Louisville City FC's Coopers bring the noise
The first thing you notice is the sound. Drums so loud you’ll swear your heart loses track of its own beat and instead adopts the thumping rhythm of vaguely familiar fight songs. There are the booming bass of the giant bourbon barrels, punctuating the precise rat-a-tat-tat of snares. Hundreds of voices join in unison screaming some combination of “Louisville,” “Come on,” “Purple,” and “City.” Don’t try to hear the PA announcer, or lean over and ask your neighbor a question.
Then, there’s the purple. Purple shirts, purple sequined bowler hats, purple mohawks, purple kilts. A sea so massive it's barely contained in these rows of Sections 121 and 122. Among the ranks are superheroes, face-painted wrestlers, leather-clad bikers. It’s an ill-advised mashup of characters. All purple. No one sits here; they stand at attention all 90 minutes, a solid wall of royal color.
And there’s the smell. Sweat, and lots of it. Old sweat, that’s been there since they arrived at Louisville Slugger Field to set up two and a half hours before the game, dark purple stains under the arms of lighter purple jerseys. And new sweat, sweat that’s emerging now out of excitement, from jumping around in 90-degree heat yelling for those boys in purple to just score a damn goal already.
They are the Coopers, and their leaders wear shirts with the supporters’ group slogan printed in block letters across the shoulder blades: “City Till I Die.” With all the sounds and sights and smells swirling, it’s easy to understand that for these people, for this game, it is not an exaggeration.
***
Six hours before Louisville City FC kicked off against FC Cincinnati for the River Cities Cup on Saturday, the Coopers were at Seneca Park lacing up for a rivalry game of their own against a group of supporters for the evening's opponent.
The Coopers’ vice president, Alex Miner, gathered his team in the shade and reminded them with a crooked grin that on this 91-degree afternoon, it was “hydrate or die.” He propped one leg up on a water cooler, exposing four lines of scrawled text tattooed on his left calf:
The game is my release
When I’m on the pitch
Everything is beautiful
God loves the world’s game.
When he was in the Marines, Miner said, “The thing to do was get tattoos and drink beer. Now I’m too poor for tattoos, so I just drink beer.”
With 350 paid members, the Coopers are a diverse group. There is president Ken Luther, a former U.S. Army colonel who has taken up the nickname Colonel Cooper. His fiance, Rebecca Tamas, helps write new chants to the tune of songs like “Hey Mickey.” Billy Cortes is a 25-year-old with an infectious smile and a handful of colorful gelatin shots. Patrick Blanton took the day off from working at Ford to pull on his purple-and-gold Converse sneakers and lug a LouCity flag to the park for this match.
The one thing they all take seriously is soccer.
Their opponents: 15 members of FC Cincinnati’s largest supporters’ group, the Pride. Despite the temperature, the visitors arrived draped in orange-and-blue scarves. The Pride only formed in February at the beginning of the team’s inaugural season, but the group quickly developed into a loyal fanbase that helped set a USL record for home attendance — and consequently, the rivalry with the Coopers was born.
The two groups regularly trade barbs over Twitter. “Skyline’s not a real chili!” is a favorite weapon of the Louisville fans, while Cincy supporters tease LouCity for playing on a baseball field.
On Saturday, they were taking the fight off of social media and onto the pitch for a friendly match of seven-on-seven. It was scrappy pickup soccer at its finest, with participants ranging in age from 16 to 50. Slide tackles, diving saves and glancing crosses abounded. Well into the second 30-minute half with no goals, both sides were looking worn out.
“Purple, start subbing!” Coopers member John Richardson yelled. “Nah, purple, you’re good!” someone yelled from the Pride section.
Saturday was the first meeting between the two fan groups in a two-game series christened the Plastic Cup. Even the name is derived from an insult: Because the Pride formed at the same time FC Cincinnati did, many mistakenly thought the group had been created by the club. The Coopers, who formed months before Louisville City and credit themselves with bringing the team into existence, mock this by calling the Pride “manufactured” or “plastic.”
“We decided to embrace that,” said Chris White, Pride vice president. He held up the trophy the Pride had brought with them as a prize for the friendly: a plastic goblet, its bowl painted half purple and half orange. The Pride and the Coopers will play for the second time July 23 when LCFC visits Cincinnati. The winner determined there will be awarded the Plastic Cup.
If the series is tied? “We go to rock-paper-scissors,” joked Pride member Tom Grabo.
With five minutes left in the game, the Coopers hammered home a goal from point-blank range to put them up 1-0. A chant of, “Ohhh, Lou-isville City,” rose from the cluster of purple on the sideline.
As much as the two groups rag on each other, there was a time when White turned to Luther for advice. Back in April, when the Pride was in a newborn stage, White had questions about upping membership and matchday attendance.
“If we can hit 10,000 the first couple times, we’d be doing cartwheels,” White recalls thinking at the start of the season. Cincinnati soon eclipsed that number, and White had to go to Luther with a different problem: dealing with growth.
On the field, Cortes leaped up to receive a cross in the box and collided with Pride goalkeeper Mike Straus, who fell to his hands and knees, holding his head. Cortes crawled over to him and put a hand on the small of his back. After a few seconds, Straus struggled to his feet. He and Cortes embraced, drawing a collective “Aww!”.
“The great thing about soccer is it’s really grass roots, and not just because you play it on grass roots,” Luther said. “It’s about community and getting to know other people.”
When the game ended a few minutes later with the Coopers victorious, the groups exchanged hugs and handshakes. “All the players get together for a picture!” someone yelled.
The Coopers and the Pride gathered together, wiping sweat from their foreheads. They squeezed into two lopsided rows, the front one kneeling. Each side proudly brandished a team scarf. The photographer backed up a few steps to make sure the players filled her iPhone screen, preserving an image that at once conveyed both unity and dissonance.
Half purple, half orange.
***
The first time Miner marched at a Louisville City match, he had no flags or drums. Saint Louis FC had brought a huge contingent of supporters to Louisville Slugger Field for what was both clubs’ inaugural USL game. The visitors section was making itself heard.
Miner had attended the first Coopers meeting a few weeks prior, but there were only 10 members at the time, and the group had yet to organize a matchday plan. So at the game that day in March, it was just Miner, Luther and another friend parading around Slugger Field screaming their heads off.
Oh, how far they’ve come.
Now, the Coopers’ matchday preparations start more than two hours before kickoff. Saturday, the group met at the bottom of Section 121 at 5 o’clock. More than a dozen purple-, white- and gold-checkered flags were placed carefully in the green seats. Wooden scaffolding was erected to give the Capos (the Italian word for captain) a platform to stand on and lead chants during the game. The drumline assembled and warmed up.
That’s right, there’s a full drumline now. When Saint Louis FC returned to Louisville Slugger Field a month ago, the Coopers drumline invaded the St. Louis section and beat the instruments in their faces, sweet redemption for last season’s embarrassment.
It’s nothing new for drumline member Joe Vala. Before retiring last year, Vala spent 35 years as a drum teacher and judged percussion competitions all over the country. Clad in a leather vest with the Coopers skull logo on the back and with a purple bandana wrapped around his head, he gently instructed a fellow Cooper to use padded drumsticks to avoid damaging the drum head.
Luther oversaw everything, rushing around and brushing back the sandy brown hair stuck to the sweat lining his brow. He wore a utility belt equipped with six smoke bombs (the Coopers spend $1,500 annually on smoke), a Louisville City FC scarf and a megaphone slung around his waist above his purple-and-black plaid kilt.
After about 30 minutes, it was out of the sun and into Against The Grain, which was packed with fans of both teams scarfing down pregame meals and happy hour brews. Purple and orange jostled for space, but it was as if an invisible line had been drawn down the center of the room.
“It’s like eighth-grade prom: The boys on one side not talking to the girls,” observed Against The Grain owner Adam Watson.
On the Louisville side, Miner leaned against a table with a beer in hand, looking every bit as part of the environment as the wall behind him. This is where he’s in his element. The woman behind the bar knew his order as soon as he stepped up. An out-of-town fan approached to ask about the looseness of the city’s open container laws. He was never alone for more than half a minute. One Louisville City supporter after another came to say hello. Each conversation was different, but all ended with the same question: When was he heading over? Soon, Miner told them. Just a few more minutes.
Over where?
Miner grinned. “The March to the Match.”
***
The March to the Match began in the shadow of the KFC Yum! Center, behind the charred remains of Whiskey Row.
It started how every gathering of Coopers starts, with a song. Really, it was an album performance. One song blended into the next into the next, a string of melodies all circling the same theme and paced by thunderous, ever-present drumbeats.
“We love ya! We love ya! We love ya! And where you go we’ll follow. We’ll follow. We’ll follow. ‘Cause we support the City! The City! The City! And that’s the way we like it.”
People dining in the restaurants facing the alley cupped their hands around their eyes to better see what was going on outside. Residents in the lofts above peered out their windows, searching for the source of the commotion.
Then the clock struck 7:10 p.m., about 40 minutes before kickoff. “Let’s go!” Luther yelled. And with that, the procession was off, heading east on Washington Street back toward Slugger Field.
Cortes, Miner and the other Capos led the pack, screaming into bullhorns as if they didn’t trust the devices to properly project the chants. Right behind them, five people carried a 10-foot-long banner that read “The Coopers,” a proud identifier. Wedged at the center of the group were the members of the drumline, braces strapped to their chests but still maintaining a steady pace and rhythm.
When they reached the stadium’s west parking lot, Cortes and Luther each unleashed a cloud of purple and yellow smoke, the fumes curling behind them to envelop the marchers.
Bystanders whipped out their phones as the procession passed, some not fully aware of what this spectacle was but knowing it was something worth capturing.
A car turned west onto the road driving head-on toward the group. Capo Jorge Pasmino shook his purple mohawk no and motioned at the car to pull over. The driver hesitated, unsure what to make of the band of roughly 40 purple, chanting misfits unwilling to submit to traffic. After a few seconds he relented, and the Coopers marched steadily forward without breaking stride.
They marched up Preston Street and turned onto Main Street, at the front of the stadium. As they continued past Against The Grain, more people ventured out to the patio to get a better look. The Coopers loop around to the building’s East Gate and burst into the lobby, where lines of heads waiting at will-call instantly whip around.
Louisville City used to ask the Coopers not to come through that entrance. The team was having trouble selling tickets over all the noise. Eventually, the club gave up.
Inside the main concourse, the fight songs echoed even louder. The Coopers filed down the stairs and into the awaiting rows like spectators entering a gladiator arena. The crowd in the surrounding sections remained captivated, wide-eyed stares expressing simultaneous excitement and wonderment. The Pride’s section, nestled three sections to the left in the northwest corner of the stands, watched in begrudging silence. The Capos took up their positions on top of the platform. All the while, the chants never ceased. They wouldn’t for the next 90 minutes.
***
A 0-0 draw did not seem worthy.
After the game was over, hungry for more, purple and orange had no qualms mixing together at Against The Grain. On the big screen above the bar, the United States men’s national team was finishing up a Copa America loss to Colombia, a result everyone was equally dissatisfied with.
Watson and Luther stood, beers in hand, discussing the match. A Cincinnati fan approached, shook Watson's and Luther’s hands and thanked them for hosting the Pride. As the Cincy fan walked back to the bar, Watson turned to Luther.
“That’s what I love about them, is they’re so friendly and welcoming,” he said. “That’s what people don’t understand about soccer. We don’t have to hate each other all the time. Out there is totally different than afterwards, in here.”
Luther nodded in agreement, and the two resumed talking. Their voices faded into the steady buzz of conversations taking place around the room, the lulls placated by clinking glasses and television commentary. The air thrummed almost loudly enough to eclipse the memory of the frenzied chanting which had echoed through the building just hours ago. Almost.
That sound you hear now?
It’s the sound of alliance.