I was a season-ticket member last year, out of the kind of funereal desperation that makes people quit their jobs to spend time with dying loved ones. If night was coming, I didn’t want to go gentle into it. I wanted to cling to every last scrap of Crew soccer, so no matter which way things went, I’d have no regrets. I expected to go to the season kickoff party, and then missed it because of a scheduling conflict, and let a friend use my pass.
This year, I’m not a season-ticket member. The absence of existential threats has given me emotional margin to recognize that it’s not practical right now (don’t worry—I’m fulfilling my pledge; I’ll be at plenty of games). Consequently, I didn’t expect to go to this year's party. And then, the same friend who used my pass last year couldn’t use his this year, so I caught a ride with another friend to kick off the season in style.
When we get inside the room is pulsing with the feeling of a hometown show for a local band made good. Everybody moves with a sense of ownership; all of us knew them back when. All of us will know the hits, and the deep cuts and remember singing them in dives. Even the crowd feels like a reunion; everybody knows somebody. Everybody is happy to be here.
A little after seven the music drops and Neil Sika glides onto stage, a vision of hirsute elegance greeted by rapturous applause. After Neil, Tim Bezbatchenko strides up and down like a man with too many plans to hold them in. Caleb Porter follows Bezbatchenko. He tells us what we already know, or are already ready to believe: the current Crew roster is a golden generation. All they need is some silverware. He declares his hunger for scooping up any and all trophies available. He gives me the impression that he’d be pissed if the Crew hadn’t won the Carolina Challenge Cup. He makes a point of his intention to win the US Open Cup. The gathered fans of Lamar Hunt’s original team go wild.
Under showers of applause, the Crew emerge from backstage. The cheering swells and fades and gets out of rhythm with the introductions. Somebody behind me keeps trying to get chants going. Dee Haslam and Pete Edwards come swooping onto stage arm-in-arm and the church erupts. Someone, maybe the gentleman behind me, starts chanting. I’m pretty sure it’s “SAVED THE CREW” so I join in, but I’m also not sure. I don’t want to chant “Save the Crew,” anymore.
The players disburse, and the party breaks into smaller circles, swirls and lines. We swirl along with them. I shake hands with Dr. Pete as he goes bustling by. A toddler totters in front of me and her father hustles in pursuit. Zack Steffen is kneeling at the edge of the stage to chat with a fan in a wheelchair. It’s loud like the church I grew up in used to be, just after the service ended; the blissful chaos of fellowship.
My friend and I decide the line for the stars is too long. We’re drifting along the current toward the exits when we run into friends who give us Save the Crew placards so we have something for players to sign. We jump into some lines and get our placards signed. I make some small, silly jokes to the players because I can’t help myself that way, and then I feel sheepish. I meet a couple of people I’ve known for awhile, but never met. I introduce myself as Juan, even though that’s not my name.
In the end, we stretch our social anxiety as far as it’ll go, and have some fun in the meantime. Before we head out, we lean over the railing in the balcony and watch it all through the strings of lights. The beautiful thing is the kids whose faces are shining when they meet their heroes. The beautiful thing is the new fans wondering around trying to figure it all out. The beautiful thing is the people who know each other clustering together and laughing ‘til their beer spills. The beautiful thing is Frankie—just down the railing from us—having the time of his life. The beautiful thing is that it’s happening. The beautiful thing is that—even though it won't ever feel normal—all of this is normal, again.
