HEARTS OF PINE | PATRIOTISM | & SPILLED BEER

Everybody and their cousins are walking toward the stadium. Hordes of Hearts of Pine jerseys moving together in one direction. I am praying to the parking gods to show me some grace. Somehow, by divine intervention, I get a spot on Payson Street, short walking distance…

I’m here following a lead: Attendees at the last Hearts of Pine game were upset about anti-ICE rhetoric. The mission, documentation. Tickets are scanned. Beer bracelet placed on my right hand. Quickly upon arrival, I notice the anti-ICE presence isn’t here.

It would be understandable. The last game came shortly after the death of Johan Sebastián Durán Guerrero in Biddeford, still fresh in the minds of people across Southern Maine.

But tonight, no cigar.

Typically my on-the-scene wardrobe was: all black. Black button-down. Black ball cap. Black pants. Black shoes. I’ve realized I’ve become something of a cartoon character. Too easy to recognize. So, with clothing inspiration from a famed Gonzo writer, I buy a bucket hat before the big game… accompanied by golden-rimmed aviators.

Semi-Unrecognizable. Blending into the crowd. Almost Perfect.

The bucket hat acts like a battle helmet from the Templar ages. Wearing it, I begin to realize the appeal. Disappearing into a crowd, becoming a ghost for a few hours. I had forgotten what it felt like to feel anonymous.

As I continue my investigation, there is no anti-ICE chanting. As I look around, I realize there isn’t much to be angry about here.

A political lead evaporates.

Kids are sitting on the shoulders of the fathers. Dads are drinking beers and yelling at which direction the ball should go. Men and women screaming into microphones, flags waving, bleachers stomping.

Due to occupational hazard of working in the news industry, I have spent much time watching people at opposition to each other. Seeing two thousand people gather around something completely stupid and harmless is a welcomed change of pace.

Then, the National Anthem starts. People take off their hats and turn toward the flag. It’s the single most patriotic thing I’ve seen in Portland, Maine, in ten years. Pink smoke can be seen in the distance. Two thousand people erupt in applause. It’s a nice moment.

Since I had forgotten my zoom lens in Fetherston’s car after a recent investigative run, the only lens is the 50mm. Which means I have to get close. The 50mm forces me into the crowd. Now I’m six feet away instead of sixty. Conversations. Tribal chanting. The smell of beer. People sweating, screaming, pointing at the field.

Taking the order of my boss, I grab a cider. Eleven dollars. Within thirty seconds, I have spilled six dollars of cider on my shirt. Wearing my bucket hat, sunglasses, spilling alcohol on myself — I fit right in.

After the anthem, people cheer. Red-and-white striped shirts everywhere. I’ve found myself inside the classic children’s book Where’s Waldo, but there’s a god-damn army of beer-chugging Waldos as far as the eye can see.

Then I get my second cider. The bartender is friendly. A drink is poured. I look back. The bartender is talking to the other bartender. A glance, then another. A mouth moving. Eyes toward me. Back to the drink. Back to the other bartender. Am I made? Paranoia’s a strange animal.

Everything overlaps in Portland.

You can’t go anywhere without running into decade old lover. A former teacher. A bartender. An arch nemesis. Somebody you photographed. Somebody who knows somebody you photographed. Portland has sixty thousand people and somehow operates more like a town of two hundred and fifty.

Even still, tonight is a pleasant break from the more usual outing. Life-threatening protests. Platner volunteers. Attacks from the homeless. Northern hillbillies from Allagash.

9:30 PM.

The game is still happening, but people are starting to leave. The crowd bleeds out of the stadium… Two thousand people walk back into Portland.

Politics is gone for a moment. Everyone still high from screaming at a ball instead of each other. One side cheers… Than the other side… And there is a magic in that.

By Neil Harper