He commenced his career in Toronto, played for Canada’s Olympic and national teams, and has made the Great White North’s largest city his home. And yet on Saturday, despite never setting foot in CenturyLink Field, Jack Brand will bleed Rave Green.
“Some of my friends will curse me for that,” says Brand, “(but) my heart is with Seattle.”
It’s not so much the quantity of time Brand spent in Seattle in his earlier years. Rather, it is the quality of that tenure. He was part of something truly special, both in Sounders lore and the rebirth of the game with a semipro club comprised of local lads.
Brand, now 64, presides over his family’s business, based in nearby Mississauga. The Brand Felt Ltd. manufactures industrial felt for a multitude of industries, exporting worldwide. The German-born Brand, at 17, was sent abroad by his father, company founder Klaus Brand, to study in New York state. Although he had played for then-West Germany’s youth national team, his father forbade him from turning pro at the time.
If set to a soundtrack, the game is more suited to symphony than garage band. Fortunes can change quickly in soccer, but usually following a long, drawn-out build-up. Yet there are the exceptions, when the drumbeat does double-time and the cymbals crash repeatedly.
So it was on Sunday. Just when it was seeming Dallas and Seattle were destined to finish the first leg of their series in a scoreless stalemate, the Sounders came unleashed, attacking in fury and soon finding themselves as top dog in a pairing with the top side in MLS this season.
Interim (Really? Still?) coach Brian Schmetzer pondered in his postgame presser whether he’d ever witnessed anything quite like it, the succession of blows by Valdez, Lodeiro and, again, Lodeiro during an 8-minute span early in the second half.
Down through the years, Seattle certainly can claim its share of goal-scoring central defenders. Beginning with David Gillett driving home a corner kick in ’74 and renewed through Chad Marshall’s flick to the far corner versus Chicago, the big backline boys have often proven the difference between victory and defeat, at both ends of the pitch.
This year alone, three of Marshall’s four goals have translated to five additional points in an extremely tight playoff race. Time will tell the true importance of that header, although it wasn’t Marshall’s first big score. There was the late winner vs. Philly in ’14 and the added time strike at Dallas in the playoffs a year ago.
Whether in the opponent’s box or his own, Marshall’s works are textbook, efficient, clinical in application. As for center back goals, it’s doubtful he will ever deliver with the panache of Djimi Traore’s long-distance, aggregate equalizer against Tigres or Patrick Ianni’s sidewinder extraordinaire vs. Sporting KC.
Today it would be absurd, but once upon a time – actually, make it twice – the road to the Olympic Games ran through Seattle. Lured here under some extraordinary circumstances, U.S. Soccer sent its best team of the day to be road tested on a relatively narrow patch of plastic against some locals with much to prove.
Prior to both the 1972 and ’84 Summer Games, utilizing sheer will and a discretionary expense account, missionaries from the local footballing community convinced federation officials to make Northwest detours, essentially, for the good of the game. All right, so the second visit guarantee involved some wool blends, but more about that in a few paragraphs.
Of course nowadays Seattle would be a logical stop for a national team bound for a major tournament. Big, loud crowds and a beautiful stadium. A generation ago, both city and the sport were pariahs, and perhaps therein was the mutual appeal.
As his father tells the story, Walter Schmetzer beckoned Alan Hinton to watch his vaunted Lake City Hawks to watch a player of promise. But it wasn’t his son.
Still, as is often the case when coaches scout young (in this case U18) players, the original target can be eclipsed by another aspirant sharing the field, and that’s how on spring day in 1980 Brian Schmetzer’s long association with Puget Sound professional soccer began.
Over 36 years since, Schmetzer has been associated as a player or coach with virtually every entity where one could draw a paycheck. Of the 500-some players who’ve worn a Seattle or Tacoma shirt over the years, Brian’s probably watched, played beside or coached an overwhelming majority of them.
It was the opportunity of a lifetime, only to be trumped by something still more momentous.
Just after learning FC Seattle owner Bud Greer would be rewarding his team with a season-ending excursion to England, all-league midfielder Geoff Wall realized there was a problem. Wall was to wed his high school sweetheart a few days earlier. When the players would be boarding the plane for London, he planned to be honeymooning in Hawaii.
As the season progressed and the departure date neared, Wall experienced a change of heart. He and Ellen would still be married, all right. But much of the honeymoon would be charged to Greer. The newlywed Walls would be going with the team to Bournemouth instead.
“We talked about it,” recalls Wall. “We weren’t swimming in money; (the team) offered to pay for part of it. She knew a number of the guys from our teen years, so she fit right in. So we decided to go.”
Of course, Ellen wasn’t the only wife on the two-week trip. Jeff Stock and Greer were accompanied by their spouses as well. “She fit right in. Absolutely, she was a good sport,” Wall declares, adding, “It really was a proper honeymoon. It was a real fun trip with some good friends.”
No Fun in Sunderland
In 10 matches over two tours, in 1987 and ’88, the Storm earned three draws and proved competitive in the losses. Yet one defeat was more bitter than the rest. In the penultimate stop of the ’88 tour, Seattle played second division Sunderland at Roker Park. It was a comparatively big and boisterous crowd, and as if Black Cats needed more help, the referee was obliging.
Two debatable penalties were awarded, but it gets worse.
On the first spot kick, Seattle keeper Jeff Koch made a diving save, only for Sunderland to convert the rebound. Strangely, while Koch lay sprawling on the ground after the goal, the penalty taker screamed at him.
“He was a big, hairy monster and he got in my face, swearing at me, and I wondered why he was so angry,” Koch says. “At the postgame party, someone told me he hadn’t missed a penalty in like five years. Evidently I’d screwed up some kind of streak.”
A little later came another penalty call. Koch saved it again. Then a whistle. The referee claimed Koch moved–a call that can be made on just about any penalty, but rarely is. The Monster made good on the second attempt and Sunderland was on their way to a 3-nil win.
At full time, as the teams left the pitch, Seattle forward Peter Hattrup unloaded on the officials. “A few of us had some choice words,” confirms Hattrup. Says Jenkins: “The referee was a nightmare. I really can’t blame him.”
Aghast that this American dared question his officiating, the referee then summoned Hattrup to the officials’ dressing room. “I was called in. I apologized for my language, but not the direction of my rant,” relates Hattrup. “They threatened to report me to the authorities in Seattle. But who were they going to call?”
“There was no way we were going to win that game,” Jenkins concedes.
Without the luxury of a full squad and with the Storm playing matches every other day, fielding a proper lineup proved problematic by the second half of the tours.
“I was the only goalkeeper (on the trip),” notes Koch. “If I had a stinker, there was nobody to replace me. Fifteen minutes into our last game I dislocated my thumb. The ball was real hard, and their shots were much, much harder on a consistent basis.
“Anyway, I couldn’t do anything,” he explains. “It was killing me. We had nobody, so they shot me up with Novocain, and I played the rest of the game and later ended up in a cast for six weeks.”
At QPR, Seattle was thin at central defense due an injury. David Gillett, once a centerback for the Sounders, was along on the trip.
“So I asked Dave, ‘Are you up for playing?’ Great. Just do your stuff and kick some people,” says Jenkins. However, Gillett strained his groin during warm-ups, forcing Jenkins to do some last-minute shuffling. Jenkins just asks him to deliver some words to the team in the pregame huddle.
“He disappears and comes back about 10 minutes before we come out,” says Jenkins, “and he’s got a glass of whiskey in one hand and a smoke. So he puffs and his hand flies away to the side, very dramatic.
“So with the drink in one hand he says, ‘Boys, I’ll be up in the directors box so don’t spoil my f****** day.’ That was his talk to the team. I was expected some encouraging words or something. It was so funny. Anyway, we didn’t spoil his day; we drew 2-2.”
Amongst the Crowd
The 1987 tour ended with a night match at Portsmouth. Earlier in the day, however, the Storm planned to see the sights, first the Crown Jewels up in London, followed by a stop at Stonehenge en route to Pompey.
Peter Fewing says it was a tense atmosphere, given it was a friendly.
“Their field had barbed wire, a moat and then a second fence,” says Fewing. I thought that was pretty cool. But a policeman there told us, ‘No, you don’t want to go there.’
The Storm didn’t endear themselves to the Pompey fans. Stuck in a traffic jam outside of Stonehenge, the team bus was running more than an hour late, finally rolling up to Fratton Park near game time.
“We were all changing in the coach and got off the coach in our uniforms,” recalls Jenkins.
“We came right through their crowd, from the parking lot, through the gate and onto the field,” adds Fewing. “I remember saying my mom’s from Manchester and a guy spit at me.”
After an abbreviated warm-up of 20 minutes, the match ensued. Two Americans scored–Goulet for Seattle, John Kerr for Pompey–but the Storm fell, 3-1.
Nearly 30 years on, a discussion of the overseas tours brings on a flood of memories. Of the then-artificial turf surfaces at Oldham and QPR. Of a chance airport encounter between baseball superstar Reggie Jackson and Stock, whose father once was a coach for Jackson’s Yankees. Of spontaneous midnight talent shows in the hotel lounge. Of going to the old Wembley to watch England vs. The World, featuring Diego Maradona in his prime.
With each passing year, the players, now approaching middle age, further realize how these were experiences that can never be replicated. Back then, Americans were akin to aliens. Now they are regularly playing in Europe and appearing in World Cups. It was all new, for Seattle players and the Brits who watched and opposed them.
“They probably figured they could get 10 goals pretty easily,” figures Koch. “But it didn’t happen that way.”
Says Jenkins: “What I didn’t want to happen was to go out there and get beat 6- or 7-nil. But that never happened. We were competitive in every game. It was such a good experience we decided to go back.”
For certain, in a small yet significant way, FC Seattle gained American soccer a measure of newfound respect. For those Britons such as Jenkins and Gillett, who had first ventured to the U.S. to play, then stayed on to coach and develop players, it was validation.
Soon enough, says Gillett, the British clubs knew they would be tested. “They’re not going to waste a preseason game, selling tickets and going everything for a real game and waste it on a group that was s***.”
Most of all, there is a profound sense of gratitude for their owner, Bud Greer. For seven summers he kept outdoor professional soccer, however modest, alive in Seattle. Yet his most precious gift was that of exploring a new world, or more appropriately, the Old World.
“It was unlike anything we had encountered before,” claims Rick Blubaugh. “We were grateful and knew the invaluable experience gained transformed us into men.”
“Those trips for me were the top,” Koch confirms. “It was uncharted territory at the time.”
“The trip of a lifetime,” comments Fewing.
“God bless Bud,” remarks Jenkins. “It cost him a fortune. It’s a shame he was 30 years too early. He was a very generous man.”
What Greer provided went against a rushing tide that was sweeping pro soccer from the U.S. landscape at the time. The NASL was dead. The MISL was beginning to shed teams. When everyone else was retrenching, FC Seattle was stepping forward, planting a flag for the future.
“To be lucky enough to play for Bud who wants to take a team to England, to sponsor the entire trip for the experience of it, and for us to be in the right place at the right time,” recounts Hamel.
“We knew we were fortunate and we knew it was an opportunity,” he affirms. “It’s something that makes you want to get back in the game, because the game’s been good to you.”
Upon taking the pitch at Middlesbrough’s Ayresome Park, the first thing that hit John Hamel was a coin. Probably no more than a 50 pence piece, but it was priceless for Hamel. He picked up the rebound, slipped it into his sock and got back to business.
For a bunch of homegrown Seattle players, the derisive chants, slinging of slurs and hurling of currency was a big deal, but in a good way. It was a rite of passage.
Here they were, a mixture of Americans, amateur and pro, playing in football’s birthplace, its bedrock. They were facing some of the best in the business and holding their own, and they were doing so before a gallery of judging, cutting fans who knew the game, and who cared.
Getting Stuck In
On the field, the natives could be just as brutal. Each match was a battery of tests: Are you good enough, strong enough, tough enough? Each of the two tours, in 1987 and ’88, were concentrated, two-week courses in what’s required at the next level, and the next.