Winning It All

When the Lakers won it all, things went predictably. Cars turned over, fires, police, general mayhem. They've been there before, that's what they do. Asking Laker fans not to turn over cars when they win it all is like asking LaMarcus Aldridge to rebound. You can try, and they may do it for a while, but in the end, they'll give in to their baser instincts.

A recent experience I went through gave me a much clearer picture of what it would be like if Portland won a title. I was in Chicago when the Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup, their first in almost fifty years. Think about that number. That's more than fifteen years longer than we've been without a parade.

We all have our vision of what it's like when our team wins it all. The event in Chicago didn't fit into any notion you'd expect. When Patrick Kane hit in a goal from an impossible angle, the initial second was silence and confusion. I shot up cheering while the rest of the bar was seated. "Did that just happen?" "Did the Hawks win?" Then the horn sounded. Cheers rise, "Chelsea Dagger" played over the loud speaker, victory smoke fills the air, cups of Miller Lite spilled all over the place. The cheering and celebrating and hugging at that bar went on for an hour straight. Everyone was telling other people stories about their experiences with the Hawks, I nodded like I knew how to pronounce "Jonathan Toews." On the television, there was an helicopter shot of Wrigleyville with the title "Fandemonium!!!!" (yes, the four exclamation points were necessary), and we knew our next destination.

The walk over was filled with screams and yowls. The love in the air made Woodstock seem like a GWAR concert. High fives in were in plentiful supply, as a simple yell of "Go Hawks" made you the most popular man alive. Stopping at a buddy's fourth floor apartment, we took a breather and looked out on the deck to check the scene. Four helicopters were circling the area with spotlights, and the only sounds you could hear were sirens and car horns. It was Dawn of the Dead.

As we got closer to the epicenter, I expected the LA-style celebration featuring turned-over cars and open flames. Instead, I got a lot of people just strolling around with open containers giving each other hugs. There was a father and son rollerblading through the ruckus in jerseys. The cops set up a boundary, and the people inside were just left to do what they wanted, which apparently, was to just hang out.

Being in the middle of that is a moment you can never forget. Winning it all is when the true character of a city bubbles to the surface, as the exhilaration of victory removes all social conventions. Some cities, like Detroit, see a championship as an excuse for looting. Chicago saw it as a chance to get drunk with friends.

Portland wasn't far from my mind during all of this, and I easily saw our celebration of that imaginary future championship going the same way. The clock would wind down, and a deafening cheer would arise from across the city. The celebration would crowd the Broadway Bridge and the Steel Bridge as fans streamed from the Rose Garden to downtown, where Old Town and Pioneer Square would be clogged with celebrants. Portland would behave the same was as Chicago. Cars would be relatively unharmed. The only lasting consequence from that night would be a wave of children named "Brandon" nine months later.

That night in Chicago was the first time I've been in a city for a championship. I can only hope that the next experience is in the near future.