Ten minutes after this photo was taken, the 1979 Portland Timbers went on strike.
None of those pictured here played in the next match, a 2-0 home loss to the Minnesota Kicks in front of a then-Timbers-NASL-tenure-low home crowd of 6,244—all of whom were informed, before the game even started, they could have a full refund if they wanted it.
As the 2024 MLS season is set to kick off tomorrow at Providence Park with replacement referees filling in for the locked-out unionized officials, this Match Day* takes Green Is the Color to the day the 1979 Timbers took a stand.
Hands down, this is one of the best team photos I’ve come across since I started this project. It’s not just that it includes some of my favorite players and people from our Portland soccer history (which it does). And it's not just that it’s the kind of candid we don’t always get from our sports teams these days (which it is).
It’s that it’s all of that, and it represents a moment in time when a group of Portland Timbers gathered in a Civic Stadium locker room and decided to take a stand, together, to make things better for others, even at risk of their own losses, because they agreed it was the right thing to do.
The NASL players created the North American Soccer League Players Association in 1977 in part because there was no way for players to ensure their right to work, which could mean, for many players in the league, there was no way to ensure their right to stay in the U.S. Forming a union was a way to help players and their families find some stability in an ever-changing league, where the chasm between teams with significant financial backing (and the intent on using it) and those without was growing each year.
In 1978, the United States’ National Labor Relations Board recognized the North American Soccer League Players Association as a proper union.
“It was all just about being recognized as a union,” Willie Anderson told me recently. “Because teams could quit your contract in the middle of the year and send you back to the UK or wherever you're from, and there's nothing you could do, no security whatsoever, the team processed your green card.”
Brian Gant, who was Anderson’s co-representative for the Timbers, added, “A lot of guys were just coming out of college or just coming over here.” On top of that, many of the English guys didn't even know what agents were in the U.S. “[The players are] negotiating, and they’re on their own. And so there was no real standard that you could look at and say, okay, [the teams] have to give you this. And, you know, when it came to surgeries and medical stuff, you just didn't know what was going to happen.”
However, the NASL owners would not recognize the Players Association and would not meet to discuss how to work together. After a March 1979 deadline for the two sides to meet came and went, a strike became an option for the Players Association to encourage talks.
Yet even that would put individual players in tough situations.
Domestic players could partially rely on the league-minimum Americans rule for the smallest hint at security, but even then it didn’t guarantee a wage amount, only a spot on the roster for some. For foreign players, whose visas were granted and controlled by teams where the ownership did not want to recognize the Players Association, they had less control and a tough decision to face if there was a strike: play or not. And it’s not that simple, either.
Because the National Labor Relations Board recognized the Players Association as a union, they’d recognize a strike. Unfortunately, that also means if a player holding a visa plays during a strike, he’s breaking the law by working and could face deportation. However, if the player does not play and observes the strike, the team holding his visa could revoke it because he didn’t fulfill the obligations of his visa, which means that player loses his employment, and therefore loses the visa that was only granted for the employment of playing soccer.
To make matters worse, the United States Department of Immigration and Naturalization Services (INS) initially said they would enforce labor laws, making playing in an NASL match during a strike a deportable offense. (They eventually backed off this—mid-strike—saying they would not enforce this or deport players playing, which again put the decision on the individual player and how he felt with his team.)
So where did that leave the 1979 Timbers? Where you’d expect them to be: together.
“We’re waiting for everybody to come in,” Brian Gant said when he showed me this photo. We were going through some of his scrapbooks from his playing days. “We’ve already trained [and] showered, and we’re waiting for everyone to be there. We’re going to vote [on whether to strike or not], and then Willie’s going to walk down to the coach’s office and tell him we’re not going to be here tonight.”
“[We] didn’t vote in favor [of the strike] because of the Timbers,” Willie Anderson told the Oregon Journal’s Kerry Eggers in 1979. “[We] voted in favor because of the league, the way the standard contract is. There’s no security. We can be here today, gone tomorrow. Nobody’s got anything against the Timbers [organization]. We’re treated rather well, really.”
The strike lasted about a week, and the Timbers were one of a few teams where just about all of the players went on strike.
“We all stuck together,” Anderson told me. “That's what you want out of a team. I don't care where you play, what league you're in, that they all stick together.”
The group still met to train, every day of the strike, together. “We set it up ourselves,” Anderson recalled. “We ran it ourselves. For the week we were on strike. We all went out and practiced and everybody showed up.”
“An assorted group of rejects and amateurs.” That’s how the Oregon Journal’s executive sports editor, Bill Mulflur, found it appropriate to express the situation over the Timbers’ roster for the match against Minnesota. Here’s who he was referring to:
Instead of Canadian Internationals Brian and Bruce Gant, the Timbers’ roster included Portland natives Dell and Grant Herreid, whose bios in the inserted impromptu Game Notes read that they “played soccer” for 10 and 11 years, respectively.
Only one Timbers regular played—a young amateur by the name of Jim Gorsek, who would go on to become an iconic Portland player (see Timbers vs LA Aztecs (Indoors): When we score, everybody roar!).
Assistant coach Dave Givens was also listed on the roster that night as #17, who could play two positions if called upon: goalkeeper and/or defender.
And then there were Timbers originals Ray Martin and Tony Betts on the Minnesota side, the latter registering the game-winning Kicks’ assist that night while playing the one time in his 67-match outdoor NASL career that he didn’t suit up for Portland.
Both Betts and Martin had last played professionally, for the Timbers, in the 1977 season and had since made Portland their home. Betts was putting down roots. He’d bought a house and started up soccer camps. One would think the Timbers would come calling them in a pinch. Instead, Minnesota made the move.
“Freddy Goodwin, who was the manager of the Minnesota Kicks, called Ray Martin,” Tony Betts recalled to me, “because he was looking for players to play when they came into Portland. And so Ray called me.” Martin and Betts suited up for the Kicks.
Betts’ match-winning assist encouraged other Minnesota Kicks to try and talk him into joining the team for the season, but it wasn’t to be. His roots were now here. Save for a stint in Buffalo for the burgeoning Major Indoor Soccer League, building the game and people through coaching was among Betts’ future contributions (and we’re all better off for it. See: Green Is the Color podcast, Episode 6: Tony Betts).
For the league and Players Association, the battle went on through the courts and appeals. This wasn’t the only time or forum (see: Timbers vs LA Aztecs (Indoor): When we score, everybody roar!) for these challenges. A labor agreement was eventually reached in 1984, two years too late for the Timbers and just in time for the end of the NASL.
There were positive outcomes internally.
“As a team, the strike made us closer as a unit,” Willie Anderson told The Oregonian’s Dave Ingham when the team returned to training. “We did more talking during the strike than ever before. We all believe in what we did and can make no apology for that. But we’re sorry for the fans’ sake.”
And the Timbers family (and story) grew.
When Dell and Grant Herried took to Civic Stadium’s Tartan Turf for us in that 1979 match, they joined the Gants as the second set of brothers to play for the Timbers. Thirty-five-year-old Brian Baker put in 90 minutes, as did Jim Gorsek and seven others. In all, 13 new Timbers took to the field to represent the city that night. Two more Timbers put in shifts for Minnesota. And another 17 stayed away from the field because they were taking a stand to make things better for others in the league—others who weren’t so lucky to be Timbers.
“[The Timbers] wanted to take care of us,” Brian Gant summarized the situation to me. “It was different in other cities, considerably different. Willie and I were the union reps, so we traveled to all these meetings. And all the players' reps were there. It was totally different for them.” But here in Portland, there was a good relationship between owners and players. “We're telling [our] owners, ‘This is not against you. We're doing this for the league. You guys do your job, you guys are treating us very, very well, and we appreciate that. We're doing this for the other teams in the league.’”
April 14, 1979: Timbers 0 Kicks 2. Portland wins.
#RCTID