So there we are, a few hundred happy, edgy Toronto FC supporters, out of the bar and starting to flow down the sidewalks on Duncan Street in the middle of Toronto’s downtown entertainment district.
It’s the beginning of the official supporters’ march down to SkyDome, for TFC’s gala CONCACAF quarterfinal against Becks, LandyCakes and the rest of Your 2011 MLS Champion Los Angeles Galaxy.
Four police on horseback just came up Duncan from tiny, hidden Pearl Street, but they don’t want any part of us, and melt away into the lengthening early-evening darkness.
The first step, of course, is getting off the sidewalks. Occupying sidestreets is nothing new to the Red Patch Boys and U-Sectors of the world. We completely swamp and dominate Atlantic Avenue on a routine and regular basis.
[PRBREAK][/PRBREAK]
Ah, but Atlantic Avenue is an isolated little road to nowhere that dead ends at the railway tracks at the bottom of the warehouse district. Duncan Street is a whole other shooting match. But now I see cars pulling urgent getaway U-turns – front and back – as the Red mob jumps the curb, finds itself totally blocking the road, and stops.
There’s a need to consolidate the ground just taken. Having done something, it is now time to do … nothing.
… But sing.
“Allez, allez, allez, les Rouges allez!” booms up and out of the Duncan Street canyon. This show plays all spring, summer and fall in the wasteland north of BMO Field, but this is its gala downtown debut.
Passers-by, grim in their dark greatcoats despite the day’s unseasonable warmth, hold up their phone-cams to video the throating Red loonies in the road. Not a lot of smiles along the sides, but definite curiosity.
And then, we move. Police escort now. Four of them. On bikes. It’s a reasonably clear sign of non-aggression, very far removed for the horse cops. Twenty years ago, I stood on a high balcony on Charles Street and watched Toronto horse cops clubbing Rodney King protesters across the open fields of St. Michael’s College with truncheons. The bike cops, by contrast, are almost teddy-bear cute.
Now we move. But there’s only one little block of Duncan Street left – and one big question looming up. What happens when we get to King Street?
King Street ain’t Atlantic Avenue, kids. It’s a major east-west thoroughfare, packed with cabs, street cars and late-rush-hour traffic. We have to turn right here, and march one block to John Street. We’re going to be forced back up onto the sidewalks, right?
“Allez, allez, allez,” and the bike cops wheel into action. “Allez, allez, allez,” and they don’t wade into us. “Allez, allez, allez,” and they actually wade into King Street, and yes, yes, YES, they’re blocking it off!!
“Allez, allez, allez, les Rouges allez!”
Unbelievable. More wheeling U-turns to get away from us, but now it’s out on King Street. And if you know downtown Toronto, you never want to turn around on King Street. Just no clear rush-hour alternatives. Bad congestion, too many one-way streets; this Wild Red Beast in the road just ain’t good news if you’re trying to get home.
I can’t even tell you what we’re singing now. I’m slapping old friends on the back, watching the baffled onlookers, enjoying the darting dance of the cute cops as we thunder past the Princess of Wales theatre, marching by the hundreds in one voice right down the middle of freaking King Street at not-quite-seven-PM and nobody can do anything about it but fire up their cameras and gawk.
Pure sensory overload. We’ve been doing this act for five years, but never down The Great White Way of The Great White North. Broadway, baby!
T! F!! C!!!
It’s kind of like the very first moonwalk – beyond incredible, and over so quickly. At John Street, the police guide us left to pour down the two-block boulevard to the ‘Dome. They look efficient, and clearly relieved.
From here down, it ain’t really news. Blue Jay and Argo fans routinely take over John Street, just getting out of the vast, unfriendly stadium after each and every game. But the singing pounds on, and inevitably it now switches to “Oh When The Reds Go Marching In.”
Darn right I want to be in that number. I am in that number. At this moment on this day, my few hundred fellow marchers are that number.
I don’t think the gal in the dark Lexus, hemmed in on the east side of John with nowhere to go, is particularly pleased with all the supporters scarves that are being draped on and pulled across her windshield. But the inconvenience is brief – and the sheer, utter joy of the crowd impossible to miss.
And then, down at the end of the road, hundreds of TFC fans completely block the intersection of John and Front, leaping up and down, locking arms, hugging, and singing at the top of their lungs. Brooding to the south lies the huge, discomforting concrete chasm, so bleak and unlike the cozy little bandbox that is BMO Field.
But tonight, this is the park. The teams and match await.
And so many fans – leaping and exulting – know that anything – anything at all – is still possible this wild and happy night.
Onward!