Otherwise known as, the Portland Winterhawks.
I woke up Saturday morning knowing one single thing about Portland’s version of the Hawks: They were (my) Blackhawks’ minor league affiliate.
I also woke up that same morning with seventh row tickets to the game that night.
Playoffs, second round, game two, up 1-0 to the Kamloops Blazers.
Basically, my situation mirrored that of a trophy wife, whose husband couldn’t find a buddy to bring to the game, with his wife deciding she wanted to show herself off in public, strong-arming him into giving her the hole where his right-hand-man’s fading shadow lingered.
Which, of course, is a smashingly fine point of view for a sports journalist to instill information upon the hungry ears of Portlandian hockey fans, I’m sure.
Onward.
Upon Googling the squad that morning, I found that they wore the exact same jerseys as the Blackhawks.
Money.
Because after living in Portland for a while, I’ve been longing for my Chicago teams. The Sundays filled with Blue and Orange. Kicking back with los bros, watching Derrick drive to the hole. Baseball (and culture) battles between Cubs and Soxs fans.
And hockey-wise, walking into the UC during a Blackhawks game, with chills from past glory and zamboni-smooth ice, stiffening nerves and neck hairs.
So walking into MC kinda felt like a bizarro puppet show of walking into the UC. I knew I wasn’t in Chicago, but everything felt very Chicago-y.
And the main reason? The jerseys of course.
Barry Melrose self-proclaimed these bad boys “The Greatest Sweater in Sports.”
And how could you not agree? They’re magnificent. And when you lay your eyes on one, as a Chicagoan, and as a recent winner of a Stanley Cup, you can’t help but feel a whole lotta happiness, jingling about in your undercarriage.
I was surprised I didn’t walk into the MC in slow motion, with Sinatra smoothly dropping “My kind of town…”
So the guys and I strolled over to the vender to grab a beer.
“What do you need?” asked the tender.
“Bud Light,” my buddy Rob said.
“And you?” he asked me. I wasn’t drinking.
“I’m good, actually. We’re just gonna share one,” I joked.
“Alright, well then I’m gonna have to see your ID too,” he replied.
“Nah man, joking,” I laughed, figuring he’d have gotten the joke initially.
“Well, you’d be surprised. Couple nights ago, two guys split a shot of tequila,” he said.
“?,” went my face.
I, never in my time within the alcoholically-driven social universe, have ever heard of two grown men ordering a shot and splitting the damn thing.
Snapping out of slight astonishment, we headed to our seats. And this is where we found out that row HH actually meant row “here you go, awesome seats.” Ended up being seventh row, on the side PDX shot on twice. Fine news this was.
As soon as I sat down, the hockey atmosphere started seeping in.
Kids past their bedtime, screaming out players names and stats.
Mom’s swearing on missed breakaway opportunities. “GOD D&$!^#!!!!!!!”
I imagined somebody sitting next to her, whispering, “Yikes, it’s Easter, lady,” with her overhearing and replying “HEY YIKES, IT’S F$%&ING HOCKEY OKAY ALRIGHT.”
Her husband kept repeating “This is the line that’s gonna score… this is the line that’s gonna score…”
True sports fan. Predicting the unpredictable. Love it.
I was hooked, and it now felt less like puppet show and melted into more like home.
The final test would be whether they played Chelsea Dagger after netting. Halfway through the 2nd, no dice so far.
And as close as the seats were, they were definitely not “spectator-friendly.” Hockey is the type of sport where you either wanna be pressed against the sweat-glazed glass, or a section up, eagle-eye above the boards.
We were in between the two, no man’s land, so actual “hockey” commentary, especially since I’m no hockey expert, will be on the light side this morning.
“Get it together Hawks!” I hear from over my shoulder.
Ah. More Chi-stalgia. Delicioso.
Looking back to the ice, I see the Hawks’ netmaster make one of those “kid runs out into traffic” saves. You know, like the ones where the play is super easy, he’s doing exactly what he needs to do, and then a random stick comes out of nowhere, trips the puck up into a slow motion mid-air tumble, and causes him to get a little deer-in-headlights-y, kinda like when you’re minding your own automobilic business and a kid jumps out into the middle of the street, causing seventeen organically harvested shots of adrenaline and “oh shits” to fire up inside you, from your spine to your fingertips, to your kneecaps and back.
Nonetheless, he made the save. And saves a plenty there ‘twas. Loved his energy.
Just then, the blessed Ozzie O dove into my ears. Gotta love the college-bar jams here. It’s like the soundtrack to The Mighty Ducks.
Then finally, right before the second period’s final ring, Marcel Noebels of the Winterhawks slapped home a go-ahead. After the netter, the back and forth play stayed in advantage of all Winterhawks, all the time.
(note: In place of Chelsea Dagger, was AC/DC’s “TNT,” coincidentally being the only acceptable substitution for a slew of “dadada dadada dadada dadadadadada.”)
Oi!
This fast paced match produced two more goals right at the start of the third, coming within 56 seconds of each other, both sniped in by Taylor Leier. The Kamloops drop in a quick one a minute or so later.
3-1 Hawks.
“LET’S! GO HAWKS!”
Yes. Let’s.
After that Blazers goal, I expected a momentum surge from the visitors, but no dice. They just seemed to get more and more frustrated as the night went on.
Penalty after penalty was killing their flow. Another Hawks goal, and then the chippiness went from seeping to violently spewing, with its core stemming from this one Blazers fiester named “Ranford.”
I didn’t learn many names that night, but his was a fun exception.
Because as soon as he got into the p-box, after the booing stopped, post-cheap shot from Mr. Ranford, the entire MC was chanting “Raaannnnfoooorrrrdddd… Raaannnnfoooooorrrdddd…”
Yelling. Screaming. Berating. Middle-fingering.
I had never been to a sporting event with so much negative verbal fuel laid out for one guy. He even got caught up enough to throw a cup filled with ice into the stands.
We obviously went even wilder.
It was Ranford against the world, with everybody taking their respective and disrespectful shot.
Ushers tried toning things down some, but none of us were looking for lectures. We just did what fans were put on this planet to do: Snuggle under the skin of the opposing squad, leeches to their confidence and focus.
This was better than the NHL, I thought at that moment. Entertainment-wise, anyway. I was loving it. This bizarro United Center from hell turned into a more fun version of the supposed “bigger and better” version back home, furthering my(as well as many others’) opinion that Portland is a true underground sports haven.
Back on the ice, more fights a brewin’.
A ref cheap-shot a Blazer in the back of the head. This guy Morrow (I know things and such) on the Hawks was fighting every Blazer in sight. He’d fight one, get pulled away into another, fight him too, and so on.
Finally, the refs (kind of barely) got a hold of the situation, and gave Morrow the old “you gotta get out of here” look, with him smiling and acknowledging, even giving the ref a baseball butt tap, like he was saying “I know, I know. I screwed up. Good call. You’ll have no more trouble from this guy, officer.” Which, I’m sure, was a complete cover up for potential future gun-play.
Minor league hockey just can’t be controlled.
And I f&$%ing like it that way.
In the last three minutes of the game, it was practically six on three, with a pulled goalie, 5-3 power play, and the Blazers still couldn’t rip out a second goal. Even though it was the end of game, in a semi-blowout, the Hawks defense was still rock solid, not letting even the tiniest of satisfaction into the souls of the opponent.
This Hawks squad had the swagger of a championship team. I’m not a hockey scientist, but they definitely had “the look.”
And a thought about the Canadian Hockey League in general – it’s super fitting that players have to work their way up to the pros through the Canadian tundra. Get beat up in the tumultuous north before you’re allowed to come down to the warmer and more comfortable south, with the big boys.
And column-wise, I’m pretty proud of myself as well… I made it this far without dropping the “Portland beat up two sets of Blazers on Saturday night” line. Unfortunately, one of them just happened to be themselves.
But to get your mind off the roundball sadness, get to the MC before these playoffs are over. Unless you’re an underwater bear wrangler, this might be the most unruly time you’ll find in Northwest US and A.
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