pertained to the legality of a stutter step by the kicker of a pk. I believed it to be essentially legal and have subsequently found out that I'm correct...phew!)

Ricardo (a Ukrainian Brazilian) and I would talk a bit about Porto Alegre (Brazil), his hometown that’ll be the first stop on my tour. He was wondering if his cousin Eduardo (who I used to referee with in the mid 90s) had ever gotten ahold of me regarding my visit. He hadn’t, and I promised to drop Ricardo another email sometime soon to remind him.

Soon thereafter I was off with my buddy Matt who lives half the year in Thailand. He’d called to see if I was interested in running an errand with him across the river to the Justice Center downtown. He wanted to check the police records on a property he was considering buying, skeptical that it might have been a drug house at one time or another.

Along the way he’d tell me about his relationship woes on the other side of the Pacific. He’d recently found out that his girlfriend had been two-timing him. Doing what I could to console him, the best I could come up with was, “isn’t that just the way of the world?” Sadly, it seems all too true that real meaningful relationships are less and less common these days.

After our brief visit downtown we’d head back over to the east side for a bite to eat at the Lucky Lab – a quintessentially Portland microbrewery in which Matt is a part-owner, albeit a very small percentage of the pie. We’d talk more about his personal matters as I munched down a sandwich and he sipped on a beer. (I abstained from having a brew of my own as I’d been doing all week in advance of Saturday’s fitness test.) Eventually though, it was time for me to pick up my car from Metro Metric and head back across to the west side to pick up Simon from work at the super-shwanky REI (outdoor gear) store in the Pearl District.

Within minutes we were on our way, wading through the Friday early rush-hour traffic on I-5. Quickly, we dove into a conversation about all-things related to the enigmatic and perhaps esoteric world of refereeing. For most of the next three-plus hours we’d share war stories that only a fellow colleague could appreciate. It was good to have a captive audience, a friend who’d been in the trenches fighting for respect and credibility just like me. And despite the fact that Simon had reached the professional ranks only a few years after we both began our careers in the mid-90s, I was surprised to learn that he too had faced a number of stumbling blocks along the way. Nevertheless, he was deft at the art of political gamesmanship and as recently as two nights earlier had served as one of the officials for the Portland Timbers – LA Galaxy exhibition match; something I can only aspire to in the years ahead.

Among the many things we covered during our journey was Simon’s lifelong support for Leeds United, a team, at least for now, mired in England’s next-to-top league – the Nationwide First Division. He’d share with me one his team’s supporters' favorite songs, a ditty that harshly chastises Chelsea and its throngs of fans. We’d talk about the provincialism that was so prevalent throughout the game during most of the 20th century – a narrow-minded way of thinking that seems to be disappearing as the world becomes ever smaller; a trend that I hope to perpetuate throughout my global travels.

Around 7pm we’d arrived at Kate’s place (Annie B.’s little sister) in the Wallingford district, north of downtown Seattle. We unloaded our bags into the adorable, well-groomed apartment then headed back down the street for some sushi at a popular joint called Musashi’s. Breaking my weeklong alcohol abstinence, I indulged in sharing an English pint (twenty ounces) of Sapporo beer with my English pal. I jokingly warned him that if I struggled in the fitness test the following day that it would be he who was to blame.

By 9pm we were back at Kate’s cozy pad, lounging comfortably in her living room. As I pounded the keys of my computer listening to Ira Flato (sp?) on NPR’s ‘Science Friday’, Simon kicked his feet up on the couch, quickly dozing off into an easy slumber. As I’d set my alarm to go off at 6:15am, it was only a matter of time until I would do the same.

I’d have a fitful night of sleep, though, anxious about the 8am fitness test. In addition, I had to pee for what seemed like most of the night, but was too lazy to climb down the ladder that led to the loft where I was sleeping. And to add a little misery to the whole experience, I had the this ongoing dream that I was in North Korea; perhaps an internal response to my antipathy for all things of a regimented nature. But I gotta play the game if I wanna be in the game. And believe me, I wanna be in the game.

And to imagine the kind of sacrifices we make in order to officiate, especially at the pro level. It was just pissing down rain when I awoke and I dreaded the thought of being timed at various distances in less than a couple hours. Built for speed I am not.

As we headed back to the freeway we caught the tail end of a story on NPR about some soccer match in support of fair trade. I can’t say who was playing and which organization in particular the match was to benefit, but I like the idea of using soccer to promote an ideal…as long, of course, as it’s something I agree with and that it isn’t crammed down’ peoples’ throats by some government entity.

Simon and I arrived before at least 75% of the others and before virtually all of the Oregon contingent. Crammed into a stadium tunnel at Lake Washington High School (known as the Kangs…short for Kangaroos), the check-in paperwork that needed to be administered was a clusterfuck of chaos, exacerabated by the strong wind and heavy rain. Eventually, however, we headed down to the track, covered in huge puddles. It was hard to imagine how we would be able sprint and run long distances on such a waterlogged track.

But run we did. And I’m happy to report that each of my times had improved slightly over the previous month’s fitness test when I became a State Ref. None of my times were earth-shattering, however, they were certainly acceptable to run lines in the A–League and the Pro Development League (PDL). For the twelve-minute run I completed 2500m – a little more than six laps. I was mortified to see one of Oregon’s top referees (who shall remain nameless) walking during part of the twelve-minute run. It was shameful, even in light of the fact that he’d been the center official the night before in a match between the Mexican Women’s National Team and the University of Portland – a perennial top-ranked program.

Before cooling down completely it was time to dive into the 50m, which I shaved over half-a-second off from a month earlier to cross the line in a ‘blazing’ 7.5 seconds. Then we sat around (standing in the rain actually) for what seemed like an eternity. It seemed a terrible hardship to have to endure the brutality of a 200m sprint after cooling down so thoroughly to the point of being chilled.

Eventually, it was my turn to go and I was lined up alongside Scott Cule – a young up-and-comer in his early twenties who’d definitely bulked up in the past year or so. Still, I was sure he’d blow me away.

But to my amazement, I was in the lead ahead of Scott and three others as I rounded the curve after the first hundred. ‘How was I going so fast?’ I wondered as I looked down the long straightaway. But within a few seconds my question was answered as most of the others accelerated past me having saved themselves for the stretch run. Scott would pull ahead by a meter or two but then I kicked it into overdrive managing to cross the finish line alongside my compadre. 32.5 seconds was my time, about what I’d scored last time out.

I was psyched to be mostly done, but dreading the second round of sprints, especially the 200. But as we were all gathering ‘round to line up for the 50 again, word came from the administrators on hand that we were done. In an act of mercy, they’d decided that they didn’t want anyone to get injured, so only those refs who were ‘going for National’ (which I and most others were not) were required to repeat the sprints.

Well…I couldn’t have been more elated. Within minutes I was back inside the Lake Washington High School putting on a dry change of clothing. While waiting for the meat of the clinic to get underway I’d introduce myself to Jim Sernoffsky, President of the OISOA. Realizing who I was – the angry ref who’d felt he’d been shafted by that very organization a year earlier – Jim asked to have a word with me at the end of the day after the clinic was over. I figured maybe he’d want to have a face-to-face in light of my recent less-than-upbeat missive I’d sent to the two individuals who I felt had wronged me last spring (one of whom was also attending the Pro clinic and had greeted me cheerily out on the track).

The instructors for the clinic were two of America’s most esteemed officials. Esse Baharmast, a native Iranian, had been the U.S. representative to the World Cup in France in ’98 and Sandy Hunt is also a veteran at the highest levels of the women’s game. Esse began by telling us a powerful story about a railroad worker who loved his job and was happy to do it even though he never achieved fame or fortune. He was comparing each of us in attendance at the clinic to that hard-working railwayman. He’d conclude this opening ‘thank you’ with a PowerPoint slideshow featuring photos of us laboring away on the track amidst puddles, the cold, and heavy rain. It was quite moving in a way as it was set some powerful ‘Chariots of Fire’-style music. Esse continued by thanking us for our dedication.

For the first ninety minutes of his presentation he’d focus on player management. To illuminate the point that we aren’t too good for any game, he used a restaurant analogy that particularly hit home for me. His point was that in a restaurant, the server might prefer to only wait on big spendin’ big tippers, but they must provide quality service to all of their clientele. The same holds true for the referee who might prefer to be working a top level match when in fact he’s officiating a kids’ game. We must treat our customers (players, coaches, and fans) well, no matter what level the match is.

Another memorable anecdote during Esse’s presentation featured the game’s participants in the tunnel moments before Argentina – England at the 2002 World Cup. Collina, the paramount symbol of fair play in the game of football, was seen joking with Verón and Beckham, the respective captains who must’ve had jangling nerves despite their cool veneers. Esse’s point was to show Collina’s deft art of creating goodwill amongst soon-to-be opponents; even ones as he put it “couldn’t even agree on the name of some remote South Atlantic islands. The Argentines call them The Malvinas and the English call them The Falklands. And here we have them playing in the World Cup against one another.” Ironically, one of the many things that Simon and I had talked about on the way up I-5 was this totally unnecessary war down in the Falklands. All over a bunch of sheep.

Talk about pathetic.

At lunch I’d stop over to say hello to Bob Evans, the Welsh former FIFA Referee who lives in California where he works as a geologist. I’d met Bob a year earlier at a clinic for the Oregon college referee association (OISOA); a meeting I attended before the powers-that-be spurned by admittance into their club. Nevertheless, I was glad to have participated and connected with the affable top-level official on that day. It made the whole experience worthwhile.

Bob had taken an interest in the notion of the Football for Peace Tour and he willingly shared his writing successes with me. A week or two later I’d receive a copy of his all-encompassing referees' manifesto, “For the Good of the Game”, along with a couple of his published professional articles (one was about deep sea underwater research and the other was about the amazing moving rocks on the floor of Death Valley). I’d thank Bob for his generosity and for taking an interest in my future soccer travels, suggesting that I might stop by his place in Northern Cali in early October to pay him a visit.

After lunch, former FIFA Referee Sandy Hunt focused on positioning for the next ninety minutes. Fitness, of course, was emphasized throughout. During a short break in the action I mentioned to Eduardo Irigoyen – a native Argentine who’s poised to become Oregon’s first National Referee since Eric Beck – that I’d be visiting Córdoba after spending a few days in Buenos Aires in early November; this at the recommendation of our fellow Argentine colleague Juan Barone. “Oh, my mother lives there”, was Edu’s reply. He quickly offered up his family’s home if I wanted a place to stay. And when I told Eduardo that I’d gladly take his mom out to dinner as a way of saying thanks, he said, “No, she will cook you dinner.” Sounds like I’ll be well taken care of in western Argentina.

The next major topic at the clinic was a discussion on ‘the four Ds’. These specifically relate to the four criteria that must be satisfied in order to send a player off for denying an attacker an obvious goal-scoring opportunity. For those interested in this esoteric nuance of the game, ‘the four Ds’ are as follows:
-Number of defenders
-Distance to goal
-Distance to ball
-Direction of play
Essentially, if a player is driving towards the goal and the last defender commits a foul to ‘deny a player an obvious goal-scoring opportunity’ then that player must be shown the red card.

In the final hour we discussed handballs, which as EVERYONE knows, must be DELIBERATE to be considered a foul. This is why about 95% of the time that the ball hits a player’s hand or arm there is no whistle. It’s a simple concept, but one always fraught with controversy in its on-field application.

After a concluding discussion on the taking of penalty kicks, it was finally time to head out into the late afternoon sun. Yes sun. After our miserable run in the morning the day would turn progressively more pleasant. Before heading back to Portland with Simon, I’d sit down for a very frank discussion with Jim Sernoffsky, the President of OISOA – the Oregon Intercollegiate Soccer Officials Association. He’d been privy to all of my angry missives over the past year, including the most recent one in which I restated my disgust at having been treated unfairly during the admissions process a year earlier.

I’d never really spoken to Jim before (other than our brief greeting that morning), but I immediately liked him. The even-keeled fifty-year old man from Eugene provided me some very thoughtful feedback – acknowledging that while it might be true that I was shafted by OISOA, my message might have been lost on its intended recipients due to the angry tone of my writing. It was a valuable lesson and I appreciated his perspective. Nevertheless though, I couldn’t help but wonder if the über-sensitive folks who I’d originally addressed my concerns to were being a little unreasonable.

Among the many things that Simon and I debriefed about on the three-hour drive home was the dialogue that I’d had with Jim. I suggested to Simon that perhaps if I’d written my straight-to-the-point emails to someone on the East Coast then they quite possibly would’ve been received without any complaint. But I guess that was Jim’s point – ‘Know my audience’. It’s a lesson I’ll have to keep in mind in the future.

And to my anonymous cyber-audience, I thank you for your continued interest as the Football for Peace Tour quickly approaches with each passing day.

Until next time...

peace,
ac

Wintertime in Springtime - (April 21st, 2005)

Monday morning I’d head up to the mountain even though there were only 3” of fresh - only half of my ‘required’ 6” minimum. I’d planned on going for an aerobic training tour up White River Canyon, but was willing to be flexible on that point, however.

On the way up to the mountain I’d talk at length with my pal Jeremy who seems intent on developing a documentary about my upcoming travels. The ball was in his court as he was the one who seemed to have access to financing.

Up at White River I’d skin up the barely-covered road, rocks occasionally protruding, little more than a hundred yards before turning back. Without taking my ski boots off, I drove just a few miles over Bennett Pass and up to Mt. Mood Meadows to see what the resort had to offer.

The conditions were marginal at best, but I was optimistic that things would be better down in Heather Canyon. So after a few ‘dust on crust’ runs I skied along Shooting Star Ridge, peering down into the canyon to my left as I sped along. When I saw that the coast was clear I dropped into Heather for a troika of outstanding shots on the north facing aspect of Half Moon Bowl. The snow here was more than a foot deep and protected from sun and wind by the nearby trees, making for some of the best turns of the year.

On OPB on the way home I’d learn that Gov. Kulongoski had designated a few more eastern counties as drought emergencies. Even the recent stretch of precip hadn’t been able to prevent the inevitable.

In other news, it would be reported that inflation outpaced income for the first time in quite a few years (ten or twenty?…I sorta forget, but it was big news that day for sure).

On the way home I’d have a long chat with Eric Beck, the ‘King of Refs’. As usual, he had a lot to say (not about me particularly), and since I was stuck in the car I was willing to let him talk my ear off. Our conversation did eventually come to an end though as I arrived back in my ‘hood. It’s quite possible that it would’ve gone on much longer, but after half-an-hour I was ready to move on. Plus, I had to deal with my gear and soon shower up then immediately head off to work, so my mind was already on my next gig.

And, quite remarkably, nothing of note transpired over the course of a thoroughly unmemorable Monday night at the Fir. Tuesday (lunch), however, would prove to be quite different.

Looking over the shoulder of a customer reading the business pages I’d learn that one of my top-performing stocks, Genentech, had reported strong quarterly earnings. This brightened my mood as the lunch rush got underway.

With lunch now in full swing, a Jesus-lookin’ dude on table 142 took off his hooded pullover to display a brightly-colored sleeveless number with an image of Jesus splashed across it. Turst me, he was quite a sight. Soon, the rest of his 'extended family' would show up. The merry band (literally) of Boulder-based hippies had recently played a show at The Fez Ballroom, but were unable to leave town when their bus broke down. Kan’nal is their name and looking at their promo postcard I gather that their sound is pretty far-out, groovy, spacey stuff. I’d probably like it. Oh, and check this out – all the members apparently met at a volcano in Guatemala.

COSMIC!

Meanwhile, at a nearby table were a couple of beautiful young women who were thoroughly entertained by Jesus and his flock. Really, they were quite a sight from across the restaurant; all totally 60s-style, about a dozen of ‘em taking up three adjacent tables along the east wall with their massive load of luggage and accessories strewn about, making it difficult for me to reach table 143 over in the corner.

Lindsey and Shawna were the girls’ names over on 125 and as I continued to flirt with them a big white school bus rolled up Burnside and I knew…their ride had been fixed. Minutes later Kan’nal filed out and I focused my attention on the entertaining West Hills girls.

My tall, handsome day bartender Jeremiah had his eye on Lindsey – the lovely, dark-haired (but wearing extensions she admitted) gal with gorgeous eyes seated facing towards the bar. He was about to get off work and begged me to tell her to stop back in to visit him sometime, adding that she’s the hottest girl he’d ever seen. So despite my initial apprehension to get involved, I did.

For me personally, I thought her friend Shawna was just as hot if not hotter, so I was more than happy to serve as Jeremiah’s wing-man. Sitting down next to Shawna, I looked over at Lindsey and said “Hey, you know the bartender Jeremiah?”, I asked her. “Yeah, he’s hot,” she replied smiling. “That’s funny,” I fired back. “That’s what he said about you.” A short while later, after a little more discussion she gave me her number to give to him.

Thinking that everything was good to go, I shared my match-making skills with my co-worker Lani when stopped by to chat with me and the girls. But that’s when Jeremiah’s good-fortune all came to an end with this matter-of-fact interjection by Lani. “Oh, you don’t wanna go out with him, honey. He lives with his girlfriend.” I guess I had sort of forgotten about that, but still kinda felt like a schmuck.

Later, I felt like the earlier episode was just fate anyway as Lindsey showed me that she’s a good, God-fearing Christian girl. She had not one, but two faith-based tats. The Isiah 41:10 on her right wrist speaks of Jesus’ right hand and I forget what Psalms 18:1 was all about – perhaps loving God or some such over-arching prayer. Oh, and that one’s etched across her lower back. Very provocative indeed. Almost makes me want to join the faith.

While eating my salad at the end of my shift, Cooley (the bar manager) would bend my ear about the lousy ref he had in his Mexican league game (a league I don’t work in) the previous Sunday. Refs…it’s too bad that we have so much impact on the overall entertainment value of a game. It’s a huge responsibility.

As I walked out into the day to head out to my first outdoor game of the Spring/Summer season, small, but progressively larger chunks of ice began to pelt me from above. By the time I reached my car about a block away the heavens had unleashed a frozen fury. During the second-and-a-half that my car door was open my car seat was covered with several dozen white pellets. It didn’t look good for my game at Ed Benedict Park way out in deep SE Portland (100th/Powell).

But as game-time approached the skies allowed some sunlight through from the western sky. Just to the north and moving east, however, was the storm I’d recently been in the midst of, sparing us by just a mile or two.

After gearing up by my car I walked over to the field as one of my assistants arrived from the other side of the pitch. To my surprise it was Osama. No, not bin Laden. It was a somewhat-less-notorious Osama with the surname Qutub. Osama’s a likeable enough character, but not necessarily who you’d want to work a game with. Plus, I had noticed on “King” Eric’s referee website that Osama had been taken off the game about a week earlier. ‘But perhaps Eric had reassigned the game to him for some reason’, I thought.

My next assistant to show up was Tod Pickett, who wasn’t on the schedule at all, but had apparently been called by Eric earlier that day to fill the hole in the schedule. ‘OK, so maybe Peg Phillips wasn’t doing the game anymore’, I thought. But then she showed up a few minutes before game time, having been stuck in miserable storm-exacerbated freeway traffic. So now I had a dilemma; I had three assistants, but only needed two.

I had a feeling that Osama was trying to pull a fast one, but he insisted that he didn’t know why Eric had taken him off the schedule and that he was supposed to be there. Tod, not wanting to cause me any problems decided that he’d just leave since Osama was adamant that he was entitled to work the game. I thanked Tod and promised to talk to Eric about these strange goings-on.

It was a Men’s Open division two match between a couple of teams whose players I mostly know. Oregon Chai was always one of the sides I really enjoyed playing against because its squad is filled with a number of old friends and acquaintances, so it was nice to see them as usual. I reminisced with some of them about a loss my old team Thunder! sustained against Chai in the final moments of a game on this very pitch a few years back. I recalled turning the ball over in my own half to my friend/opponent Brad Paymar who fired the long-range game-winner on that day.

The field was sloppy, but the spirits were high as the game got underway amidst brilliant sunshine, making it difficult to see with the ball to my west. Chai would turn their one goal half-time deficit around in the darker second half, their second coming from a brilliantly-placed volley from beyond the box by Phil – the stocky, lumbering character who’d spent the first half tending goal.

There were pleas for a pk from their opponents, Plan B (which is another term for the ‘morning after’ pill, I believe) in the dying moments of the match, but I think I made the right decision and so did most of the players it seemed. In the end, it would be a good start to my season…and for Chai’s too as they escaped with a slim 2 – 1 victory.

I’d stop by my old stomping grounds, Thai Noon, for dinner. Paul – an upbeat, beefy character who I know from Portland Indoor – was there taking photos. He’d go on to tell me that he’s Chip’s (the owner’s) cousin and was taking some promotional shots for him.

Back at home scarfing down my peppered garlic, I sat down to watch the Champions League second leg match between Bayern Munich and Chelsea with the EPL leaders out front with a 4 – 2 lead after the match in London.

Frank Lampard seemingly sews it up for Chelsea in the 30th minute, now with a 5 – 2 lead, as his powerful blast from nearly thirty yards out is deflected by the defender Lucio, leaving his keeper Oliver Kahn helplessly diving the wrong way as the ball bounds unmolested into the back of the net. It should be noted that the guilty Brazilian defender for Bayern also redirected a shot by Joe Cole in the first leg, thus opening the scoring in London two weeks earlier.

Renowned Peruvian striker Claudio Pizarro tapped in a rebound off the post that eluded Chelsea keeper Peter Cech in the 65th minute. It was probably too little too late for the Bavarian squad as they still needed two more goals to advance to the semifinals. It should be noted that upon viewing the replay, the announcers failed to recognize what was an obviously missed offside call by the assistant referee; for Pizarro was in an offside position when his teammate Roy Makaay redirected a cross with his head, the shot bouncing off the post into the path of the onrushing Peruvian forward. Bayern Munich 1 – Chelsea 1 (3 – 5 on aggregate).

Bayern dominated the match after that, but Mourniho’s boys were too much as Frenchman Didier Drogba put the final nail in Bayern’s coffin, rising high to meet a perfectly struck cross by his English teammate Joe Cole. Bayern Munich 3 – Chelsea 6, on aggregate.

But just as Drogba’s header eluded Ollie Kahn, I received a call from my ‘boss’ Eric Beck. “You are GUILTY,” he proclaimed, referring to my decision to allow Osama to work as my assistant earlier in the evening even though he wasn’t listed on the website. When the conversation was over, however, I’d smoothed everything over as Osama had blatantly lied to me, knowing full well that he had been suspended from refereeing until May 1st. I was pissed though, telling Eric to never schedule Osama to work with me again. He had blatantly lied to all of us and I think that’s a complete bunch of shit. He should be permanently banned from officiating. As it is, he won’t get paid for working that match anyway; Eric’s gonna pay Tod since it was he who was actually scheduled to work the game.

Bayern would manage to pull back the final goal in the 90th minute, but it was definitely too little too late as the game would end in a 2 – all draw, Chelsea moving on to the UEFA Champions League semifinals 6 – 4 on aggregate.

But wait!!! Mehmet Scholl would put in Bayern’s third of the match in the FIFTH minute of stoppage time to bring them within a goal of tying up the two-game series, but still down 6 – 5 on aggregate. It would be the second-to-last touch of the match as the ensuing kickoff would bring the referee’s final whistle and with it safe passage to the next round for the side from West London.

I’d wake up Wednesday morning to the disappointing news that very little snow had fallen up at the mountain overnight. But I’d blocked Annie B.’s car in, planning to be out the door before her, and eventually needed to move to let her out around 7:30 or so. On the radio (NPR) I’d learn that Nike had become the first major footwear manufacturer to provide complete transparency of its operations – disclosing the locations of all of its overseas factories and operations. The skeptic in me can’t help but wonder if that list also includes their subcontractors as well.

At least my decision not to go skiing allowed me to sleep in and eventually watch the live broadcast of the historic Champions League match in Turin between Juventus and Liverpool. As a reminder, these are the teams who were about to play in the 1985 European Cup Final when tragedy struck and a few dozen mostly-Italians died when a wall collapsed at Heysel in Brussels. Their match two weeks earlier in the opening leg in Liverpool had been their first meeting in nearly twenty years, since that terrible day.

More than a thousand cops were on hand at the Stade delle Alpi and an alcohol ban had been in effect for most of the week in downtown Turin as well as thirteen neighboring districts. Personally, that seems a bit drastic if y’ask me. But perhaps it’s for good reason.

I wasn’t terribly involved in the match throughout the scoreless first half as I contacted people throughout South America on www.globalfreeloaders.com. It’s a site that my global bike-adventuring pal Alastair Humpreys – www.roundtheworldbybike.com - turned me onto when I took him out to breakfast at the Tin Shed when we was here in the Rose City about a year ago on his way to Alaska from South America. I’d get a positive response from Marta in Porto Alegre by the end of the opening forty-five minutes. Y’gotta love the internet!

In the second half I’d note that Juve were not creating enough chances as time slowly slipped away; Liverpool poised to go through if the Italian side were unable to manage to score a goal. The winner would go on to face Chelsea in the semis, so an all-English match-up seemed to be in the offing.

Juve’s Fabio Canavarro rattled the post off a header in the 78th, but Dudek cradled the ball on the goal line to keep his team in front on aggregate. Juventus wouldn’t manage another opportunity like that the rest of the way as the Merseysiders moved on to the semifinals of the Champions League against English Premier League leaders Chelsea. The few thousand Liverpool fans were jubilant as Ivanov – the phys. ed. teacher from Moscow – blew the final whistle.

In the middle of Wednesday afternoon I’d head down to the Fir for our monthly division meeting. Besides the regular group dialogue, I sat down after it was over with my boss Jana and our GM Todd for a discussion about some off-the-cuff comments that I’ve made in the past. While they agree that my remarks have most likely been lighthearted in nature, they wanted to make sure that they come to an end, which of course I assured them that they would. It’s not the first time that I’ve been told to filter myself a little better in the workplace. It’s obviously something I still need to work on a little bit.

Back at home I’d learn that Dutch juggernaut PSV Eindhoven had beaten Lyon 4 – 2 on penalties in the other Champions League quarterfinal match in Holland. Both of their matches had ended in 1 – all draws, setting up the pk finale. It should be noted that PSV features American international Damarcus Beasley in their lineup. Next up they will likely face AC Milan after UEFA decides on the previous day’s abandoned match at the San Siro.

On the flip side of my professional comings and goings, I’d receive a letter in the mail from the Oregon Referees Committee congratulating me on my upgrade to becoming a State Referee. It certainly wasn’t new news, but it was welcome news in light of the slap on the hand I’d gotten down at the Fir less than an hour earlier.

Soon thereafter I was off to Delta Park for what I thought was going to be a men’s Over 30 division three match. But, it turned out to be a division one match (still Over 30). This wasn’t really that big a deal except for the fact that I had no assistant referees to help me and these guys were good players and it would have definitely made for a better game had I had a little help.

One of the teams, Portland Griffins, included Patrik Andersson – the Swede who’d been involved in the indoor match the previous Thursday in which a fight broke out (which Patrik had nothing to do with it should be noted). The other squad was called The Red Army and they were outfitted in brand new kits – red shorts and black tops with the former Soviet lettering ‘CCCP’ silk-screened in red. Their captain, an amiable character, informed me before the match that his team was very well behaved and that I shouldn’t expect any problems from them. At this, I voiced my doubt, and soon I’d learn that my suspicions would be proven correct.

But before getting underway I’d chat with one of the three Tkachenko brothers about the previous day’s Champions League derby in Milan that ended up being abandoned in the 73rd minute. Their Ukrainian countryman, Andriy Shevchenko, had scored the lone goal in that match for his club AC Milan (giving Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi’s club a 3 – nil lead on aggregate) before Inter fans ended the encounter prematurely when they began to lob dozens of lit flares onto the pitch.

There would be some fireworks in my match on this evening, but only of the figurative variety. I’d quickly learn that The Red Army’s manager had been slightly full of shit about his team’s commitment to sportsmanship as they consistently voiced their dissent quite liberally during the game’s opening stages. Things eventually became quite chippy and I was forced to issue a couple of cards in the 25th minute – one for a reckless foul and the other (to one of the Tkachenkos) for retaliation. That seemed to work quite effectively as the players toned it down somewhat thereafter.

The lone goal of the first half came as the result of a clear penalty that nobody on the Portland Griffins seemed to dispute. In the second half The Red Army asserted their dominance, the ball rarely making it into their half of the field. They’d eventually roll to an easy 4 – nil result; and I’d have to issue another caution late in the game against a frustrated Griffin who could have and probably should have seen red for throwing the ball at his opponent. Feeling magnanimous as usual, I simply told him that he’d committed an offense worthy of being sent off, but only showed him the yellow. With only a minute to go in the game, I didn’t want to rub salt in the Griffin’s wound.

After the match, The Red Army’s captain came over to my car to thank me and ask me my name. I’d never seen his team before and was glad to have made a good first impression. I look forward to seeing them again later this season, hopefully with a couple of assistants along the touchlines next time.

And speaking of next time...until then...

peace,
ac

Springtime: A Mixed Bag of Stories and Weather (part II)

At 7:15am Saturday morning our first customers of the day – a couple of dudes about my age – entered the Fir and sat at the bar…for the next SIX hours! They weren’t getting hammered, just slowly drinking cocktails and gabbing away. Still without any tables around 8am, one of the guys looked hard at me trying to remember where he knew me from him. After a minute or two we concluded that it was back in the heyday of Casa-U-Betcha (or “House-a-U-Got-It as I like to call it) on NW 21st back in the early 90s (fyi…now it’s called Muu Muu’s – a pan-Asian rather than Mexican theme). Dave Morelli was his name and we’d apparently shared a few beers together back in the day.

Also in the house that day was Steve Dotterer – one of the bigwigs down at the City’s Department of Transportation; a guy who I’d met back in ’92/3 during an internship there with the Regional Rail Program. My neighbors Scott & Jill showed up with little Sean, who’s just on the verge of talking. Scott’s the guy who was the general contractor on the pricey Fir remodel and joining him and his wife and his baby was one of Scott’s lifelong (from Pennsylvania) friends named Matt. (It should be noted that their six-year old son Quinlan was “working” at Veganopolis – an aptly named restaurant downtown that Scot had recently built-out.)

Later I’d stop by and say hello to the beautiful Melanie, a local bartender who’s been an occasional Fir-regular since soon after we opened. She was enjoying breakfast with her boyfriend and his kid, a boy about eight years of age.

It seemed fairly busy after 11:30, but my sales never reached $500 despite being on the clock for more than seven hours. I guess in retrospect I never did really break a sweat, especially since I stopped taking tables at 12:45pm so that I’d be able to make it to my next gig at Tualatin Indoor for a 2:40 kickoff.

As my first game was getting underway I noticed a man standing in the referee area off the field getting ready to take some pictures. I recognized the tall, curly-haired, boyish-looking guy who appears much younger than his forty-or-so years of age. It was none other than Joe Donlon – my favorite local newscaster, one of the anchors on Portland’s favorite local news, KGW-TV, Channel 8. Not being one to shy away from greeting a celebrity, I took the opportunity to re-introduce myself to him. (I’d met Joe outside of an Italian restaurant, Asagio, down in Sellwood a few years back and also spoke to him a bit on the phone in preparation for having him on Sheila’s radio show as a guest before she got the axe back in late ‘01.)

I asked Joe which team I should be rooting for, but he told me that his kid wasn’t on either team; he’d just been asked to stick around and take photos for the next two teams. ‘Damn!!! What a nice guy!’, I thought. He even offered to take some shots of me, which he sent to me later that same day. You can now see them in my most recent photo album – ‘Pre-World Tour 2005’.

During halftime Joe and I would chat some more and I’d tell him what I love most of all about his contribution to the news – the fact that he’s a wisecrackin’ jokester, often poking fun at pop cultures most-beloved icons with sarcastic quips and quick one-liners.

Taking a newsman’s interest in my project, Joe invited me to contact him when my travels are over to perhaps get the guys in the sports department to do a story on me. I promised him that he’d definitely be hearing from me at a later date.

As usually is the case with youth (U-9) matches, there wasn’t much controversy for me to deal with. The games would slowly reach their conclusion as I looked forward to my three coed matches later that evening at Portland Indoor. There was, however, one other very notable individual besides connecting with the good-natured Joe Donlon. In my fourth and final match there was an Hispanic 8-year-old kid who scored six goals in the first half alone. It wasn’t his size so much as it was his deft touch and clever, mature style of play that put him light-years ahead of anybody else on the pitch. I wondered if I had just witnessed future greatness in action.

As I sailed up I-5 I enjoyed the Grateful Dead marathon on KBOO – the local community radio station that was in the midst of a pledge drive. So with a fat wallet, filled with fives and ones, I made a beeline for the station’s offices around the corner from the Doug Fir and only a couple blocks out of my way to my next stop. After relieving myself of twenty-five one-dollar bills, I made a quick visit to Seantos’ place to celebrate his birthday. It just wouldn’t be right to completely miss the festivities in honor of the Fir’s most rockin’ bartender. And as quickly as I arrived, I left soon thereafter.

Before my first match got underway at Portland Indoor I’d inform Roger Hamilton – the venerable President of the Oregon Amateur Soccer Association – that I’d finally achieved State Referee status. Roger wryly replied, “as much as it pains me…congratulations.” He, of course, was being sarcastic, having ‘suffered’ through dozens of matches with me keeping the peace.

It would prove to be a good night at the office overall. The first match was tied 2 – 2 at the half and ended in a 3 – all draw. Before her husband’s intense 6 – 3 result in the next match, Noel – one of my biggest fans – would give me a big hug.

Then, as my final game was about to get underway, Jen (Gentiana, actually) would tell me how much she REALLY enjoys reading my blog. I had a feeling I knew why too; because like me, Gentiana (who has siblings named Cedar and Wisteria…yes their parents are products of the 60s) has strong left-leaning sensibilities. Like I told her – I like to draw people in with the soccer angle and then bash ‘em in the head with politics in the hope that I might enlighten a few minds with my own idea of justice, whether it be social, environmental, economic, or whatever. Anyway, thanks for the kudos Jen. It's feedback like that that keeps me pluggin’ away.

My last game of the evening was 6 – 1 at the half with Jen’s team in the lead. But the comeback would be completed with only seventeen seconds remaining by their disciplined opponents who never gave up. There had been a little controversy during the match when I awarded a likeable guy named Richie (on Jen’s team) a two-minute penalty for a hard challenge along the boards. He continued to plead his case after the game, but eventually, after debriefing with him for a few minutes he finally came around, agreeing that I did in fact make the right call. It was a very satisfying moment indeed.

After my sixteen-hour day was finally over I headed out to a birthday party that the sexy Anna Miller had invited me to. But I was too pooped to be any fun, leaving before midnight, in need of a bed. But before going to sleep I’d watch a replay of Norwich City’s shock 2 – nil victory against perennial title-challengers Manchester United.

I’d awake in time to watch Espanyol’s home loss, 1 – 3, to Sevilla in Barcelona's Olympic Stadium where I saw Sevilla’s other club Real Betis play back in December of ’02 (the visitors’ third an empty-netter at the end of stoppage time as the Espanyol goalkeeper was in Sevilla’s penalty box trying to tie things up with a ‘hail mary’). Next up was ‘El Derby’ between Real Madrid and Barcelona. A victory would surely sew up the Liga Primera title for the visiting Catalán club, but a favorable result for Madrid would conversely heat up the final weeks of the La Liga season.

Madrid, playing at home in the Bernabeu, would grab the early lead off a smashing diving header just in front of the far post by Zizou – who crashed face-first into the post as the ball rolled into the back of the net. Madrid 1 – Barcelona nil as I headed off for my day of two outdoor and then three indoor games.

I’d show up at 10:45 for my 11am kickoff of a girls U-17 State Cup match at Delta Park, being greeted by the center referee – a British guy named Steven who I’d never met before – with a very curt “You’re late.” Technically, he was right, but we still had plenty of time to discuss things before the match got underway and I’d quickly learn that he’s an Arsenal fan and forgive him for his dogmatic opener.

Fellow colleagues (both several years older than me) Jim Zotter and later Roger DeVille would greet me along the touchline during the early stages of the match, congratulating me on the recent attainment of my State Referee badge. The winning team of this match – a 3 – nil victory for PCU, Portland City United – was coached by the goalie of the Devils Dogs – a longtime fixture in the coed second division at Portland Indoor. I’d have to remind him to keep a tight lip in the second half as Steven, the center referee, had heard enough from both coaches in the opening period.

When it was over I’d cross a couple of fields to watch little Martha Brown’s game. My neighbor’s daughter plays on a U-13 team and looked pretty tough out there on defense. I’d stuck around because my day at Delta Park was only half over as I still had a 3pm kickoff of a high school coed recreational game. In that match, Dave, one of the team’s coaches – a guy who I’d gotten to know a bit over the course of the past year or two – had been playing in the indoor match the other night that ended in fisticuffs. Not surprisingly, this afternoon’s game would be played with the highest level of sportsmanship and fun in stark contrast to Dave’s game the other night.

Down at Portland Indoor for a set of three matches that started at 5:15 I’d be greeted by one of my biggest fans, Brandon – the guy about my age who’s a big University of Illinois men’s basketball fan – who was on hand to catch some indoor action.

Before my first game got underway I had a brief chat with Elsie Millbrett- Parham – mother of Portland-native Tiffany Milbrett, a member of three previous U.S. Women’s World Cup teams and one of their most prolific scorers (always overshadowed by her longtime teammate Mia Hamm). I’d recently passed along an email to one of Elsie’s teammates, Ginger Bradbury – who serves faithfully as the coordinator for the local outdoor coed league - to see if Elsie might be interested in being interviewed by John Turnbull, editor of a fantastic soccer-centric website called The Global Game – www.theglobalgame.com. John had read about Elsie on my website and new that I might have easy access to her and asked if I might make the connection for him if I was so inclined…which I was. I don’t know what ever became of it, but Elsie cheerfully handed me her number, which I have subsequently passed along to John. I look forward to soon reading a thoughtful article written about the mom of one of Oregon’s most-acclaimed athletes. It’ll bring me some satisfaction to know that I had a hand in making that happen.

My games would go quite smoothly, as usual, on this occasion. The first match included my old team Thunder! teammate Andrew, and naturally, I’d fill him in on the latest regarding my referee status as well as my travel agenda. In my second match, Mike, my favorite soccer-playin’ Republican native-North Carolinian, scored an impressive six in the match as his team cruised to victory. Beth Carraher, a friend of mine who plays on Mike’s coed indoor team arrived as his game was coming to an end and invited me to join Mike and their crew over at the Basement Pub after my third and final match. That game featured FC Bamako – a team I have occasionally played for and on which Ann Kloka, the facility owner, plays on as well. It would prove to be a pleasant, well-played, sporting affair.

When it was over I did meet Beth and her crew of nicotine-addicted pals for a beer over at the ultra-smoky Basement Pub just a few blocks away. We and everyone else in the bar would participate in a group trivia contest, my eyes tearing and my lungs assaulted by the thick cloud created by virtually everyone’s chain-smoking. As usual, Mike would embarrass me with his over-the-top accolades, thanking me for my easygoing, yet firm style in contributing to ensure that his games are always fun.

Eventually I’d have to free myself, escaping into the cool night air where breathing was much easier…and enjoyable. On the drive home I’d catch some Indian ragas on OPB’s ‘Beats and Pieces’ program. The two joy-filled songs – “Rain” and “Eternity” – were filled with an intense passion that brought tears to my eyes. I’d sit in my driveway for a few minutes reveling in the beauty of the sounds coming from my radio.

Back inside I’d return to ‘El Derby’ with Madrid still leading 1 – nil over archrivals Barcelona. In the 15th minute it was ex-Barça playmaker Luis Figo watching from the home side’s bench with a serious look of consternation strewn across his face. The shame of not being amongst the starting eleven for this most-meaningful of rivalries was unbearable for the Portuguese superstar.

Shortly thereafter, it was Ronaldo who slammed home a header off a gloriously swerving Beckham free-kick to give the Galacticos a 2 – nil lead. They appeared to be well on their way to a historic and impressive victory. Soon my attention turned to alpine pursuits, however. ‘Hmmm’, I thought, there’s gonna be a low snow-level all week long. My train of thought continued, ‘And if tomorrow doesn’t work out, surely Wednesday or Thursday will (or maybe both if it’s good enough). After all, I need to get in shape for Saturday.’

But wait, the game wasn’t over just yet. Cameroonian international and African Footballer of the Year, Samuel Eto’o, showed that there was still life in Barcelona as he beat a triple-team by poking the ball to a surging Xavi who was then able to wriggle the ball back to Eto’o in full stride, yards ahead of his defenders and too quick for the sliding keeper Casillas. Madrid 2 – Barcelona 1. As a sidenote, Eto’o now leads La Liga with twenty goals on the season.

Both teams would continue to create a number of wonderful scoring opportunities, but each was denied time and again until deep into first-half stoppage time when Raul’s drought finally came to an end, restoring Madrid’s earlier two-goal lead. The buildup itself was wonderful as Beckham crossed it left to Zidane who played it neatly to an overlapping Roberto Carlos, beating his defender on the left before slotting it across to the renowned Spaniard who merely redirected it past a helpless Victor Valdes. Madrid 3 – Barcelona 1 at halftime.

In the 65th it was Beckham with a perfect looping through-ball that his countryman Michael Owen delicately touched once before pounding the ball clinically with the outside of his right boot to beat Valdes and give Madrid a commanding three-goal cushion. Madrid 4 – Barcelona 1. It seemed like lights out for Barça.

But just eight minutes later Ronaldinho curled a mesmerizing free-kick just past his countryman Ronaldo’s head, leaving Casillas to gaze in amazement as the ball sailed into the back of the net. Casillas angrily kicked it away, embarrassed at being so totally beaten. Madrid 4 – Barcelona 2.

The Catalán side would continue to force the action throughout the remainder of the match, but as stoppage time approached, the home fans were ecstatic. With this famous victory, Real Madrid would pull within six points of the league leaders – their adversaries over the course of the evening. It was shaping up to be a compelling final few weeks of Spain’s La Liga Primera as Barcelona’s once double-digit lead had been all but cut in half in recent weeks. I would be rooting for the ever-joyful Ronandinho to help bring home the spoils to Spain’s perennial bridesmaids. I looked forward to seeing them play again next year in the Nou Camp, but this time as the reigning champs.

Until next time…

peace,
ac

Springtime: A Mixed Bag of Stories and Weather (part I)

So let’s see, when last we left off I was railing on Bush for his bogus “culture of life” philosophy that he wants us all to believe he promotes. Also in the news that day was the controversial and un-Constitutional “Patriot Act”, under scrutiny by Congress and in need of a major overhaul according to our good friends at the Institute for Public Accuracy…www.accuracy.org.

Also of note on this day was the election of Kurd Jalal Talabani as Iraq’s new President. Does this signal the successful implementation of democracy in Iraq? Perhaps. But does it necessarily mean that it was worth the cost in terms of human and economic capital? And wasn’t our “real” reason for being there to eliminate Saddam Hussein’s arsenal of WMDs? Weapons, it turns out, he’d destroyed back in the early 90s.

Air America radio’s hourly news would report that pot was found to be beneficial for the arteries of mice. Combine this information with the already well-known fact that a couple glasses of red wine each day is good for your heart and it looks like good news for the hedonists of the world.

Down at the Fir later that afternoon for our quarterly staff meeting, Mike the Iranian car dealer from across the street thinks I’m nuts for wanting to go to his homeland, which he hasn’t been back to since fleeing in ’81. Frankly, I’m still not sure if I’ll be visiting there or not, especially in light of the fact that our government seems ever more intent on strong-arming regime-change there next.

I’d leave the meeting early (as usual) in order to arrive at Tualatin Indoor on time before the Fir’s GM Todd presented a variety of pie-charts and graphs in addition to discussing the minutiae of the business, including the number of omelets that had been sold during the previous three months. But as everyone’s eyes were glazing over at the Fir, I was racing down I-5 to make it to my next gig on time.

Following my set of three uneventful games down in Tualatin, I’d head back up to N. Mississippi for a bite to eat at Gravy with my buddy Nizar. The lovely and sexy Anna Miller (who owns the neighboring shop Cuckoo) would show up to have a drink with a friend, stopping by our table first for a quick hello. At a nearby table I’d spot my friends Michael and Michelle who will be getting married in late September, less than a week before I leave Portland for nine months. During our chat I’d poke my head out the door when I saw the now-famous Alicia Rose (recently on the front cover of the Willy Week for her “moxie” and flair for transforming the Rose City’s music scene as the Fir’s booking agent) and her assistant Nicole.

Down at the Fir to open at 6:30am, I’d learn that Paco and Brett had both given their two-weeks notice from their respective positions working the morning line in the kitchen. And the night before I’d learned that Claire had given her notice as well, hopefully freeing up some shifts for me and my cash-starved colleagues.

Back in the servers’ area of the kitchen somebody had hung some “monopoly” money. Actually, it wasn’t “monopoly”, but rather a “9-11” bill with Bush’s face in the middle, Cheney and Rumsfeld in half-size framing their fearless leader. Various anti-Bush websites were also printed on it. Martín – the dishwasher who speaks English about as well as I speak Spanish – came over for a look and together we bonded over our mutual disdain for Dubya. It warmed my heart that we saw eye-to-eye on this issue.

Since it was terribly slow for the first couple hours of my shift I’d check my emails back in the kitchen. The BBC would report that referee Anders Frisk did in fact have a brief conversation with Barcelona Coach Frank Rijkaard during that side’s Champions League clash against visiting Chelsea back in February. But NOT in the dressing room as the Blues’ skipper Jose Mourinho had proclaimed. Rijkaard had approached Frisk on the pitch and followed him to the dressing room (but did not enter) before Frisk cut Rijkaard off, telling him “it was not the place or the moment to discuss the match.” This should at last put to rest any doubt as to the integrity of the Swedish official, who summarily retired from the game after his family received death threats as a result of the false claims of impropriety.

Around 9am my lifelong friend (since he moved to my hometown when we were teenagers) Tim Belden came in and then the masses started to pour in, never stopping until past two. Among the early entrants was Pastor Rick at 139, the hip local preacher who leads a nearby congregation. Soon thereafter I’d wait on a party of five folks, most of whom I know and all of whom work in some fashion in the music biz. There was Terry Currier, owner of Music Millennium – a Portland institution, Dave from post-punk band Gang of Four who I’d met a couple months back, and then my old friend Janeen Rundle-Helzer, a mutual friend of our dear sweet Kat who lives down in LA these days. Janeen would inform me after breakfast that they’d been holding a board meeting for the Oregon Music Hall of Fame, thus explaining the collection of local music gurus.

Also of note on this shift, my clients included Kelsey, the lovely co-owner of the Fir’s neighbor, the Jupiter Hotel. Over on table 122 I’d receive my best tip of the day, not monetarily, but rather in words. “Hey man, I just wanted to let you know that this is the best service we’ve ever had here.” Reading into his statement a bit, I could only assume that he’d had some bad experiences in the past. And as we got a late wave of customers well past 1:00, I’d learn that a nearby IT conference had taken its lunch break, thus explaining the unusual volume of business for that time of day.

Before heading out I’d have a chat with my boss Jana, who after all of my begging and pleading had royally screwed me since my co-worker Lena was so ungracious in not switching with me. (I wanted her Thursday night in exchange for my Friday night so that I wouldn’t lose a shift as a result of my need to head up to Seattle for the Pro referee clinic early on Saturday morning, April 16th). When I protested, explaining how frequently I’ve done favors for people in the past, her lame response was that “maybe you shouldn’t say yes all the time”. What the hell kind of team spirit was she trying to promote?! I was livid.

Ironically, minutes after Jana left my co-worker Michelle came in terribly distraught about her recently departed grandmother. She’d need to head home to eastern Washington for the weekend, but was scheduled for the 6:30am shift on Saturday. Like a trooper, and ignoring Jana’s suggestion that perhaps I should be less accommodating, I offered to cover Michelle’s shift even though I really didn’t want to. But I knew it was the right thing to do. Furthermore, and without any prompting from Michelle, I offered up one of my morning shifts for later in the week to compensate her for her loss of income. Needless to say, Michelle was extremely grateful, thanking me for my kindness and generosity.

Without time for a bite to eat I raced down to Tualatin Indoor for my set of three games at 4:40. But with only one team showing up, my first game was a forfeit (for which I didn’t get paid…again!!), so I called Blake in Taiwan. As her Friday was getting started she’d inform me that she might be getting transferred over to mainland China soon; not Shanghai as I’d hoped (since I want to visit there), but at least she’d be getting out of Taiwan, a country she didn’t seem particularly fond of after living there for the past six months.

Before my next game got underway I’d connect with Marty Campbell, a pleasant soccer mom who I’d have the pleasure of getting to know throughout the previous months refereeing games for her and her kids. She’d agree with me that she thought it unfair that I wouldn’t get compensated for my time in the event of a forfeit, promising to have a word with Monty, the facility owner.

We’d also talk some about my job at the Fir, a place she’d heard a lot about, but hadn’t had an opportunity to visit yet. She promised to come by some Friday night with her husband when I was working, assuring me that she’d look great in her out-on-the-town-wear; something I didn’t doubt one bit.

After Marty’s kid was done playing it was time for my final game of the evening, a high-spirited Men’s match between a mostly French squad and another group of guys who were slightly younger and more fit. Things got fairly chippy as the Frenchies played with too much passion for their own good. At halftime, one of their opponents – a guy named Merrill – suggested that it would be ok for me to call a few inconsequential fouls against his squad in order to keep the game in check. It seemed like a reasonable request, a strategy that I often employ to keep a team from feeling like all the calls are going against them.

But despite the fact that I followed through on this idea, Merrill’s opponents – particularly the goalie – seemed to feel like nothing was going their way. And frankly, I couldn’t blame them; for it was they who were committing the majority of the fouls, so it wasn’t just a matter of perception…it was reality. But truthfully, there wasn’t really a whole lot I could do about it. And when David (da-VEED) told me to get things under control, I replied with a note of irritation, “What do you want me to do, give your goalie a two-minute penalty?” After all, he was the only one really causing problems and it was he who I was most concerned about.

And it was only a matter of time until the slow simmer reached a boiling point. When Merrill raced to the corner to track down a long forward pass, the belligerent French goalie (who, by the way, had already received a two-minute penalty for a previous slide-tackle well beyond the penalty area) chased him down from behind, manhandling him, and climbing all over his back. Just as I was about to blow my whistle to call the foul and issue another blue card (two-minute penalty) along with the commensurate yellow card caution, Merrill went ballistic, quickly turning around and punching his adversary several times in the head. I watched from across the field in shocked disbelief. HE was not the guy I expected who would lose his cool, but I guess he’d reached his breaking point, and frankly, I couldn’t blame him. The keeper, a most unsporting character was quite deserving of the retaliatory blow. Nevertheless, however, I was left with no choice but to issue a red card to Merrill, by far the smaller of the two men. And to his punching bag’s disbelief, I also sent him off too.

With less than a minute to go in the game at this point no one really felt compelled to continue playing, which seemed reasonable enough to me. And as everyone was leaving the pitch, the guilty French goalie tried to place the blame on me for my inconsistency. I was outraged that he would make such an outrageous claim. “NO!!!”, I shot back. “Don’t you dare try to blame me for what happened! You’re responsible for your own actions and it was YOU who played out of control throughout this entire match! You’re at fault here, not me!”

I immediately went into the manager’s office to sort things out with Dennis, the facility manager, and to fill out the required paperwork. And despite the fact that it was Merrill who threw the first punch, we determined that both players should each serve an equal suspension. There was no scientific formula to figure out how long to ban them from playing, and within minutes Dennis decided that two games would be sufficient and appropriate for both players involved in the melee.

Shortly thereafter Merrill came in with his tail between his legs, embarrassed by his behavior and actions. By this point Dennis and I were more or less laughing about the fiasco, pretty much siding with Merrill’s point-of-view, but still maintaining that the two-game suspension was a fair punishment. Merrill, being the good sport that he usually is, didn’t protest much, knowing full well that it was the very least he should’ve expected in light of his violent act.

The highlight of my night out on the town for the First Thursday art walk in the Pearl District was to view the mind-blowing Dali-esque imagery of Josh Camozzi Milligan – a brilliant local artist/musician/craftsman whose other-worldly works were on display at one of the many storefronts in the Everett Street Lofts. I’d cross paths there with my former Thai Noon colleague Lea Sanders-Wilcox who invited me to meet her over at the nearby Tugboat Brewery to hear the ambient jazz noodlings of another Thai Noon employee, a young hipster named Leif.

I’d wander around a bit more, coming across a homeless shelter called ‘Our Peaceful Place’, a name that struck a chord with my sensibilities. Quite fond of their name and their mission, I slipped a couple of small bills through their mail slot.

Not too far away I ran into Deb Delman, co-founder of the Pangaea Project – a local non-profit with global reach. We’d talk about her upcoming musical fundraiser featuring many nationally-renowned musicians including Phish’s drummer John Fishman. I promised to send out a missive to many of ‘my’ Portland people in order to encourage them to attend what I was certain would be a massive hippie-fest.

Over at the Tugboat I’d connect with Lea for a beer and meet one of her friends, a guy named Nick who plays footie for one of my old clubs – a division one side called The Green Room. Leif’s sound was pretty far out – spacey and jazzy all at once – and we left after only a beer. As we parted I voiced my hope that I’d have a chance to see Nick on the pitch sometime this summer.

Back at home I’d watch a taped version of my favorite program – ‘The Daily Show with John Stewart’. His guest that evening was Drew Barrymore, an actress I’m not particularly fond of. She’s currently starring in the bastardization of a remake of “Fever Pitch” – the Nick Hornby football anthology. Instead of the authentic ritualization of his favorite club Arsenal, Jimmy Fallon stars as a hardcore Red Sox fan in this most recent historic championship season. It looked fairly pathetic and uninteresting and I doubted that I’d be seeing it in the cinema. It seemed entirely too shlocky and offensive to my sensibilities.

Friday morning I’d watch on tv, albeit briefly, along with millions of others around the world as the Pope was buried in St. Peter’s Basilica. Not terribly interested in the pomp and circumstance associated with this post-mortem event, my attention quickly turned to other matters.

For example, I’d learn that Lee Bowyer had received a standing ovation at St. James' Park in Newcastle after getting into a bust-up with his teammate during a match there against Aston Villa the previous weekend. His was extremely grateful for their forgiveness.

In other, more relevant news, the Millennium Ecosystem Assessment, which drew on twenty-two national science academies from around the world, reported a prognosis for the world’s health that looked quite grim. Walt Reid, the leader of the report's core authors, warned that unless the international community took decisive action, the future looked bleak for the next generation. "The bottom line of this assessment is that we are spending earth's natural capital, putting such strain on the natural functions of earth that the ability of the planet's ecosystems to sustain future generations can no longer be taken for granted," Dr Reid said.

"At the same time, the assessment shows that the future really is in our hands. We can reverse the degradation of many ecosystem services over the next 50 years, but the changes in policy and practice required are substantial and not currently under way," he said. Look people, WE HAVE THE POWER TO SAVE THE PLANET, BUT WILL THE HUMAN RACE RISE TO THE CHALLENGE OR WILL WE SIMPLY GO THE WAY OF THE DINOSAURS?

After this bit of disturbing news followed by my own dire long-term prognosis dooming the next generations, I’d confirm with my old friend Simon Ingham that we’d be traveling together up to Seattle in one week’s time for the upcoming Pro referee clinic that I’d been invited to for the first time in my not-so-illustrious ten-year career. I was looking forward to re-connecting with my easygoing British pal along our journey to the Emerald City (as Seattle is sometimes referred to).

I’d spend the rest of the day writing before heading off to the XPAC reunion. XPAC’s an organization that I founded in the mid-90s along with a few other folks to mobilize my age cohort to become more involved in local, regional, and statewide political issues. There were many old faces I’d reconnect with on this occasion. First I’d have a long chat with Rich Rogers who's been working in City Commissioner Erik Sten’s office for much of the past decade. Sten was one of my original XPAC co-conspirators and in ’96 I’d worked on his campaign to become a member of Portland’s City Council, and my dog “Nutty” was quite instrumental in helping Erik become the youngest City Commissioner in Portland history (at 28 years of age).

Next, I’d connect with Laura Bridges – a woman who I first met when she was a blood drive coordinator for the Red Cross and I was the volunteer coordinator for the drives at The Portland Building, where I worked for a few years in the late ‘90s. She eventually became a key player in the XPAC leadership after I’d already left the organization. She’s also held some key political functionary positions, most recently for County Chairwoman Diane Linn – a woman I’ve known since my community organizing days in Northwest Portland from ’93 – 95.

Marc Guichard – the guy who eventually ousted me from the organization’s top post – was there. He’d recently been in the Fir, but on this occasion we’d have more of an opportunity to catch up on each other’s personal and professional lives a bit more. I’d also have a chance to chat a bit with Tracy (last name escapes me right now – one of the key players in the early days), Doug – a guy a know better through indoor soccer who used to be one of Annie B.’s co-workers at Widmer Brewing, and a member of XPAC after I ended up leaving the group, and State Representative Ryan Deckert – a boyishly-looking liberal who joined Oregon’s legislative body in his late-20s not long after the founding of our political organization. I'd also say hello briefly to Deborah Kafoury - one of Ryan's colleagues down in Salem and a member of one of Portland's most entrenched political families. And besides connecting with a number of old friends, it was a good opportunity to spread the word about the Football for Peace Tour. My own personal PR machine was in full swing at this ten-year reunion of XPAC.

I’d leave shortly after 7pm to head out to Delta Park to run a line (assistant referee) for a Men’s Premier League game at 8pm. Before the match between Bosna Vancouver and PSU (Portland State University, just a club team), I’d let the coach/manager of the home team know that I’d be seeing his native country’s national team play in a World Cup qualifier in exactly two months at the Mestalla in Valencia. I admitted to him that I’d be rooting for Spain as they’d be the home team. Laughing, he predicted an upset from his countrymen in the match.

I headed home after the 3 – nil result (the Bosnians were too tough and clearly outclassed the university side made up of mostly foreigners, primarily from the Middle East), in need of a few hours sleep before my 6:30am start at the Fir (filling in for my co-worker Michelle whose grandmother had died). I’d tune in to HBO’s “Real Time with Bill Maher”, the newest and more irreverent iteration of his censored politically incorrect network show called “Politically Incorrect”.

As my father’s always been a progressive-minded pharmacist, I found Maher’s rant railing against faith-based pharmacists who refuse to sell legal birth control products particularly agreeable to my open-minded sensibilities. Maher held nothing back in a justifiable vitriol condemning health care providers (in this case, pharmacists) who refuse to sell products because it conflicts with their own personal religious views. THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE, Maher and I agree on this point, and any pharmacist who takes such a stand should face serious consequences for overstepping their medical boundaries.

(to be continued)

Bush & Co. - Just One Big Lie

Sunday would prove to be a very full day on the pitch – two outdoor games followed by three indoor games followed again by two more outdoor games to end my evening. The first two matches of the day were State Cup games out in Beaverton, and the opener included my friend Ron Lagraff on one of the lines (I was on the other). At the end of halftime, Ron would tell me that he’d passed his previous day’s on-field evaluation in order to become a member of OISOA – the Oregon Intercollegiate Soccer Officials Association. I was happy for Ron, but still bitter about my unfair treatment by this organization a year earlier. Unlike when I was evaluated, Ron was given advance notice.

After the match I walked over to an adjacent field for another game to be refereed by my colleague Dennis Carr. I was surprised to see another ref, Pat Duffy, sitting there in a lawn chair in his street clothes. Dennis would inform me that Pat was there to evaluate his performance in order to gain entrance into OISOA. So this furthered my argument that I’d been shafted last spring.

Leaving the field at the end of the game I’d cross paths with Danny Rhee – one of the state’s top referees; a guy who’s bucking to become a National Referee. Danny was in the process of getting ready to move back to his home state of Hawaii in the coming weeks and I wished him well, not sure if I’d ever see him again.

Soon thereafter I was off to Tualatin Indoor to cover Liam’s three little girls games that he’d called me about the day before. For whatever reason I was enjoying these ‘fierce’ encounters more than usual, laughing at the comedy of young girls chasing a bouncing ball around. After one of the games, several parents thanked me for my patience and my contribution in helping to make the game more fun.

Dave, a guy about my age who used to play on The Jeffersons – the top side at Portland Indoor back in the mid-to-late 90s, was on hand to coach his daughter’s 15 – 1 defeat; not that Dave had anything to do with the outcome. We’d share a few laughs together at his team’s expense.

From Tualatin Indoor, where I’d officiate perhaps the lowest level of soccer I’m involved with, I’d head off to Delta Park to be a part of the highest level of games that I get assigned to – the local men’s Premier league. In the middle of the match was my favorite and perhaps most highly respected local ref, Juan Barone – a silky smooth Argentine with an easy smile and a quick wit. As with all of Juan’s games, there would be very little dissent as the players are all quite used to his management style.

It was a hard fought, tight affair – scoreless at the half. Sometime around the 60th minute the sun dipped below clouds, illuminating the previously gray sky in a surreal brilliance that I dubbed ‘The Gates of Heaven’. It was a distracting sight to behold as I found my attention straying away from the game at hand during these glorious, precious minutes.

Shortly thereafter, in the 75th, the skies would unleash their fury, hail coating the plastic field in a thin, slick sheen of icy pellets. With the storm in full force, the only goal of the game would be scored in the 80th, the storm passing soon thereafter by the 85th.

Fortunately though, due to the fact that I was wearing two layers and most of the precip that had fallen was frozen, I wasn’t uncomfortably soaked as I still had to run the line for another Premier league game at 8pm. Showing up to work as the center official for that match was none other than the irrepressible Padman Senthirajah, a chatty Malaysian who used to ref many of my games back in my playing days. Padman would voice his disappointment that I had no intention of visiting his homeland…at least not on this initial global tour. “Maybe next time around,” I told him.

In this, my last match of the day, my Jordanian friend Basem (more of a soccer acquaintance really, although I consider many of these folks friends in light of the fact that I see them so frequently) was starting at forward with his new team, Touché – which, ironically, is the restaurant/bar/pool hall where I ran into Basem a few months back.

Touché’s opponents, Cosmos, were coached by a Bosnian who I informed that I’d be seeing his home country’s national team play against Spain in June in Valencia. And this game would also be played without much controversy as Touché rolled to a 3 – nil result. The final moments of the match did, however, involve a bit of debate and poor sportsmanship directed at me. When one of Touché’s players took exception with my decision not call a dangerous play foul against one of his opponents for sitting on the ball (he’d fallen awkwardly and had trouble finding his feet), I received a verbal tongue-lashing, complete with F-bombs. Well, with the outcome already determined and with time virtually expired, I took great exception to this player’s outrageous dissent and returned his foul-mouthed outburst with one of equal tone and tenor. Padman, who seems to know most of the Premier league players on a first name basis, quickly intervened and told the poor sport to lighten up. After all, he acknowledged, the call was his (Padman’s) to make and he’d agreed with my decision as well.

Back at home on www.theglobalgame.com I’d learn that the Pope occasionally played goalie for a synagogue club in his hometown of Krakow, Poland as a youth. Just one more example of the multi-cultural bridges the game has fostered for well over a century.

And then, before going to bed I’d write this to my “friends” at OISOA – the Oregon Intercollegiate Soccer Officials Association - to let them know how embittered I still feel nearly a year after I believe they shafted me in my effort to join their ‘elite club’…

To Whom It May Concern:

I just wanted to share with you what I feel is an injustice in light of your association’s non-standardized admissions process. This morning (Sunday, April 3rd) I worked a game with a colleague who just the day before had been ‘assessed’ to become a member of your association. He passed, which I believe is a good thing. However, unlike when I was ‘assessed’ last spring, he had advance knowledge of the fact that he was being ‘assessed’. (He knew that it was going to be this weekend based on a recent interaction with Steve Brooks).

Then, when I walked to an adjacent field for my next game, there was an OISOA ‘assessor’ on hand to evaluate the center referee who is hoping to become an OISOA official this year. And frankly, I believe this to be a fair method of evaluation as it’s more comparable to an actual collegiate match.

The game in which I was ‘assessed’ last year wasn’t even assessable since one of the teams was playing short-handed for the entire ninety-minute match; a match, incidentally, in which I had no problems managing. The only negative comments that the ‘assessor’ could make were ridiculous and/or unfounded. One was that he didn’t see me run very much (I’m paraphrasing); but the point is that the team that won 5 – 0 easily could have won by double that margin since they controlled the ball throughout almost the entire match. There simply wasn’t much running to be done unfortunately.

And of course the other offensive point of observation was that my “shorts were too long and it looked unprofessional.” As I pointed out to you in writing last year, this game was played, in part, during a heavy downpour which causes clothing to get heavy and sag.

In any event, I simply share these points with you today because now, a year later, I am a State Referee, having fulfilled all the requirements and assessments to become a USSF Grade 6 referee. The only ‘assessment’ that I failed this past year was a blind ‘assessment’ in an unassessable game. I just thought I’d point out to you that I have been done an injustice, having received unequal treatment from that of my colleagues. (Ironically, my final assessment required for upgrade was conducted by the same assessor who ‘assessed’ me for OISOA, proving my point that given a fair opportunity, I officiate a solid match).

And were it not for the fact that I’ll be traveling around the world beginning this fall then I would certainly have made an attempt to join OISOA again this year. Perhaps in the next few years I will choose once again to join your association. I hope that when that time comes I am given proper and fair treatment, unlike that which I have previously received (and I haven’t even yet brought up Steve Brooks’ general lack of communication when I contacted him to request an ‘assessment’).

If you think I still feel bitter about this malfeasance then you are correct. Frankly, I know that I’m a quality soccer official and your association’s mistreatment of me is a loss to both your membership and the intercollegiate teams you serve. Perhaps someday you will be fortunate enough to have me amongst your ranks.

Regards,
Aaron Corman

The next morning, Monday, I’d planned to go skiing but bagged that plan in light of the fact that it only snowed 3” overnight; only half of my ‘required’ minimum snowfall. Instead, I’d putter around the house plugging away on the computer all day.

I’d learn that Newcastle United’s Lee Bowyer had been fined six-weeks wages for his brawl with teammate Kieron Dyer during a crushing loss at home to Aston Villa over the weekend. He was very lucky not to get sacked for his completely unprofessional behavior – something club management was growing very weary of dealing with.

Also in the footie news of the day, there would be more Mourinho fallout as former Bayern Munich coach Ottmar Hitzfeld slammed the Portuguese leader of Chelsea for his arrogance. Hitzfeld was quoted this week in advance of a Champions League meeting between the two clubs at Stamford Bridge as saying, "Jose Mourinho is an arrogant coach. He is cool but he is not a sportsman. I have met him but we are not going to be friends.” And while I’ve felt this same way for much of this season, I can’t help but wonder if that’s part of his team’s great success.

In the early afternoon I’d have a very long conversation with my childhood friend Jeremy Manning who, among other things, produces documentary films. He’d been busy preparing a treatment and production budget to make a film about my upcoming travels. After a hundred-minute long conversation we both felt ever more confident that a feasible project was in the offing.

Regarding the Catholic Church, South African Bishop Desmond Tutu suggested that a Pope from the “so-called Third World” would help to promote the truly Catholic values that his faith preaches. Somehow, I doubted that the Cardinals would go that route in their upcoming secret conclave.

Before heading off to my dinner shift at the Fir I’d trade emails with Uruguayan writer/social critic Eduardo Galeano, author of perhaps the world’s most wonderfully-written book about the game we love. His gorgeous prose in “Soccer in Sun and Shadow” is enough to make anybody a fan of ‘the beautiful game’. I wanted to remind him that I’d be in his hometown of Montevideo in late October, hoping to meet with him as he’d previously promised. He’d acknowledge that it was still on his agenda if he’s in town at the time. He hoped in writing that he would be as I happily read his reply from a hemisphere away.

Down at the Fir for my Monday night dinner shift I’d thank Jen Kovel (owner) for the generous tip she and her husband and her husband’s business partner had left for me the previous Friday. And with lowering freezing levels, we’d make tentative plans to go skiing together a week hence.

With the NCAA men’s basketball final being played that evening I wasn’t too optimistic that we’d have much business…but fortunately, I was wrong. It seemed that our houseful of patrons had no interest in March Madness.

At the bar were two guys celebrating newfound singlehood. Meanwhile, one of my tables would inform me that they hadn’t been inside the building that houses the Doug Fir since 1971.

My bartender Seantos – a friend, but also a critic of my online diary – came up with a couple of quips about my writing hobby. First he came up with the rather pedestrian “Bloggers make better lovers.” That was quickly followed by a racier quote - “Bloggers do it online.” I had to laugh at his comical creativity.

A while later, long after the single guys had disappeared, I was cheerfully greeted by a guy named John who was celebrating his 41st wedding anniversary with his wife Caroline. John remembered me from the time he’d come in with his publisher friend Wayne, who’d taken an interest in my blogging.

Late in the evening, catching bits and pieces of a conversation about the challenges of relationships between three lovely women at one of my tables I decided to chime in. “Oh, fuck them”, I interjected without solicitation. “It’s not you, it’s them.” There was raucous laughter of agreement from my charming patrons.

At the end of the evening I’d make friends with my last customers, a group of high-tech conventioneers from Atlanta. They would be in town for the next few days and were hoping to make the most of their stay. So being the gracious host that I can often be, I showed them some ultra-kind hospitality in an attempt to make their visit to the Rose City the best that it could possibly be. They were most appreciative of my extraordinary service.

Tuesday morning I’d learn on Franken’s radio show that UNC had won the NCAA Championship the night before. Dammit!!! I was really hoping that the debutantes from Illinois could defeat the perennial Tar Heel powerhouse.

Before heading off to the Fir I’d learn that for the first time in nearly twenty years, Liverpool would be playing Juventus in a Champions League encounter. It would be their first match since the two clubs met nearly twenty years earlier in the European Cup final – an event marred by tragedy at Heysel Stadium in Brussels, Belguim. On that fateful day in May of 1985 (less than a month before I graduated high school) thirty-nine people (mostly Juve fans) were killed when a wall collapsed on them. Every Juventus supporter would be given an armband in red, black and white, with the inscription "friendship" in English and Italian before this most recent match in Liverpool.

Down at work I’d tell my passionately Christian patron Josh that I’d written kindly about him regarding his faith. I’d continue by stating my profound belief in the separation of church and state. Building upon that point, Josh advocated a fervent conviction in the separation of ‘business’ and ‘state’, something this current administration seems to have particular problems with.

Of note that day was the woman who ordered a Fir burger (as we call them at the Fir) without the actual burger. Upon further questioning she told me that that’s the way she likes it…burger sans meat; strange indeed. A little while later, and perhaps not quite as odd, was a woman who ordered an eggs Benedict without the ham.

The most notable interaction of the day was with one of my last tables before the end of lunch. The four women all hailed from different parts of the globe – The Phillipines, India, Iran, and the good ol’ U.S. of A. The Iranian woman was quite a firecracker, initially unwilling to share her national heritage with me. She even went on to tell me that I’m very judgmental, which I will admit that I sometimes can be.

But eventually we’d bond on a couple of issues. First, and I’m not sure how we got onto this topic, it was abortion rights. Later, I thought I heard her say something about soccer, but was mistaken. However, this opened the door for me to share with her my global travel agenda. She was aware of the trouble her home country’s national soccer team had recently faced after their controversial World Cup qualifier against North Korea. As I’ve already written about, their team bus was delayed by an angry mob outside the stadium in Pyongyang after the match. “What fools”, she chided. “Now they (the North Koreans) have to go Tehran,” implying that the east Asians might possibly face similar treatment in the second ‘Axis of Evil derby’. On her way out, I learned the name of my new Iranian friend. I hoped to perhaps see Hanimeh (sp?) again sometime.

Between my lunch and dinner shifts I’d learn that the REPUBLICAN Senate had reversed Bush’s very first edict as President on his second day in office when he enacted the Global Gag Rule. In essence, Bush eliminated funding for third world family planning because of HIS opposition to abortion – a medical procedure which IS LEGAL in this country. It was then, back in January of ’01 that I knew we’d be in for a long four years; a sad reality that has somehow been extended into another horrifying term in office.

My dinner shift would start out with my old friend Rachel’s backcountry skiin’ buddy Doug at five o’clock. He was joined by about eight friends who were all celebrating a buddy’s new baby. I’d overhear bits and pieces of their politically-tinged conversation. Among other things they’d ponder when people’s transportation choices might be affected by the price of gas. Consensus seemed to be that $4/gallon is the breaking point for most Americans. Beyond that, the public will begin to demand alternative energy sources and a move away from dependence on fossil fuels.

Over in the south bar, where I’d have to run to pick up my drinks until the north bar opened for business at 6pm, I’d schmooze with the lovely Rebecca who I waited on one night along with a couple of her friends on the Monday between Christmas and New Years. On that occasion I’d bring the trio of beauties to a holiday party hosted by perhaps Portland’s most enigmatic character, Thomas Lauderdale – the flamboyant virtuoso pianist who serves as the linchpin for Pink Martini, one of the Rose City’s most renowned musical acts. Rebecca was joined on this occasion by her lovely school teacher colleague April. I’d learn that they work together at a school about half-an-hour from town out in Forest Grove where my friend Claudine used to teach (before she moved back to the East Coast last year).

As dinner kicked into full swing I schmoozed with the charmingly eccentric little German literature professor who was in the process of moving to town from DC. Her career was in flux, but she was hoping to make some connections at local universities in order to ply her trade.

After her at table 141 were a couple of guys, one of whom remembered me from my building permit days. It seems that I made a lasting impression on many of the folks who I provided “too much customer service” to (this according to my outrageous supervisors) during my nearly five-year long tenure pushing paper for the City.

Doug and his crew were still in the house, but winding down as several members of his party had already split for the night. So when a new party of ten arrived I moved the remainder of Doug’s group to another table to accommodate the newcomers. This new large party proved to be quite solid as Doug and his people engaged in a hardcore political rap – Doug playing devil’s advocate against the position on the left, irritating his progressive-minded friends.

When my double-shift was over I’d sold a very respectable $1,100 of food and drink, netting over $140 for myself in the process.

Back at home I’d watch the compelling Champions League match-up between Liverpool and Juventus, in which there would be somber remembrances of the Heysel tragedy at the 1985 European Cup final featuring the two clubs. Finnish defender Sammi Hyppia (HOOP-ee-uh) would volley home the opener for the home side with a smashing finish from eight yards in front of the far post. Fifteen minutes later it was his teammate, Spaniard Luis Garcia, with a wonderful left-footed volley from twenty-five yards out that swerved over and away from helpless Juve keeper Gianluigi Buffon. Liverpool 2 – Juventus nil.

Less than a minute later, Juve’s Swedish (yes Swedish, not Serbian) striker Zlatan Ibrahimovic crushed the left post, but the ball rebounded straight to Czech phenom Pavel Nedved (returning for this match from a lengthy absence due to injury) who sent the challenging first-time shot wide to the right. In the 30th, Juve’s Alessandro Del Piero should have finished the wonderful, flowing build-up strung together by his mates, but failed in his effort. The Italian club from Turin would continue to threaten but find no reward throughout the rest of the first half.

And that would be the last I would see of this match as for some reason my dvr (digital video recorder) didn’t do its job (perhaps due to daylight savings time?) and I missed the entire second half. I’d learn from the news that Juve would go on to score the all-important away goal in the 64th minute to set up a compelling return match at the Stadio Delle Alpi the following week, Liverpool on top 2 – 1 after the first leg.

The next morning, Wednesday, the former head of UN Weapons Inspections in Iraq, Hans Blixt, made a statement to the effect that he now believes that the U.S. invasion of Iraq was carried out in the name of OIL. And sadly, I believe he’s correct on this point. At first Bush said it was to remove the threat of a clear and present danger due to Saddam Hussein’s possession of WMDs – weapons of mass destruction. But once none were found Bush changed his tune to claim that our troops stormed Baghdad to rid Iraq of its evil dictator and to establish a democracy there. BULLSHIT!!! It was about oil…always has been, always will be. DEMOCRACY?! What the hell does Bush really care about democracy?!

On a personal note, I was happy to learn later in the morning that my insurance company will cover some of the costs of the nearly $1,500 that I paid for my immunizations. Nevertheless, I won’t be holding my breath waiting for the check to arrive as I know all-too-well how these bureaucracies operate.

On the news I’d learn that AAA was reporting that people are making different transportation choices as gas prices reached a new record high, over $2.30/gallon. I’m hopeful that this news might provide further impetus for the development of alternative fuel sources, but with this single-minded federal administration at the helm (think OIL here folks) I’m not placing any bets.

Before heading out to nearby Fernhill Park for a training run with Stella (Annie B.’s dog), I’d receive a call from my referee mentor, Eric Beck. He was on cloud nine having recently received some exciting news that I need to keep under wraps until it becomes official. As his top protégé, I was very excited for him. Congrats my friend!

On my short drive back home I’d learn more about the unfolding debacle of House Majority Leader Tom DeLay. Among the various slimy (and illegal) actions he’d apparently engaged in while serving in the house, DeLay took an unauthorized trip to Russia back in ’97 that was paid for by one of that country’s oil giants. Oh, and there’s much more to this dirtbag’s ethics violations abuses and I’m looking forward to his imminent demise. Some (from the right) are calling this partisan politics at its worst, but their defense of this indefensible scumbag will only serve to incriminate them as well.

And finally, following up on the previous day’s Senate vote (52 – 46) to overturn the abhorrently ANTI-LIFE Global Gag Rule (enacted by Bush on only his second day in office), I want to share with you a link to the press release distributed by an organization that I belong to called Population Connection. It makes it quite clear that this ANTI-DEMOCRATIC, ANTI-WOMAN, ANTI-LIFE policy is completely antithetical to American values. Take a look for yourself - http://www.populationconnection.org/Reports_Publications/Publications/publication422.html.

During the debate before the Senate voted to overturn this unconscionably fundamentalist policy, Senator Patty Murray of the Evergreen State (D – WA) was quoted as saying:

"The Bush administration has imposed a political ideology on the world. We cannot allow this undemocratic policy to deny women and their children health care and ultimately sentence them to die."

Right on Patty!!! And these are the same bastards who profess to promoting a ‘culture of life’. They are so completely full of shit it blows the mind that anybody could be so naïve and/or deliberately choosing to ignore reality. Bush is like the freaking man behind the curtain in the “Wizard of Oz”, he’s just an illusion…just ONE BIG LIE!!!

On that note, I’ll stop my rant for now and let you ponder the abhorrence of the Bush administration. Hopefully, you too will be just as outraged as I am.

Thanks for paying attention.

Until next time…

peace,
ac

A Championship Season Revisited

While Terri Schiavo’s death mixed with Republican grandstanding (not to mention the vitriolic, violence-infused rhetoric of anti-abortion activist Randall Terry) was the huge global news story of the day, Thursday also brought an end to the month-long Jose Mourinho saga. The Chelsea manager was found guilty of disrepute at a UEFA disciplinary hearing in Nyon, Switzerland. Besides receiving a fine of 8,900 pounds for his words and actions, Mourinho will also be banned from the touchline for the next two Champions League matches – the home and away quarterfinal clashes against Bundesliga juggernaut Bayern Munich.

The final bit of news for the day before heading off to the Fir was by far the most disturbing not to mention virtually ignored by comparison to the MASSIVE importance of a brain dead woman at last dying at her home in Florida. A presidential commission released a report on weapons of mass destruction and determined that:

“The intelligence community was dead wrong in almost all of its pre-war judgments about Iraq's weapons of mass destruction." It added, "We simply cannot afford failures of this magnitude.” Now, there are those who will argue that this will exonerate Bush somewhat, however, his Administration’s complete mismanagement of this bungled war still falls squarely on his shoulders. Additionally, it’s his failed leadership, warped global understanding, and culture of dishonesty and deception that has led us down this superfreeway of catastrophe.

Among my emails on this day was an update from intrepid global bicycle adventurist Alastair Humphreys. Writing from Beijing before shoving off on a 4000km journey across China to Urumqi – on the east end of the famed Karokoram Highway in western China - Al shared his astute observations about life amongst one of the world’s oldest peoples … www.roundtheworldbybike.com. In addition, his last missive for at least a month included mention of African Sports Outreach … www.asointernational.org, the Portland-based non-profit that has partnered with me in fundraising efforts.

As I got ready for my lunch shift at the Fir, I would catch the beginning of Franken, the one-year anniversary of his show. And those moronic sheep who pretend to be expert consultants said that liberal talk radio wouldn’t work. That’s what they said about Sheila (Hamilton – who’s show I used to produce before she fell victim to zealous patriotism/censorship) a few years ago and that’s the same crap they tried to feed to us about Air America Radio … www.airamericaradio.com. One of my very first posts on this blog was entitled, “Is Al Franken a Modern Day Messiah?”. Well, nearly a year later I’m happy to say that he’s changing the age-old, stodgy, narrow-minded thinking of traditional talk radio and making people THINK! I implore you to check it out… http://www.airamericaradio.com/weblogs/alfrankenshow/.

Down at the Fir on Thursday it was non-stop go for five hours thanks in large part to the current issue of the Willamette Week which featured a cover-story about our esteemed establishment. Check it out at www.wweek.com. My sales were a hair under $600, a big weekday to be sure, but not a single one of ‘my people’ would come in on this fairly lucrative day filled with many new faces.

I’d race until the end to finish all my side-work (which I didn’t really) in order to make on time to my games down in Tualatin at 4:40. I was really irritated when the first game ended up being a forfeit because one of the teams didn’t bother to show up. Not only do I not get compensated for my time, but I was also pissed that I’d rushed there for no reason. After the next two completely forgettable games I was off to Last Thursday – the monthly art walk along NE Alberta St., the street off of which I live.

It’s usually a pretty crazy scene in the warmer months of the year, but this evening’s adventures seemed promising nonetheless. I’d planned to meet up with my co-worker Amelia and ended up connecting with her at Lum’s lamp shop while talking with John Eisner, an architect about my age who I used to deal with at Pearl District neighborhood meetings back in a former lifetime. (Lum is an eccentric little accomplished artistic Asian man also about my age who is one of the most recognizable characters in the community). Ray, a happy-go-lucky hipster with Buddy Holly glasses who works for the Fir doing security, was also there. Last Thursday is definitely an opportunity to cross paths with many old friends.

But I was thirsty and hungry and wanted to head across the street to Bernie’s Southern Bistro where Amelia and her diminutive childhood friend from Missoula, Emily, had gone by this point. I got distracted along the way and looked at my friend Ben’s ornamental leather wristbands that he was selling out on the street. I really wanted to buy one to hipify my somewhat drab wardrobe, but the call of brewed barley and malt was too strong and I had to put off that purchase for some other, perhaps more adventurous day.

Amelia and Emily make quite a formidable duo – a couple of sassy little gals from Montana. Among the many topics discussed was Amelia’s desire to join a soccer team. Coed was definitely an option, but she said that she’d prefer to play on a women’s team. So on the way out the door I pulled Angela aside. Not only is she the lovely bartender at Bernie’s, but she also plays on perhaps my favorite women’s team – Land Rover Team Jane – a bunch of hard-playin’, hard-partyin’ gals who I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know over the years. We talked about her team’s needs and whether or not Amelia might be an option. I assured Angela that Amelia was no slouch on the pitch – she’d played college ball or so she told me. And that’s a far cry better than the majority of amateur hacks (like myself).

Cruisin’ down the street we’d stumble upon the Alberta Arts Pavilion – one of a growing number of gallery spaces along the rapidly gentrifying commercial strip. Selling gorgeous African batiks out front was my old friend Edison Cabrera, the younger brother of my Peruvian friend and former coed teammate Graziela ‘Chela’ Shover. ‘Chela’ and I had a rough start to our relationship years ago when she took exception to my call(s) during a game with her old team Biddy’s – an earlier incarnation of Team Jane. But over time I won her favor and encouraged her to join my coed team. And then a couple years later her brother moved to town and he too joined our squad, adding youth and South American flair to our team. I was excited to see Edison and let him know that I’d be in his hometown - Cuzco, Peru - later this year. Perhaps his family might want to show me around I suggested to him.

A little further down the street we’d pop into the cute, old-school Mexican tienda. Amelia lived in Ecuador for six months and has an affinity for Latin America, so she provided the impetus. We were drawn in by the colorful dulces – familiar-looking baked goods...ah yes, Margarita who I used to work with at Thai Noon would occasionally share the fruits of her second job with us. And behind the counter at the charming tienda was little Ivan (ee-VAHN), an adorable little dude who orders his own special dish at Thai Noon. We’d just call the Ivan Special.

Little Ivan wasn’t so little anymore though. I hadn’t seen him in almost a year and he was taller, with a little stash growing over his top lip. I commented about that as his non-English speaking mother watched on smiling. The whole scenario reminded me of my days as a youth working at my dad’s drug store in a very mixed neighborhood near downtown Albany. Those were great times – learning about the world from behind the counter at Lincoln Pharmacy.

A little further on down the street – a block or two past Thai Noon – we’d come upon the crazy circus people. They’re not really crazy, but most of them (and I say most because it’s hard to say how many people live in their house) did work in one circus or another at some point in their lives. The creative, theatrical folk who reside there have a penchant for building bizarre, high-rise bikes. And it’s no secret as their large yard is littered with the various products of their labor.

As we passed their corner lot, Emily would comment about having once seen them jousting on their bikes, something that didn’t surprise me, but I hadn’t seen or heard of before. And then as we passed their front steps I was astounded to see the stand-alone video game ‘Joust’ being played by somebody. How ironic and/or serendipitous!

We’d only walk another couple blocks down the street before doing a u-turn, returning soon thereafter to the circus of tall bicycle freaks. And when I say ‘freak’, I truly mean that in the most endearing way. For without them, the world would be so boring and gray. THANK YOU FREAKS!!!

Anyway, upon our return, the freaks were fully involved in jousting – crowds cheering, a lovely MC requesting donations of ANY kind, and competitors donning giant q-tip-like lances as they rode towards one another in outrageous comedy. Rather than explain this brilliant display further, I simply encourage you to peruse my recent photos for the true, madcap imagery.

Not quite ready to call it a night we headed back to my end of the strip and had a nightcap at the nearby Tin Shed – one of Portland’s breakfast hotspots that has delved into the late night realm in the past year. Soon thereafter, it was finally time to call it a night.

On Friday morning I’d read an article sent to me by my friend/neighbor Aaron Brown about Arab-Israelis who scored both of Israel’s two goals this week in World Cup qualifying against Ireland and France, thus keeping their ambitions alive to reach Germany next year. The world truly is an ever-changing mosaic.

The tv would show thousands of mourners fill St. Peter’s Square in the Vatican to await the impending death of the Pope – an apt footballer during his youth in Poland. I suspected he wouldn’t make it past the weekend, despite the feeding tube that was helping to nourish the failing pontiff. If the stewards of this frail old man with Parkinson’s had any sense of humanity they’d allow him to die peacefully rather than prolong his inexorable deterioration.

Around 10am or so I was off to the Travel & Immunization Clinic of Portland for my third and final visit. After my last of three Hep A & B and rabies shots at about a hundred-and-fifty bucks a pop, I’d eclipsed the $1,500 mark. I’d hoped that perhaps my insurance company might cover these expenses, but somehow doubted it.

After getting poked a couple times in the arm and then forking over another bunch of bills, I headed down to the Pearl District to grab a bite to eat and get some work done. After pulling into a spot down at Caffe Torrefazzione and buying a parking sticker good for ninety minutes, I decided to head over to Piazza Italia instead to see if Gino or Kevin (co-owners) were around.

So I drove a few blocks to the charming ristorante and was in the process of parking when I realized my computer wasn’t with me. ‘Oh my God!!!’, thought. ‘Did I drive off with my computer on the hood of my car? And if so, surely it must’ve been smashed by the weight of a passing car if it was just lying in the road.’ I was practically in tears, freaking out at the certain demise of my favorite companion. ‘That piece of machinery is the nerve center of my universe. Could this possibly be the end of the world as I know it?!’, I wondered as I raced through the crowded, slow-moving streets of the Pearl.

But as I arrived back at the intersection of NW 12th and Everett I felt a great sense of relief, spying my black computer bag resting unmolested as I had apparently left it on top of a newspaper dispenser. ‘Holy shit!’, I thought. ‘That had been a close one.’ I gotta be more on top of my game than that if I have any hopes of surviving my global journey unscathed.

Relaxing into a comfy table by the window with a creamy latte, I couldn’t help but notice the Italian-language news coverage on RAI-TV, the Berlusconi-owned (Prime Minister/owner of AC Milan) media giant. The program being shown was called La Passione del Papa. Clips of the dying pontiff would be interspersed with a panel discussion about the man who had led the Catholic Church since before my bar mitzvah.

The next storm rolled in quickly as I sat munching bread. In typical spring-like fashion there were sunny, blue skies just fifteen minutes later. And when my savory lunch was over I’d cross paths with a man of the cloth who was on his way in as I was headed out. I found it surprising to see a smile on his face at such a somber time for his faith.

Back over in my ‘hood I’d stop into the relatively new, wifi-friendly Concordia Café for some computer time. Ironically, there were a couple of Italian speaking characters in the mostly-empty joint. I’d order a chai latte, leaving four dollars on the counter for the three-dollar drink. When it was ready, the pathetically lazy/customer service disoriented barista/ower(?) didn’t even take the initiative to walk my drink over to me, twenty feet away. Ten minutes later, after I’d been waiting to see if he’d bring it over, he said, “Hey, did you forget your latte?”. No, I didn’t; so when I went over to get my no-longer hot beverage I took the remaining dollar back, preferring not to leave him anything for his inattention to the most important aspect of his business – the SERVICE he provides.

Back at home I’d get an article sent to me by Bart Wachstetter, an old friend. It mentioned strange rituals performed by fans of Rumanian domestic side Arges Pitesti, including burning a rooster in the center of the pitch. Ironically, I’d just been reading about ‘muti’ – African witchcraft often invoked to help teams win. These rituals seem strange, perhaps even bizarre, but I’m sure that many stateside athletes have various superstitions as well.

Before heading into work for the evening I’d receive word from the home office that owner/Fir architect Jeff Kovel was hosting an eighteen-top in my section at 6:45. Therefore, there was no rush in getting there by 5:30 as scheduled, but I’d certainly have to be on my toes after that. I was excited about this prospect, certain that this Kovel crew wouldn’t spare any expense to have a good time.

Before getting underway I’d have to throw down some cash for the previous day’s tip-out, having forgotten to add it to my ‘drop’ the day before. I’d also write a note to my boss Jana detailing for her why just for the week of May 11th I’d need her to schedule me for Thursday night, not Friday night that week. As I explained to her in writing, I’d be in Seattle Friday evening in advance of my 8am fitness test for my first-ever professional referees clinic. Surely, she’d acknowledge my request and willingly acquiesce to my reasonable wishes. She promised to do what she could, but wouldn’t guarantee anything.

As things got underway that evening one of LB’s customers – a contractor – at table 139 recognized me from my time at Thai Noon, having recognized me at that time from my days pushing paper down at the City’s building permit office. He remembered my tale of woe, what with being demoted for being “too friendly” and for “providing too much customer service.” He was happy to see me working in a more suitable AND enjoyable environment.

Things were a little overwhelming when Kovel and his people all showed up at about the same time as my other two smaller tables turned (i.e. customers left) and were quickly re-seated. Kovel’s party would order bottle after bottle of wine, nothing too spendy, but it took a while to spot-clean a dozen or more wine glasses which sort of put me in the weeds for a short while. Things would go considerably more smoothly after that as I coasted through the rest of the night. Along the way one of Jeff’s (Kovel) many guests – a pleasant woman about my age who I’m assuming has worked in the food biz at one time or another – whispered into my ear as I was clearing her plate, “You’re a very good server by the way.” Other than receiving a huge gratuity, there is nothing more gratifying in my line of work; especially coming from a very large party hosted by one of the owners.

When it was all over their tab came to around $550 and Jeff would split the bill with his new business partner (they were celebrating the impending opening of an upscale furniture shop, I’m guessing in the Pearl District most likely). Jeff put $350 on his amex and his pal forked over an equal amount, using only four bills in the process. And I’ll have to admit, the hundred-and-fifty bucks they left for me felt even better than the compliment I’d received earlier. It was by far the biggest tip I’ve ever received. I really can’t recall ever even breaking the hundred-dollar mark or even coming close. When the night eventually came to an end my sales totaled a whopping $1,053, also a new record for me at the Fir. After tipping out, I’d walk home with a hundred and sixty-bucks…yes, also a record, quite obviously (although I have walked with more once or twice after working a double). A great night indeed!

Famished from running around all night, I’d dive into my pasta and meatballs while standing there at the south end of the north bar talking with JK (John Kennedy) – the defacto kitchen lead while the kitchen manager is on a temporary leave of absence. He would share with me how fortunate he felt to be dating Clare, one of my server-mates – an even-keeled, yet fun-lovin’ woman about thirty years of age who has recently entered the world of real estate.

I’d indulge in another drink with my boozy off-duty co-worker Lydia and a friend of hers, Michael. Soon thereafter I’d give them both a lift – him just across the river to downtown and then just a mile or so further to Lydia’s apartment in Northwest.

Saturday morning I’d start off with Chelsea’s 3 – 1 victory over a very game Southampton side; the soon-to-be English Champion Blues scoring the most sublimely wonderful goals you’re likely to ever see. Starting just past midfield, no less than six players were involved, none of them getting more than a single touch or two on the ball – working the ball around like child’s play before the Icelandic international Eidur Gudjonssen continued his run, latching onto a perfectly weighted through-ball by his teammate Didier Drogba, the top striker from the Côte d’Ivoire. This classy golaso seemed be the defining moment for the popular West London club amidst this historic season which will see them become champion for the first time in five decades.

During the match I’d get a call from referee colleague Liam Hayes who needed me to cover some games for him the next day. He also wanted to talk about a red card he’d issued in a coed game the night before. The upshot of his story was that when all was said and done, the transgressor – who was admittedly a newbie to the game – apologized to Liam for his completely inappropriate behavior. It’s always nice when this happens since it sort of vindicates the match official.

Soon thereafter I’d get an email from John Verhaagh, an old acquaintance who I’d run into a couple times recently at the Fir. (He’s the guy who works for Cannondale bikes.) He had these kind words to say – “It's always good to see you. You are one those people that has made Portland seem like the small big town it is. Feel free to give me a buzz sometime for whatever reason.” I really appreciated his sentiment regarding my contribution to the local scene.

While getting ready to head out for my seven indoor games, I’d catch Arsenal’s demolition of Norwich City. Thierry Henry would open the scoring with a quick pair in a three-minute span midway through the opening period along the way to a 4 – 1 victory. Henry would finish with a hat-trick, his Swedish teammate Freddy Ljungberg netting the other. It should be noted that Henry now stands only four goals away from becoming the Gunners’ all-time leading scorer. Already far ahead of all other strikers in this year’s chase for the EPL’s Golden Boot award, Henry will most likely achieve that milestone before season’s end.

At halftime I’d learn that Newcastle had two players sent off earlier that day for fighting…WITH EACH OTHER. The controversy-plagued Lee Bowyer had gone toe-to-toe with his somewhat less controversial teammate Kieron Dyer. Having almost been in that situation before as a player, I wasn’t terribly surprised. For me it happened during my Green Room days when I lashed back at my outrageously foul-mouthed and belligerent teammate Dave Sinclair. After enduring a verbal tirade and having taken enough abuse from the angry Scot, I shot back from across the field, “Shut the fuck up!!!!” With play still continuing, he ran over to me and puffed up his chest like he was gonna kick my ass. Fortunately, however, I was somehow able to reason with this most unreasonable of characters. (As a postscript to this story it should be noted that I played my last game with the Green Room later that season when I walked off the field during the final minutes of a match in which Dave had gotten into a physical brouhaha with one of our opponents. Oh, and the next time I saw him was the following year when I’d referee one of his matches in which, ironically, he would call one of his teammates a “fucking cunt” – which is common British vernacular as well as being utterly offensive – and then physically threatened the poor guy too.)

Saturday afternoon I’d referee four dreadfully boring games at Tualatin Indoor – all U10 and younger, some of whom had never played before. The first match included Neelam, the daughter of Hurdash (sp?) – whom I’ve known for years, first as an opponent at Portland Indoor and now, of course, as a ref. Neelam’s team would lose twelve – zip.

During the second match I’d once again hear Elvis Costello’s “Peace, Love, and Understanding” playing on the facility’s stereo system. This seemed to be a recurring theme for me…literally.

Later in the match when a kid hit the turf hard (an all too common occurrence at this level) he looked up at me grief-stricken. “Get up”, I reassured him, “you’re ok”. And just like that he popped up all smiles. Later, I’d tell his coach that I’d read an article in some soccer officiating periodical that informed the reader that young kids just need some adult support in moments such as these; and that’s where the referee’s role can be so important to keep the little ones happy.

After my matches in Tualatin I’d grab a sandwich at Quizno’s (MUCH better than Subway) and head up the freeway for a set of three coed games at Portland Indoor. While munching down my meal in front PIS’s large-screen tv, I’d learn that the Pope had in fact passed away. My prediction that he wouldn’t last the weekend did in fact come to fruition.

Arriving for the upcoming game was Majd – a tall, handsome Moroccan who I’d met not too long ago. In responding to my query regarding his hometown, he patted himself on top of his head. “Oh, you’re from Fez!”, I correctly guessed.

Also upon my prompting, Majd would remind me again the difference between his name and it’s close cousin ‘Majid’ which I believe is a little more common. He told me that his parents preferred the noun ‘glory’ to the potentially hard-to-live-up-to ‘glorious’. I liked their line of thinking on this one.

Majd’s game would go quite smoothly. And at some point during the next match my number #1 fan Brandon would show up to spectate. I’d congratulate him on his team’s (Brandon recently told me that he’s a HUGE fan of his alma mater’s – University of Illinois – men’s basketball team) victory to reach their first-ever NCAA Final. I knew how excited he’d be about their win only minutes earlier.

My last game of the night began with a bang. In a mid-level coed match involving FC Bamako – a bunch of folks I know quite well and have occasionally played with – against a new team called London Pride, I’d recognize the sharp-dressed British character barking out instructions from the team bench. He’s one of those notorious buffoons who always thinks the referee is an idiot, deserving of abuse and derision.

But I wasn’t planning to take any of his crap. And as often is the case with new teams, they break well-established rules until they learn to clean up their act. So when one of London Pride’s reckless, uncoordinated defenders crushed Bamako’s agile, little Joshie into the boards I was left with no choice but to issue a blue card – a two-minute penalty – to the offender. “Oh, that’s bullshit!!!” bellowed the red-faced manager(?)/coach(?)/whoever-the-fuck he was. "No, that’s not bullshit!", I shot back, continuing “you will either keep your mouth shut or you’ll sit over there” (pointing to the seats behind the glass, where his ignorant comments would be muted from my ears somewhat). “Oh, you can’t tell me what to do”, Mr. Bigtalker replied, to which I reminded him that I most certainly could.

And as I was walking away thinking he was done, the jackass blurted out “Oh, piss off!!!” At that point I’d had enough, obviously, and insisted that he sit, repeating “SIT DOWN…SIT DOWN…SIT DOWN…” about a dozen times until he eventually backed away at the prompting of the more sensible players.

Glancing over a short while later I noticed that my nemesis had left, probably embarrassed at having received his marching orders. Later in the match, one of London Pride’s better players informed me that I “did the right thing”, validating what I already knew, but happy to know that he agreed. Craig and Pete – two regulars who were still hangin’ around after their match immediately preceding this one – gave me kudos for standing my ground.

Upon signing out I’d receive my last month’s paycheck and a referee evaluation form filled out by Brandon. He’d told me a couple weeks earlier after I officiated his match that he’d be writing me up – all good things of course. Thanks for letting my bosses know that I’m doing a good job, dude, it’s most appreciated.

I’d spend the rest of my night over in the Pearl District at a fundraiser for the Pacific Northwest College of Art – www.pnca.edu. My old friend Nan Curtis (who will attest to the fact that I’m one of the very first people she met when she moved to town thirteen years ago from Cincinnati) was producing this Carnaval-themed event and I was hoping to catch the featured act – The Lions of the Batucada. The Lions are a fantastic all-percussion Brazilian samba ensemble that I’m hoping to line up as the headliner for my event in September.

When I parked my car across the street from PNCA I could hear the pounding rhythms delighting the crowd inside. But by the time I made my way in minutes later, the Lions had finished their long, sweaty, high-octane set. ‘Damn!!!’, I thought, somewhat disappointed.

Ah well, the Brazilian dj who took control of the musical reins did a sterling job keeping the crowd happy. I’d schmooze my around the roomy space first greeting Eileen – a sassy redhead with a thick Brooklyn accent – who was chilling after the Lions’ set with sweat-soaked Sam Pardue – a former teammate of mine on Thunder!.

I’d also say hello to the stoic Swede Al Solheim – a tall, well-groomed, handsome man in his early 60s(?) who owns a number of buildings in the rapidly changing über-urban neighborhood. I’d met Al years ago during my neighborhood planning/community organizing days as a staffperson with Neighbors West/Northwest, a coalition of nine mostly-affluent Westside neighborhood associations. At that time, however, the Pearl was in the early stages of its grand metamorphosis and it’s been fascinating to watch its progression over the years. Conversely, it was also nice to see that some things never do change as Al, always one with an eye for beauty, remarked almost in awe on one particularly lovely young woman who was twirling about magnificently on the dance floor.

Next up I’d greet the hostess of this grand affair, Nan Curtis, who was chitchatting with James & Jamie and Elizabeth – all of whom I’ve known for most of my years here in town. J & J and I used to live down the hall from one another on the first floor of the Bretnor Manor on the corner of NW 20th and Lovejoy back in the early 90s. Our Labs “Nutty” and “Eddie” used to play together back in the day and are now hopefully doing the same in Doggie Heaven.

Elizabeth used to live in a house with my old friend and longtime teammate (on Thunder!) Doug Stuart back during my Bretnor days and she has been playing with my favorite women’s team – Land Rover Team Jane – for a number years now; so I often see her on the pitch, but not looking as wonderfully as she did in her gorgeous black gown on this occasion.

As the evening was winding down, Nan’s husband Marty eventually emerged from the kitchen space, where he’d been making endless rounds of drinks for the thirsty denizen of partygoers. Marty and I (but mostly me), of course, would take the opportunity to share with our friends what was most likely the seminal moment in our soccer-playing careers. Thunder!, having won the mens’s division three fall outdoor season, reached the championship game. That game would end in a 1 – all draw, immediately resulting in kicks from the mark to determine the winner.

With Marty in goal, the teams were tied at two goals apiece after five kicks, so an additional five players were chosen for sudden death. I would be my team’s third (or actually eighth) kicker, but I seriously doubted that it would come down to me. I was wrong as both Marty and his counterpart continued to stymie the shooters.

So then it was my turn. I’d recently read an article about what a goalie looks for from his opponent. I thought about this as I approached the ball, indicating with my hips that I’d be shooting to my right. Instead, however, I passed the ball comfortably inside the left post to give our team the advantage. Moments later, Marty would easily parry the final shot away from the net to secure the championship for us. It’s a moment that will forever serve as a bond between us … a story that I’m sure we’ll get plenty of mileage out of for years to come.

Until next time…

peace,
ac

Dubya's Supposed 'Culture of Life' - April 6th, 2005

Amongst the many mundane realities of returning home from a trip to the backcountry is the task of rifling through dozens of emails. Included among the handful of important and/or interesting messages was a random missive from an old high school friend, Rachel Greene (who now has a different last name). She’d googled me and found my blog and was now contacting me to let me know that our 20th high school reunion was being planned for August 13th. ‘Hmmm…”, I thought, “I’ll be on the east coast, but that’s when I plan to be at a D.C. United game down at RFK.” I originally emailed back to Rachel that I wouldn’t be going, but have since reconsidered, realizing that this would be an ideal start to my Football for Peace Tour.

Also of note embedded within my emails was word from my good buddy and former landlord/roommate Janos Bodnar – a first generation Hungarian-American from NYC – announcing to the world the birth of his baby girl Elia. Congratulations to you (and Sarah) my gentle giant of a friend.

On the eleven o’clock news I’d learn that Portland had received record rainfall that day, March 27th – more than an inch of liquid precip, bringing our monthly deficit from only 30% to over 90% of normal and from 52% to 61% for the rain year that started last October. It should be noted, however, that it’s been warmer than normal too as mountain snowpack is only at about 30% of normal, an ominous statistic for the coming fire and farming seasons.

The next morning I’d learn about ‘The Jewish problem at Ajax’ – a story that was emailed to me by a friend…

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/03/28/international/europe/28ajax.html?ex=1112677200&en=9999ba24c9d87978&ei=5070

It’s very interesting and explains the history behind the borrowed Jewish identification by the Amsterdam club’s supporters. Additionally, it delves into the growing problem of anti-Semitism being spewed by the fans of Ajax’s opponents. Rather than paraphrase further, I suggest you just read the article for yourself.

Later on Monday morning I’d learn that Indonesia had suffered yet another massive quake. An 8.7 had struck not far from where the Boxing Day 9.0 temblor had provided the impetus to generate the massive tsunami that had killed more than 150,000 people around the Indian Ocean. Fortunately, at only a fraction of the size of its predecessor, this after-shock merely only caused local damage on the island of Nias where there was, unfortunately, massive destruction and hundreds of casualties. It had initially been feared that there would be another massive tsunami when the quake first struck, so while it's a desperate situation on Nias, at least that seems to be the only locale suffering from this recent movement of the earth's crust.

Later in the afternoon on MSNBC I’d learn about the craven hypocrisy of House Majority Whip Tom Delay. While preaching about the culture of life and passing unnecessary legislation related to one person – Terri Schiavo – news that Delay had refused care for his brain dead father would surface. Adding to the Republicans’ blatant hypocrisy, newsman David Gregory – filling in for the sharp-tongued Chris Matthews on Hardball – brandishes the right for its defense of the sanctity of marriage in arguing against gay marriage while denying a husband’s (and LEGAL caretaker's) right (Michael Schiavo) to care for his brain-dead wife in a way that he feels matches her wishes. The Republicans’ house of cards is about to come tumbling down as they continue to indulge in bogus acts of theocratic tyranny cloaked in faux-pious grandstanding. Americans are getting tired of their bullshit and I’m very much looking forward to their imminent demise.

Down at the Fir for a dinner shift only – my schedule having been changed a bit to accommodate my needs during the upcoming spring and summer soccer seasons – things would cruise along on auto-pilot as it never got terribly busy. One of my tables – a friendly couple just a couple years older than me – was celebrating their 13th wedding anniversary. Unpretentious and easygoing as they were, I suspected they’d go the distance together.

Things would cruise along through til a little before ten when it all of a sudden got busy and I was the only server still on the floor. It wouldn’t have been much of problem had it not been for the party of eight, then twelve, 55+ers who were a bit of a pain in the ass. Nevertheless, I’d still manage to turn on a little charm for them and keep 'em happy.

Meanwhile, nearby on table 124 was another noteworthy party – a group of three guys who work on high-end yachts all around the globe. Lee, the friendly ringleader hails from western Australia and his comrades were from Uruguay and Canada, respectively. I imagined joining them on the open seas someday after my impending adventure comes to an end.

As I was getting ready to wrap things up for the night the Fir’s easygoing off-duty security guy w/dreads, George, (he’s a black dude) stopped by for a quick word. A little boozy and feeling somewhat melancholy perhaps that (for some undisclosed reason, yet of his own choosing) he no longer works at the Fir, he’d throw a friendly arm over my shoulder, telling me that he hoped to see me out on the town sometime. I assured him that he would, looking forward to running into him as well at one of Portland’s many artsy hipster functions.

The late ten o’clock hit I got right before the late-night crew came on enabled me to post a very respectable sales total for a Monday night, $850. None of ‘my people’ were in the house that evening, but it was a quality shift nonetheless.

Tuesday morning I’d read that Chelsea manager Jose Mourinho had admitted that he never did actually see Barcelona’s skipper Frank Rijkaard go into referee Anders Frisk’s dressing room during their highly controversial Champions League affair at the Nou Camp in February. He had trusted the word of his ‘people’, who it turns out had apparently fanned the flames of a false debate.

My first task at work on Tuesday would be to get off work the following day so that I could enjoy the two-feet of freshies up at the mountain. My considerate colleague Annamari willingly stepped up to the plate, switching my Wednesday shift for her Thursday shift allowing me the opportunity to relish in the snowstorm of the year. Bless you my dear Annamari!!! Bless you!

Soon thereafter it was time to get down to business and unlike the night before, a number of ‘my people’ were in the house. First up was my old friend Sam Chase. Sam was one of the original organizers of XPAC, the group that I founded back in ’95 to energize and mobilize my age cohort to become involved in local issues. The following year, Sam would serve as campaign manager for Erik Sten who would go on to become Portland’s youngest-ever City Commissioner. I served as the campaign’s volunteer coordinator (of which we had more than five hundred) and media liaison, so for a short time there Sam was my boss and co-worker. Those were good times with the Stenmobile crusing around town and my dog Nutty serving as the campaign mascot.

Sam implored me to try to get off work the following Friday (April 8th) so that I could be present at the XPAC reunion planned for that evening at a local pub. I told him that I’d see what I could do. (And I have in fact switched my Friday for LB’s Tuesday in order to attend and meet up with many old friends.)

During Sam’s lunch, John Verhaag – who I’d seen in the Fir a week earlier – showed up for another business luncheon and introduced me to one of his Cannondale colleagues. Ironically, my friend Amelia who was waiting on him, was in need of a new bike. I put in a good word for her to my cycle-centric friend who later would promise to do what he could to help her out. I was happy to have opened up my big mouth and helped make that connection happen.

Also enjoying lunch on this cool, rainy Tuesday were Rob Roy – the contractor, not the drink – and Chad Carbis – Annie B.’s Bush-supportin’ pal who hawks America’s favorite brew, Budweiser, for a local distributor.

It would also be a day book-ended with Jesus lovers…ones who I could identify much in the same way as I appreciate my cousin the Santa Cruz rabbi’s passion for religion. Unlike the fundamentalist theocrats running our federal government these days, my friends Crystal and Josh (who bears a certain resemblance to the stereotypical image of the Son of God) live virtuous lives, following the teachings of their Lord. There is no pretense or preachiness about them. Like my cousin Shalom and the hip local reverend (about thirty years old, beefy with a goatee, wearing a leather jacket, and still beaming from the recent Willamette Week cover story about his church) who would show up with three of his disciples as lunch was coming to an end, these people all demonstrate the very PERSONAL relationship that some of us have with God. I emphasize personal because religion is and should always be a strictly personal matter, NEVER to co-mingle with the laws of the land. And along those lines, I’ve always admired people like this because they understand this truth to be self-evident. No, they’re not seeking to convert the masses or proselytize THEIR beliefs. Instead, they revel in their passion and their faith without infringing on the more secular sensibilities that are quite common amongst many of us, especially here in Portland.

As lunch came to an end Paco (grill cook) would give me shit about Mexico’s win over the U.S. over the weekend and Hernan (dishwasher) would proudly predict his homeland, Guatemala, would defeat the U.S. the next day. I, of course, cast some serious doubt on his team’s prospect of winning.

Off for the day by 4pm, I headed across town to get my haircut at Bishop’s on NW 21st. While waiting for my appointment I saw an intense, deep-in-thought Sterling Bennett pace quickly by on the sidewalk. I thought again of Graham Clark – Sterling’s co-worker down at the City Planning Department who recently took his own life. I wondered how people like Sterling were affected by Graham’s tragic end.

Later at Fred Meyer doing some shopping, I ran into my co-worker Lani who’d been running food to my tables all afternoon. Moments later I’d see Jeff Smith, the City’s bike guru in the Transportation Department. Graham was an avid cyclist and I imagine the two must’ve regularly pedaled around to meetings together.

After a couple hours plugging away on the keyboard at Powell’s on Hawthorne, I met up with the lovely Anna Miller downtown at Old Town Pizza, bagging the original plan to hit up nearby rock club Dante’s in order to relax peaceably at the pizza shop, one of Anna’s former employers. We talked relationships with one of the guys there who’s thirty-one and still trying to figure it all out, just like the rest of us. And driving Anna home later I’d learn that her father’s lack of love when she was a child has impacted upon the person who she is today – a strong, beautiful woman who’s, nevertheless, often in search of male approval.

Taking one last look at the telemetry data from the mountain right before bedtime, I’d learn of more heavy snow and strong winds. More than two feet of fresh snow had fallen so far since the storm had begun two days earlier, and close to another foot of snow was expected to fall overnight. It was shaping up to be a reasonably epic day up on the mountain the next day!!! I’d finally get to use my season’s pass again…the first time since sometime in January.

On the way up to the mountain Wednesday morning I’d hear a story on NPR about the need to control population growth. The consequences, the reporter warned, could lead to the end of human existence as we continue to destroy the ecosystems that help to keep us alive. I listened with rapt interest in sad agreement since global overpopulation has been of grave concern to me since learning of its terrifying potential impact in Mr. Frank Keats' economics class as a senior in high school.

On the Meadows sno-phone, Dave Tragethon – the resort’s marketing director who was also doubling as the recorded voice for would-be alpine enthusiasts – informed me that 33” of snow had fallen since Sunday, easily the best powder day of the year. Things were shaping up to be quite good.

Somewhere between Gresham and Sandy I’d call my friend Jill back on the east coast to share my good mood with her. I’d inform her that I was heading up to Mt. Hood solo, quite confident I’d cross paths with any of a number of old friends.

Sure enough, as I was standing in line (at around 8:45) waiting for the lifts to open at 9am (not 8am as always used to be the case), my old friend Bill Irving appeared behind me. I’ve known the former Nike functionary for most of the past decade. In fact, he was just one of a small number of my friends to have skied a shot subsequently named AC’s Couloir on our trip up to a cabin high in the heart of the Selkirks outside of Golden, B.C. several years back. (The couloir received that moniker even though I never actually made the precipitous descent).

Bill was with a whole crew of folks, some of whom I’d crossed paths with before. Kevin Fallon – a guy who works in Nike’s soccer department that Blake had suggested I connect with several months ago – was directly in front of me and I took the opportunity to do a little PR work.

After catching up on each other’s lives on the chairlift, Bill and I headed over to the Shooting Star lift. I dropped down into Lower Elevator to test the snow, which was light and fluffy, but managed to lose Bill immediately as he raced off to catch up with the rest of his gang.

My first several stellar runs of the day were easily the best I’d experienced since the last big powder of the ’03 – ’04 season! It’s a shame that we had to literally go through the entire winter and on into spring before catching some snow like this – deep and dreamy. I’d shred up every aspect that Shooting Star had to offer before dropping down into Roach Bowl on my way to Fairlyland for a safety check. It seemed that I wasn’t the only one with that grand plan as a few friendly folks joined me in the woods for our respite from crashing down the slopes. And just as we were getting ready to meander through the forest, who should cruise along but good ol’ Bill Irving and his posse of alpine warriors.

I’d join them for a Chinese downhill of sorts – a non-stop top-to-bottom sprint down into the top of Three Bowl before cutting over into Four Bowl. Stopping for a second to suck some wind, I barely caught a glimpse of the speed merchants blazing towards the bottom on the groomed run-out while I was still several hundred feet up the hill. It was a pace I really had no interest in maintaining.

But I’d catch up with them at the lift line and stick with ‘em for a few runs before eventually losing pace. And this was fine with me as I cruised through powder stashes at a more relaxed velocity. (Actually, I ski rather fast, but like to stop periodically on my way down the hill.) I’d eventually catch up with them again over on Shooting Star before they sped off once again. I had no interest in racing to the bottom and was happy to be on my own to enjoy soon thereafter.

After four hours of non-stop skiing, my quads were burning with every turn. Ready to call it a day, I made one final stop at the new Vista Ridge lift to see what conditions the mountain might offer over on that side of the resort. It had only opened minutes earlier and I spied some nice powder shots as I neared the top. A few adventurous souls had even hiked across a windswept ridge in order to hit some turns that were otherwise inaccessible. I followed their lead to reach the top of a pristine, shallow bowl on the downwind side of Vista Ridge, easing my way through a field of light, windswept powder – carving wide GS turns at rapid rate of speed.

I considered taking one more run as I approached the long lift line, but decided against it, preferring to quit while I was ahead and not interested in a long wait. It had been a great start to my ski season at Meadows, but sadly, it was almost April and it would soon be coming to an end.

On the way home I stopped into Calamity Jane’s – a notorious wild west lookin’ burger joint just outside of Sandy – for a bite to eat before heading down to Tualatin for my games at 4:40. Amongst the handful of customers was Bob Asiello, a 50-something-ish referee who works many of the same leagues as me. He told me he’d been wondering if I was up on the mountain today, and sure enough, his instincts were right.

I’d have trouble staying awake on the drive back to town, curious as to how I’d manage to struggle through my set of four indoor games. It turns out, though, that it was only three games, not four, as Mo Nasser showed up for the 7:10 kickoff to my surprise. He’d share his disappointment with me over his homeland’s (Libya’s) 4– 1 loss in a World Cup qualifier against African powerhouse Egypt.

Back at home I laughed hysterically at the timely South Park episode, mocking the Schiavo case with unabashed irreverence. As one might have suspected, it was ‘Kenny’ who portrayed the brain-dead ‘vegetable’. Funny stuff. I just love that show’s ability to skewer any issue with incisive wit and brilliance. The fact that it's blatanly offensive and shocking makes it that much funnier.

Later, I’d learn that Iran had easily beaten North Korea 2 - nil in a politically significant ‘Axis of Evil’ derby in Pyongyang. The game would end amidst major controversy when one of the home side’s forwards took exception to the referee’s decision not to call a penalty in his favor. In a stadium – Kim Jong Il Stadum – filled to capacity with people clad in identically drab gray outfits, several players charged after the referee and shoved him several times before a swarm of players, coaches, other refs, security, and FIFA administrators intervened. Naturally, there was a player sent off for assaulting the referee. And when the match was over, an angry mob prevented the Iranian team as well as the match officials from leaving as scheduled. Could this be the start of some kind of international dispute – a political powder keg of sorts.

Before going to bed, Blake and I would have a sleepy conversation as I was wiped out from my long day at the mountain at then at Tualatin Indoor. I’d feel bad that I just couldn’t pull it together to hold a reasonable conversation, but I was useless, lights out moments after hanging up.

Thursday morning I’d learn that France could only manage a 1 – all draw against Israel in a World Cup qualifier in Tel Aviv, leaving both teams tied at the top of their group. Meanwhile, the U.S. bounced back from their loss in Mexico City, easily dispatching of Guatemala in a workmanlike 2 – nil result.

The news story of the day/week was that Terri Schiavo had finally died after nearly two weeks since her feeding tube had been removed – one day after yet one more federal court refused to intervene. Had she lived in the great state of Oregon, however, this whole circus would never have occurred as she could have died with dignity and peace. Ironically, and most hypocritically, Dubya would make a statement asking Americans to side with the “culture of life”. Ironic, I say, because of his prolific record at allowing the execution of record numbers of Texas death row inmates while serving as Governor of the Lone Star State.

And of course, Bush’s insincere support of the ‘culture of life’ is nothing more than spin and dishonesty. Bush doesn’t truly value life – his words ring hollow; because if he did he wouldn’t send our soldiers to die in unwarranted wars and perhaps more insidiously, his domestic agenda would reflect a higher level of compassion and support for the bottom-feeders of American society. Instead, Bush grandstands, purporting to promote a ‘culture of life’ while many of the living suffer at the hands of his reckless and ill-conceived policies. My only hope is that when his sinister reign of terror has finally ended we’ll have the collective capacity to repair our country and the world in a manner that truly does value the ‘culture of life.’

Until next time…keep the faith.

peace,
ac

Perfect Timing: The Second Year Running (April 1st, 2005)

As I dealt with the myriad details related to my impending trip to the Wallowas (Wuh-LAU-wuz), I would learn more about the unending Mourinho/Rijkaard saga. The Dutch Surinamese skipper of Barcelona FC made a public statement saying that he didn’t believe that Chelsea FC should be punished for the words and actions of their arrogant Portuguese helmsman. No, Frank Rijkaard had declared that it should be Jose Mourinho and Jose Mourinho alone who suffers UEFA’s sanctions should he be found guilty of bringing the game into disrepute, as he has been charged with.

As leaving town promptly at 3pm was my primary goal throughout the day, the balance of my morning was filled with doing laundry, running errands (the bank, the grocery store, and the liquor store), and dealing with “King” Beck’s protracted story-telling followed by a ‘call-to-action’ on his behalf. As usual, I would eventually have to cut him off so that I could get back to business and focus on MY agenda.

Back at home I’d get an email from my lifelong pal Lee Einhorn, a ‘creative’ (i.e. advertising executive) down in San Francisco. He’s interested in finding some way to tie my Football for Peace Tour into one of the brands he markets, perhaps lining up some funding for me. It’s all so nebulous that it’s hardly worth mentioning, except that I would be somewhat conflicted to entertain the idea of sponsorship as there is a certain appeal to not being constrained or beholden to any corporate interests…unless, of course, I’m involved with progressive-minded companies who share the same world philosophy as me. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see what Lee's got in mind.

By the time I was done dealing with everything I had less than half-an-hour to spare before Dan “Papa Crucial” Tiegs was set to arrive at my house. So I made a quick call to my friend Jill back in my hometown to touch base before leaving town. And less than an hour later, we’d picked up Dan’s Columbia Sportswear compatriot Eric Hansen – a fairly reserved, yet easygoing guy still trying to master the zen of the tele-turn – and were speeding eastward on I-84 towards the Columbia Gorge.

I let Dan steer the ship for the first few hours so that I could plug away for you, my loyal reader, before eventually taking over somewhere between Pendleton and last sight of the Columbia before it curls north into Washington. I marveled at the beauty of the nearly-full moon as it rose through scattered clouds shortly after the sun had set, but before the sky had fully morphed from day to night. There was an eerie fog along the crest of the Blue Mountains between Pendleton and La Grande, obscuring the view of the fresh snow clinging to the giant ponderosa pines.

Leaving the freeway and heading north out of La Grande on the east side of the Blues we grew excited as a light rain soon changed to its more appealing frozen cousin. It was nothing spectacular, but this was a delightful harbinger of things to come.

After checking into our motel in Enterprise – the Ponderosa Pines – around 8:30, we headed over to Lear’s (Pub & Grill?) just a couple hundred yards away to meet Chris and Keith who had arrived about an earlier. A few yokels were there enjoying what little nightlife there was in this remote outpost in northeast Oregon.

Despite the relatively early hour the kitchen was more or less closed, excepting of course the fact that the amiable, marginally cosmopolitan hipster barkeep was willing to throw together either of two items – a steak sandwich or a reuben. And even though I’d been gnawing all afternoon on a leftover roast that Annie B. had prepared for a small dinner party the night before, I ordered the steak sandwich. Being in cattle country this seemed like the more sensible of the two options.

But while waiting for my food and drink to arrive I received the unlikeliest of calls from my 'south jersey girl’, Jessica Hillman – a lovely young woman in her mid-20s who I had the good fortune of connecting with during my tour of duty in the Baltimore area while working for Advan (the mobile advertising company) a couple years back. I’d made a couple of attempts to contact her recently and hadn’t heard back, so I was a little shocked to see her name on my phone way out there in the middle of nowhere.

She was on the road somewhere between her family’s place in South Jersey and D.C. where she’d been working as of late. So after enthusiastically carrying on about the various reasons for me to be in a good mood and also catching up on Jessica’s wanderings around the southeastern part of the country doing public visibility marketing campaigns (for Diet Dr. Pepper among others, I believe), I headed back into Lear’s to dive into my massive steak sandwich and discuss the upcoming adventure with my posse.

We were back at the Ponderosa Pines before ten and I, exhausted from the previous week’s whirlwind of activity, crashed soon thereafter.

Our wake-up call came around 7am, shortly after I’d already come to life for the day. Like young schoolboys, we were delighted at the sight of new snow – albeit only an inch or two – covering our cars. Knowing the mountains as I do, I knew that a dusting in town would likely translate into a more significant snowfall up at elevation.

We arrived around 8:15 at the Wildflour Café in Joseph, a few minutes late for our pre-trip meeting with Roger Averbeck – the light-hearted, yet über-prepared and meticulous, steely-eyed proprietor of Wing Ridge Tours – the outfit that manages several high alpine camps deep in the Wallowas.

As we have grown so accustomed to over the years visiting this mountain paradise, Roger was armed with an arsenal of weather beta, snow conditions, prodigious maps, written instructions, and words of warning. As a bit of a weather geek, I’m always fascinated to hear Roger’s lengthy presentations, intrigued to learn that we had arrived amidst storm cycle #12 of this winter season.

Roger would draw our route on a topographic map, providing us with a detailed aural description of the uptrack. He’d explain to us that the trail is deliberately unmarked in order to prevent wayward backcountry travelers from arriving unwanted. Continuing on this current, Roger astounded us with what was perhaps the quote of the weekend saying with just a hint of dry humor, “If you don’t know where you are, you shouldn’t be there.” We all laughed hysterically at the veracity of this sentiment.

I was somewhat distracted from Roger’s info-fest, however, by the outlandishly negligent service from our cheery, yet apparently overwhelmed waitress. Being in the business, I’m particularly attuned to the nuances of restaurant life, taking note of the fact that it took her literally twenty minutes to get us coffee, not having any silver or napkins for us once the food did eventually arrive, and then ultimately leaving ALL of our dirty plates on our table for the duration of our breakfast meeting. To me, this was the icing on the cake as it’s definitely one of my General Manager’s pet peeves down a the Fir. And frankly, I might’ve been able to accept her laxity, except for the fact that for the last twenty minutes we were there, there were virtually no other customers in the joint as she ran around re-setting all of the dirty tables from the early morning rush. In the end, I wanted to give her some pointers, but decided against it, preferring to be the Ambassador of Goodwill instead and leaving her an unreasonably generous tip in the process.

As we prepared to leave, Roger reminded us to contact him upon returning to the valley floor in order to let him know that we made it out alive and also to add to his ever-growing anthology of weather data and snow conditions. Then just before shoving off, Roger loaded us up with an entire winter’s worth of toilet paper.

It was cold and snowy when we arrived at the Salt Creek Sno-park and within about fifteen minutes we were on our way. It didn’t take long before there was a rift in the consensus regarding which way to go. And remembering the turnoff from a year earlier, I held me ground when we strayed uphill too early. Keith and Eric reluctantly joined us even though their way would likely have eventually looped up with the Wing Ridge Trail, which we reached only a few hundred yards after I insisted we continue on down the access trail.

After that bridge was crossed we more or less followed the route that Roger had explained to us just a couple hours earlier. As the snow intensified we wound our way up through a burn, traversed across a stand of trees, and then up a drainage through another burn (probably from the same wildfire) and then up to a ridge that we assumed was the right spot. But we weren’t really sure, so we just kept following our instincts and Roger’s directions.

At this point we were instructed to head left through an obvious stand of evergreens that had somehow managed to survive while all others within several hundred yards had been charred. We continued to head uphill and further to the left after emerging beyond the healthy forest, eventually reaching a high point of sorts. With low clouds obscuring any view of the surrounding mountains and ridges and no idea where we were and somewhat unsure as to where the huts were, we continued a little further before eventually deciding to ditch our heavily loaded packs (which included a mélange of booze) in order to more easily scout about for the Wing Ridge huts.

It didn’t take long – probably only about thirty seconds or so – before Chris and Keith found what we were looking for. Within minutes we were celebrating happily in the large army-surplus main tent with a warm fire cranking in the wood stove. It appeared as though we’d lucked out for the second year in a row as the mountains welcomed us with an ample layer of fresh snow after a long dry spell. Chris “Old Man” Lepore had brought a Grundig crank-operated emergency radio and catching a weather forecast on OPB we’d learn that a “parade of storms” was expected over the coming days. This was like audio porn to my ears as we soon thereafter set out to explore the slopes to the south and west of our encampment.

We’d spend the next couple of hours ascending a valley that we couldn’t see the top of. Eventually, however, we cut up towards our left, a steep northeast facing slope that seemed like a good place to test the duff. And it didn’t disappoint as we floated peacefully through a soupy fog down through the valley that we’d earlier skinned up. Before reaching the bottom we’d slap our skins back on for another shorter run – this time in some deep fluff amongst the trees.

After that it was time to crack open our impromptu liquor cabinet back at camp and indulge in “Old Man’s” beef stew that had been pre-prepared by Chris’ lovely doting wife Melinda. We reveled in our reasonably comfy digs – drinking and dining to our hearts’ content, enjoying the variety of sounds pumping out of Chris’ Grundig. When the ‘Yes’ song “Seen All Good People” cranked out, I joined in with the virtually inaudible refrain that they ‘borrowed’ from John & Yoko – “All we are sayyyyyyyyyyy-ing…is give peace a chance.” You have to listen closely, but you can barely hear it there in the deep recesses of the song.

With booze flowing freely through our veins we decided to crack open the Scrabble board for a game that never quite concluded, but ended with me firmly in the lead, leaving my friends to try to topple me again some other day. With several tiles still yet to be played we were completely wiped out by our day’s adventure, preferring to retreat to our less-than-cozy bunks in a couple of tent-cabins just a few dozen yards away.

Unlike my two bunk-mates Dan and Keith, my “bed” (and I use that term quite loosely) was only a single-wide compared to their doubles – barely wide enough for my broad little body. As I squirmed around trying to get comfortable, or the closest approximation to that, I must’ve shifted a little too far to my left. My sleeping bag provided no friction whatsoever with the equally sheen air mattress beneath it as I slid awkwardly off my wooden cot into the space between it and the tent wall. Grumpily, I pulled myself back onto my “bed” and set about falling asleep in as close to a mummy-like state as possible. Somehow, it didn’t take long to drift off after a tough day’s work.

It wasn’t the most restful of nights to be sure and it was slow going to start off the regular morning routine – arising out of my mummy-like state to a near-freezing room (the fire having long-ago burned itself out overnight), slipping on my sneakers, throwing some wood in the woodstove (God I have to pee…after all, that’s what awoke me in the first place), squeezing some kerosene on the wood and getting some on your hands, trying in vain to light a match and toss it into the stove, heading out into the snowy morning to walk around the corner to the pee hole (a tree-well about halfway between our tent and the main tent), and … I think you get the picture. There’s a lot to do and deal with when you’re sleeping in a hut in the mountains in the winter (er, actually early spring as the case may be).

After Eric’s solid pancake and sausage breakfast we headed uphill with a few inches of freshies covering the previous day’s skin track. A short way’s up we stayed straight and to the right rather than veering left up the valley we’d ascended the day before. Eventually, as we approached a T in the trail, I spied a couple of folks coming up from our right. They admitted that they were on a day trip, so they’d already spent considerable effort just to get to the point where we had essentially started. Turning left, we headed uphill, never to see our pursuers again throughout the rest of the day.

Up through a gorgeous snow-drenched forest, a traverse to the left, but then back to the right across a previously (in recent days) skied slope and then up to a plateau, or so it seemed. Eric went off and found Mini-Bowl (aptly named) as Dan and I continued up through a dense clump of stubby trees while Keith and Chris deliberated with a map.

Eventually, we were all heading up again – traversing a little more to our left before turning decidedly uphill with the mountain unfolding in front of us as the valley broadened. Continuing to stay high we eventually reached the bottom of the sweeping bowls several hundred feet below the increasingly vertical Wing Ridge.

We’d continue contouring back to our right as we angled slightly uphill, eventually finding refuge from the snow and the wind behind an uncommonly large tree with a thick trunk for being so far up the mountain. Just a few feet beyond that was barrier – a ridge with a precipitous slope on the other side – forcing us thus back to the left as we angled up more steeply now, following the general folds of the ridgeline to our right. A couple hundred more feet up to another uncannily large alpine tree and it was finally time to de-skin and “mine some duff” as Dan would so eloquently state.

We’d terrorize the pristine, windswept (but not wind affected) northeast facing aspect for the next several hours – each run down a seemingly effortless journey of sensational bliss through Elysian fields of the Wallowa super-light. I was on top of my game, finding my rhythm with the wind strafing our faces as the snowstorm’s fury increased throughout the day.

There was boundless joy during these thirty to sixty-second flirtations with weightlessness, interrupted by twenty to thirty-minute high pulse-rate slogs back to the apex of our day’s tour. As would be the case throughout the entire trip, I’d drag behind the others, challenged mightily by the elevation and the death-march-like determination of my compatriots. Stopping to catch one’s breath really isn’t on their agenda much, whereas for me it was essential for survival.

I’d eventually slow down to a more relaxed pace on what would be my final uptrack of the day – allowing them to take a sixth run whereas I only managed five. But that was enough as I took my time reaching my highest starting point of the day – providing me with access to an as yet untouched stretch of slope with a slightly more easterly aspect. Visibility was a little tough up there, but I used “The Force” to help ease my way back down. And there I would wait, seeking shelter from a small Christmas tree-like tree, as my friends wound their way back up the skin-track to the large tree a couple hundred feet above me.

Back together once again we frolicked throughout our long descent that generally followed our route from earlier that day. We’d play in powder stashes along the way, skirting through the bottom of Mini-Bowl, back through the woods, and then eventually arriving back at the huts with more than an hour of daylight left.

The contrast of the purplish-gray clouds along the eastern horizon with the snow white slopes was a thing of beauty during the day’s fading light. We’d settle down to a wide selection of beers and I’d kick back to a game of Yahtzee against Keith with my bottle of Grey Goose keeping watch. I doubt that the vodka played much of a role in the game of mostly chance, but Keith would end up crushing me, rolling not one, but two yahtzees to my one. That alone was enough to give him a clear victory as it was soon thereafter time for Keith’s pre-prepared burritos. Once again, it would be a very early night, with bedtime arriving around 2100 hours.

Early in the morning, after another fitful night of sleep, I’d hear the wind whipping mightily through the tall trees all around our camp. It sounded ominous, and when morning came I was unmotivated to trudge up into the guts of the gusts. I’d cobble together my tasty scramble – first sautéing the potatoes, onions, and peppers with curry before eventually adding in the sausages, zucchini, mushrooms, and tomatoes. At the end, after everything had mixed together in a wonderful mélange, I added the eggs – which I’d brought up pre-scrambled in a quart-sized plastic container – and then topped it off with a full pint of shredded asiago cheese. It more than made up for the disastrously inedibly fiery hot red curry crapola that I’d destroyed a year earlier.

After settling down to a morning food coma I’d kick back to read about Simon Kuper’s Eastern European travels (Hungary and Slovakia to be specific) in “Football Against the Enemy”, an outstanding view of the global soccer scene immediately following the fall of the Soviet Union and the Berlin Wall.

Not feeling particularly compelled as morning was quickly becoming afternoon, the others decided on an 11am departure. Still feeling fairly apathetic, Dan eventually cajoled me into joining them.

And I’m quite glad I did as it would be another day of high adventure touring around the lower reaches of Wing Ridge. The strong winds kept us away from the highest elevations, so we skinned up to the top of Mini-Bowl for our first descent of the day. As usual, the honors of first tracks would be left to Dan, the man with the masterful tele-kung fu. We’d yell down to him, asking how it was, but were all fooled by his innocuous response of “Hey, come on down and you’ll see what I mean.”

The others curled down the fall line and to the right as they went, whereas I traversed left across a small drainage to another aspect with a smooth line to the thin forest below us. As I enjoyed this latter part of my run sufficiently more than the upper wind-packed section, I noticed Dan skiing along with only a single ski on; the other held high in his hand.

I skied a little further to where Keith was waiting; Chris and Eric already long gone by this point. “Hey, I said to Keith, let’s hang out here; I think Dan’s having some gear issues.” And sure enough he was as he lashed out at us for not having the consideration to wait for him after his binding exploded under the force of his weight and technique combined with the chunky snow. “But, hey”, I protested, “we did wait for you…right here.” Luckily Dan had spare parts in his pack or it would’ve been a long hike back to the huts and ultimately to the parking lot.

And as we traversed up and to the left as we went, heading back towards the first day’s drainage (without Eric, who’d decided to head back in for some reason), Dan would apologize for his earlier outburst. It was unusual to see him so distraught, but I guess the thought of being stranded deep in the alpine wilderness with failing gear wasn’t very comforting.

Fighting a strong headwind we’d eventually reach a north-facing slope that was benefiting from the snowy deposits as a result of the powerful southwesterlies. Keith would set the lung-busting uptrack what with its continuous quick switchbacks that were required to allow us to reach the ridge far above us.

Eventually we’d ascend to a zone with a more pleasant pitch, still rising fairly abruptly as we climbed. Looking down to our right it was hard to imagine a safe route down as avalanches often occur on steeper slopes, not to mention the obstacle course of trees in our path. So I, preferring a somewhat less unnerving route descended the ridge about fifty or a hundred feet to a slightly less steep, slightly more open slope that seemed more in keeping with my partially conservative alpine touring sensibilities. Nevertheless, my kung fu was anything but masterful as I had trouble in the deep, slightly breakable crust (below the surface) that sloughed off in small chunks as I plowed through. Even Dan – who’s binding exploded not once, but twice on this aspect – was having great difficulty (for obvious reasons).

So as I skied down the lower section of this wide drainage laden with pint-sized conifers, the other three did a high traverse over to a gorgeous burn, which they skied effortlessly as my camera clicked away. It was clear that this was where we should be skiing and actually was where I had thought we’d be heading when our day had begun a few hours earlier.

At last after scouring the surrounding wilderness for the perfect slope we had found our Valhalla for the day. Once again it would be the lithe and fit Keith who would power out the uptrack to the top of the burn and beyond. For the next couple of hours we’d mine the duff here, like true backcountry warriors, slaloming the well-spaced charred remnants of what was once a mighty alpine forest. Each of our two descents was quintessentially blissful – the snow a perfect depth and consistency, unaffected by the wind unlike the less-protected slopes we’d attacked earlier. The last run down was an unforgettable chain of evenly linked turns that I attacked from top to bottom without stopping as I allowed gravity and my fluffy landings to keep me from expending virtually any energy on this merry descent.

By 3:30 we’d had enough, hopeful that we’d be back for a quick visit the following morning before heading back to Salt Creek Sno-park.

Back at camp I’d bust open my large bottle of Chimay blue – a strong Belgian ale brewed by Trappeist monks – to celebrate the conclusion of yet another life-affirming alpine adventure. Once again we’d been blessed by the snowkist skies that blanketed the vast terrain with a coating of feathery-light goodness. I raised a glass to the Snow Gods, thanking them for their heaven-sent present. As we reveled through dinner – the tasty ragout pre-prepared by Dan’s Nina (seven-months pregnant with the future little she-bear Ursula) – thick flakes fluttered down to earth, piling up more quickly than at any time throughout the previous three days. Our final morning was shaping up to be something special indeed.

But alas, as often is the case in the backcountry, it snowed too much and was far too windy (and warm) overnight – setting up the potential for huge avy danger on the slopes we’d been skiing throughout our visit to Wing Ridge. I awoke excitedly (and with a mightily full bladder) at 5:30am and set about the business of getting started with my day even though Dan was still bundled up in his bag pretending to sleep. I wanted to motivate, hoping to get a few turns in before heading back to the sno-park around noon.

Dan was the one who made the call to stay off the slopes, which would’ve been prone to slides as a result of the snow, wind, and temps overnight. I trusted his judgment and was more than satisfied with what we’d accomplished during our previous three days’ outings, more than happy to head home in one piece, not at all interested in the prospect of a sudden end to everything, buried beneath tons of heavy, wet snow.

We left camp around 9am and more-or-less followed our route up from three days earlier. We opted to keep our skins on the whole way down in order to negotiate the tricky obstacles in our path. Only Keith broke from that general consensus, choosing to remove his skins after taking a header. This was at about the time that I had a low-speed crash with a tree – unable to avoid it after choosing between the lesser of two evils, the immobile vertical object and a long fallen branch blocking my way on the ground. My left ski bounced off the tree as I collapsed in a bundle laughing; Dan watching on with a mix of concern and enjoyment.

It was a bit of a challenge to be sure what with the deep, new, increasingly heavy (as we descended) snow. But less than an hour after we broke camp we’d arrived all in one piece back at the parking lot. When we arrived there was a large wooden post with a STOP sign attached that was lying across the front of Chris’ car, apparently having caused no damage to either his car or mine, immediately to its left. Surely a gust of wind couldn’t have done that, but who were the merry pranksters with such an odd sense of humor. Perhaps it was the same gremlins who’d left popcorn kernels in some of our packs the day before.

The five-and-a-half hour drive home was more or less uneventful. The main source of entertainment came just outside of Pendleton when we picked up the North Carolina/Wisconsin game on the radio. At the time the Tar Heels were up by nine, then eleven before the Badgers (Dan’s alma mater) would go on to tie it up at the half with eleven straight. I wondered aloud if we had somehow, perhaps psychically helped out the Big Ten squad. In the end, as we sped towards the eastern end of the Columbia Gorge, it would be UNC who would emerge victorious to set a record for the most-ever appearances in the NCAA tournament’s Sweet Sixteen.

Back at home I would see Jose Mourinho – Chelsea’s controversial coach – working to make amends for his recent shitstorm. He was at a press conference in Tel Aviv promoting peace in the Middle East along with Israel’s former Prime Minister Shimon Peres at the Peres Center for Peace. Among the harmony-building activities at the Peres Center is a soccer academy dedicated to involving both Israeli and Palestinian youth in an effort to build bridges between these longtime cultural enemies.

I’d learn that the U.S. had remained winless all-time in Mexico after losing 2 – 1 in a World Cup qualifier earlier that day to our country’s fiercest football foes. It was a game effort, but Mexico City’s Azteca Stadium proved once again be no friend of American soccer. (The U.S. record in Mexico now stands at 0-22-1, the lone draw coming more than a decade ago in another World Cup qualifier).

My fun-loving friend Anna Miller would invite me to come join her and her equally wild friend Polly at the Doug Fir for what was expected to be a quality show, The Kills. But I declined, wiped out from the previous week of non-stop activity, needing a break in the action if only for this one night.

And it’s a good thing that I did as I’d receive a call from Wing Ridge Ski Tours proprietor Roger Averbeck who was somewhat irritated that we hadn’t touched base with him as requested immediately upon arriving down in the Wallowa Valley. But I managed to quell his tempered displeasure with a detailed analysis of recent weather and snow conditions, arming him with the necessary data to brief his next clients the following morning.

I’d also joke around with him about the cheesy-ness of the 1997 article in Skiing magazine about his outfit and the author’s adventure up to Aneroid Lake – a late 19th-century encampment of structures deep in the heart of the Wallowas that I’d visited several years back during the salad days of my backcountry touring. Hopefully someday me and my gang will head back to Aneroid, but for now, the more recent memories of Wing Ridge will have to hold me over until my Football for Peace Tour is complete. And fortunately for me those memories will be quite good indeed.

All the best to you in your current and future ventures and adventures.

And until next time…

peace,
ac