Minnesota United FC 2-1 Portland Timbers: Acknowledging Inevitability

I'm a horse-girl. No, seriously.

To lead this post/set of observations with something that doesn’t get mentioned nearly often enough: Minnesota United FC is a good soccer team right now. Trust me, I did a lot of maths!

I bring that up because the Portland Timbers played a better overall game at Minnesota than they have in recent weeks – even if they caught a break here (e.g., start watching this at 1:43) and there (the rest of the highlights, really).

You know where Portland didn’t play on good overall game? At home against a serially self-sabotaging San Jose Earthquakes team at midweek at (fucking) Providence Park. I embraced the win as if straight-up French-kissing that gift horse like we’re getting married as soon as pa-PA gives his blessing, but the Timbers reprised their season-long pattern of frittering away a whole goddamn home with their own unique spin on self-sabotage. Thus, and but for the ‘Quakes capacity to implode, Portland would not have that bright little blip in what has otherwise been a horrific stretch of 10 games. Again, I looked into this and can confirm that the Timbers have been Chicago Fire FC bad over their past 10 games. They have some company in their little corner of Hell, but even that stops at two to three teams.

A Summary
The stats back up my eye test – i.e., Minnesota came just shy of doubling Portland in every attacking stat; also, the Loons as a compelling attacking team, let that sink in for a bit – so, I’m not entirely surprised that the Timbers succumbed under the weight of the challenge. That said, I saw enough positives, whether true or false, for the final 1-2 result to burn a little. For instance, if this matches the actual form/rough function of the lineup pictured here, I like it more than I hate it. For all the bullets it dodged, it kept its basic shape and provided the offense with some bonafide sharp looks – i.e., there’s a reason Minnesota’s Dane St. Clair ended with as many saves than Portland’s Maxime Crepeau – and, Minnesota’s actual goals aside, St. Clair faced tougher shots than Crepeau in my mind.

FC Dallas 4-1 Portland Timbers: Some Color(ful) Commentary on a(n Ideally Irrelevant) Debacle

Only less good than the Blazing Sword.

As noted in early communications, I only realized today that I’ve been posting real-time narratives of every game I’ve watched for two, three years now. Here’s tonight’s transcript and, for what it’s worth, I think it catches the highlights, just so and all that. Now, to expand a little…

I’ve heard the phrase “a half to forget” to describe one of those 45 minutes in Hell stretches that every team faces now and again. That phrase is stupid, and may no one utter it every again, even in jest. Those are precisely the kinds of halves (halfs? calfs?) that a team should never forget. It should be the bulletin board rage-spiration that one gets from looking in the mirror on his/her/their worst day, an interminable 45 minutes where every player on the field contributed a little fuck up to create a great big Voltron of fuck up. So, yeah, #neverforget

The headless-chicken scramble you see in the highlights of each of Jesus Ferreira’s threefirst-halfgoals gives a fair impression of Portland’s first half, aka, the soccering equivalent of asking “what the fuck just happened?” two full fucking minutes after it did. It would take a miracle to come back from such colossal and repeated breakdowns. To their credit, the Timbers gave it a fair crack. And that’s real praise. Speaking for myself, I would have asked the refereeing crew for a towel throw in under the rules of Association Football, as currently written and adjudicated, to spare my eyes the sore.

 Portland took their first big step into the game - “back into” amounts to forgiving anything about that first half - when they started to, for lack of a better word, try. They ditched staying organized and vaguely interested for making Dallas work for just about any pass closer to Portland’s goal than Dallas’ attacking third. The second big adjustment came with Sebastian Blanco coming on for a theretofore pretty well useless Santiago Moreno. I’ll get into all that shortly, but first…

His joy = your pain.

This game ended in a 1-4 loss for the Timbers. It’s been about…nine months(? no, eight) since I’ve seen them fall apart like they did today. And, sure, I get the thing about Texas and March and the team will get better as [_______] player comes back. None of that explains away the sheer, collective uselessness of Portland’s first half. All they can do is play like it never happened…which, okeh, yes, I picked at the metaphor long enough to figure out the true meaning of “a half to forget,” it’s possible I found the true meaning of Christmas (don’t let dad drink before noon), and that’s pretty much my take-away from this…game. Portland kinda sorta punched back, if 36 minutes far too fucking late, but I’ve watched this team long enough to know how they work. Or can work. And, in their defense on most days, it does. Now, back to the action…

Seattle Sounders 3(2)-3(4) Portland Timbers: Love Hangover

It's on me, guys. @ me.

I can’t remember whether I wrote it or tweeted it – and I’m not about to find it - but sometime in the very recent past I said that I never needed to see Dairon Asprilla in a Timbers uniform again. Yes, that sentiment resides at the intersection of harsh and ruthless, and you can go ahead and call me a bastard for it, but, obviously, 1,000 erotic poets banging away on 1,000 typewriters and stoned on “molly” could not express my appreciation for the man and his works in last night’s absolutely fucking glorious victory over the Seattle Sounders. In Seattle. Just…savor it. I re-watched the highlights just now and I want a gif of the little dance Asprilla did after slamming the winning penalty kick past “The Dread” Stefan Frei for Christmas.

While I’m in the business of giving shout-outs to Timbers I’ve recently crapped on, I want to single out/salute Andy Polo for setting the tone at “never-say-die-motherfucker” over the match’s opening 20 minutes. Until Jair Marrufo pulled him aside for a little chat, Polo played like he wanted to fight not just the Sounders starting eleven, but every last one of the 40,000 Sounders fans in attendance.

I’ll close out the introductions with a nod to Marrufo, who let both teams play in a way that was brave, even gutsy, and fair. No quarter was asked, and no quarter was given between the teams and credit to Marrufo for toeing what could have been a damned precarious line.

Getting into the usual (or sometimes?) fine-tooth combing over tactics, goals, or game states feels misplaced, like talking about the brush strokes of a beautiful painting instead of stepping back to appreciate the whole thing. Another factor: with all the goals came late in the match, I couldn’t remember half of them (aka, around the time “the root kicked in”); factually, I couldn’t remember even one of Seattle’s goals this morning* and, given my understanding of how trauma works, that’s something. Asprilla’s headed goal, on the other hand, somehow set up permanent, immovable residency in my mind, like one of those “core memories” in Inside Out.

(* Having now relived them – this one and this one, in particular – God bless the root and keep it holy. The intensity of…just everything swallowed up the sheer awfulness of the mistakes involved. Holy shit, how’d the Timbers get out of there alive?)

Diana Ross recorded a song called “Love Hangover” back when, and that’s very much part of my personal hangover collection this morning. Sounders head coach Brian Schmetzer called this “the most painful loss of my career.” Coming at the experience from the opposite side, this goes down as my favorite all-time Timbers victory. Yes, even more than winning MLS Cup in 2015.

This morning, I am sloppy with happiness.

There were moments of doubt last night – none more sticky and ominous than the goal Raul Ruidiaz scored that would have put the Sounders through to the Western Conference finals. I worried that the Timbers had spent too much time absorbing waves of Sounders attacks; I wasn’t sure the team could re-orient to punching back, not just on the road and in that particular stadium. As they did when they went down a goal in the first leg, the Timbers clapped back just 10 minutes later. The gloom and anxiety never had time to settle.

Along the same lines, the way Portland opened the game made little room for doubt. They back four defended lustily, winning just about every battle they were called on to fight; I’ll admit that Alvas Powell scared the holy living shit out of me here and there, but he held up, Jorge Villafana put out at least two fires that threatened to rage, and both Liam Ridgewell and Larrys Mabiala won a little place in my heart forever. Every Timbers player on the field dusted himself off every time he got knocked down and was back in the fight seconds later. I’m fully aware of how over-the-top all this reads, but this is as good an occasion for hyperbole as any I’ve experienced. Just freaking incredible.

In one my preview tweets yesterday, I wrote something about how the Timbers wouldn’t be where they are without the players who held the team together when the starters were down. And that’s why I want to close this mash-note with Andres Flores. I don’t think any player on the field played as many shitty passes as Flores did; in the attacking third, especially, “wayward” charitably describes the worst of his passes. All the same, Flores is a dude one season out of the NASL and last night he played in one of the biggest games in the Timbers’ MLS history, and with 40,000 people watching and willing him to fuck up. (In a moment of clarity last night, I finally understood why the crowd really matters; took me 40+ years; I’m slow.) Flores held it together. The whole damn team did, and that’s magical.

The Portland Timbers needed every player on its roster last night, just as they did all season long. I know I’ll be back to calling out players and putting sharp questions to their personal livelihoods. And, yeah, that makes me a bit of a bastard. This morning, though, I want to buy every man on the team a drink, one of those big colorful fancy ones with garnishes and novelty umbrellas, the whole damn nine-yards. Hit me up, guys. There’s room on my credit card.