Some time in the last three years, the owners of Toronto’s Liberty Village Market & Cafe bravely offered their restaurant up as a pre-game meeting ground for the Inebriatti, Toronto FC’s most colourfully named supporters group. Approaching the intersection in front of the place in the hours before TFC’s first-ever home playoff game, I’m stopped in my tracks by the first glimpse of the crowd—hundreds of guys lining the street all dressed in black. Is that a gang? They look like a gang. Moments later, though, they burst into song.
Leading the chorus, hands flapping up and down to set the tempo, is Eli Zeldin, a millennial who works for a company he’ll describe to me in a few minutes as a “pharmaceutical start up,” and who on the weekend becomes the Inebriatti’s conductor. Surprisingly harmonious under Zeldin’s guidance the group suddenly appears to be more men’s choir than criminal organization. As they set off toward TFC’s home pitch, BMO Field, they march with a military cohesion to their steps.
(Maggie Naylor)
It makes sense for the Inebriatti to sing hymns because already this is like a religious experience. Their trek will take them to a football mecca. Men will speak in tongues through a megaphone. And today the devil will be anybody wearing the blue of tonight’s opponent, the Philadelphia Union.
“Guys, no roadies!” Zeldin screams to the crowd. On the roughly kilometre-long walk south to the stadium—singing and chanting all the way—the last thing any of the Inebriatti want is an over-zealous police offer cracking down on a member with a “road pop.” Nor do they want the many onlookers stopping to take in the procession to get the wrong idea. It is widely understood that every member represents not just themselves but also the group and the club they love.
The march completely takes over the street. Everywhere around us, cameras flash and people point. It’s as if the Inebriatti are themselves players taking the field. They may not be famous for their day jobs but collectively the group lifts TFC so passionately they become rock stars.
As we enter the stadium, the crowd stops at a security checkpoint. “Thank you so much for your help this year,” Zeldin tells a member of the security staff as the banners are inspected. “We really appreciate everything you’ve done.”
Everyone—staff and Inebriatti—is on a first-name basis. “We’ll see you guys next week,” one ticket taker says making small talk. “Don’t jinx us!” comes the forceful retort in many-voiced unison. They’ve had their hearts broken before and take nothing for granted. Running through eight managers in 10 years will do that to you.
(Maggie Naylor)
The atmosphere in stadium doesn’t yet rival Clock Tower End at the Emirates in London, but passion for the Gunners has been built over a century. Considering this band of soccer misfits has been together for a decade, they certainly hold their own.
Arrayed around the Inebriatti are The Kings of the North in 116; Tribal Rhythm Nation, their steel pan and bongo drums carrying over from 118; U Sector in 113; Original 109, who you guessed it, supported the club from day one in 109; and the Red Patch Boys, the biggest and best-organized supporters group, in 111 and 112. Nobody checks their smart phones for other scores. This is all they’ve got. Between the whistles, it’s all they need.
Smoke from a flare scents the air with a chemical take on frying bacon. You’re afraid on your lungs’ behalf. Down on the pitch, Union keeper Andre Blake, who has the unenviable task of being stationed in front of the supporters, seems to be struggling with the onslaught of smoke, streamers and confetti.
Breathing the mix in can’t be healthy. But neither is having this much fun with strangers.
At halftime I ask Zeldin how he still has a voice, feeling like I’ve lost mine by osmosis. “I don’t know!” he yells back. “Bourbon?”
(Mark Blinch/CP)
During play Zeldin leads the chants and songs balancing on a railing at the bottom of the section with his back to the action—like a mascot who had to pay for season tickets. “I PVR the games and watch them afterwards. I never really have a sense of what happened until I get home” he explains.
When Jozy Altidore scores to put the match out of reach in the second half, he shows his appreciation for the supporters with a Lambeau leap into the south end stands. Security, so used to keeping these exuberant fans off the field when the home side scores, is left flat-footed as Altidore brings exuberance of his own to the stands. Michael Bradley joins him in the south-end mosh pit, so why not crowd surf to the front of the stands for a chance to rub his bald head?
After the final whistle, a select few supporters are allowed on the field to give their drums to players. As Bradley and Sebastian Giovinco keep the beat for a Viking clap, most in the stands cheer, some cry. This wasn’t supposed to happen. And yet it did. A game worth losing your voice over. Something Zeldin knows even before getting home to his PVR.
(Mark Blinch/CP)
