While I’m a “Masshole” born, bred and proud (the word’s now ensconced in the Oxford English Dictionary), I’ve made my home in Maine since 1992, and never has there been a bigger soccer story to hit the Pine Tree State than Hearts of Pine, our first-year entry in USL One.

The club’s fairytale run finally ran out of pixie dust in Spokane, Washington. I was there, along with 50 hardcore supporters who watched their Sons of Maine surrender a tying goal in OT stoppage time, then miss a deciding penalty that, if converted, would have sent them to the final. Oof.

A brutal way to lose. But the club brain trust, the fans and coach Bobby Murphy are to be commended, along with the players naturally, for putting together such a remarkably competitive campaign. Assembling a pro roster on the fly, with limited funds and zero relationships with other clubs, at any level of the American soccer pyramid, is difficult. But Hearts quickly identified a dependable, flinty rotation of 14-15 players by mid-summer and, with just enough flair to entertain in the nation’s professional third division, caught bloody fire.

The club went 10-4-4 from July 6 to the close of the season in late October. That sublime stretch included a 6-1 drubbing of eventual league finalist, Spokane Velocity (last year’s rookie darlings), and the ouster of 2025 USL Championship winner Pittsburgh Riverhounds from the Jägermeister Cup, a sort of leagues-cup competition for both USL divisions.

That’s merely the competitive side of the ledger. Across Maine itself, Hearts have proved a cultural phenomenon, selling out every home date at 6,000-seat Fitzpatrick Stadium in Portland, and pimping more merchandize than Danish outfitter Hummel and local boy L.L. Bean, a fitting shirt-sleeve sponsor, could have imagined.

What’s more, the fan section at Fitzy Park has proved a sensation unto itself, replete with non-stop singing, chanting and flair-lighting. These are not European-style ultras or Argentinian bravas, but rather a more harmless bunch of bearded hipsters who helped transform their interstate-adjacent home ground into a fortress through non-stop, quite genial-but-insistent stomping and craft-beer swilling. Think of The Guy from HBO’s “High Maintenance”. Only crunchier. With female counterparts in knitted Carhartt hats. That is the Hearts fan section demographic.

I’ve followed Hearts of Pine closely all this inaugural season, but I’m not a season-ticket holder. I attended four matches, two at Fitzpatrick and two U.S. Open Cup dates at Lewiston High School. I point this out because, while I’ve been to more away matches in the U.K. than Hearts fans have had hot dinners, I tend not to gravitate toward these fan-section spectacles. Home or away, I cheer and sing on occasion, always in support. Mainly I’m there to watch the match.

To be honest, my big day out in Spokane owed absolutely nothing to my relatively casual Hearts support. I arrived in western Montana earlier in the week to visit my two kids, both legitimate Mainers (they were born there) who nevertheless make their homes in Missoula.

Two days after touching down, however, I did realize that Hearts were scheduled to play their USL One semifinal in Spokane, just three hours to the west. In Big Sky Country, a 3-hour drive is like running out to Cumberland Farms for a gallon of milk. So off I went to Eastern Washington, on a Sunday afternoon, to support my new local club.

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At that time of year, the road from Missoula to Spokane — the Massachusetts Turnpike, naturally (a.k.a., Interstate 90) — is what one might expect from a major artery in the Pacific Northwest: three mountain passes sheathed by steep, solid banks of ponderosa pine flecked with smatterings of western larch gone a bright autumnal yellow.

One Spokane Stadium is located on the campus of Gonzaga University. It holds 5,000. According to the Velocity press officer, they’ve averaged 2,400 paid attendees per home fixture in 2025, Year II for the franchise. That’s solid support for USL One. While I was chatting up the host staff (who made a point of referencing Maine’s 6-1 thrashing in September), folks back in Maine were forming a line on Congress Street. For the same semifinal Hearts arranged to show the ESPN+ feed live, on a big screen, inside the 3500-seat State Theater. HOP fans sold the place out.

Home support is, by and large, the easy part. Next-level futbol fandom means going on the road to back your team in far-flung, often hostile environments.

And so, let me tell you how proudly these sons and daughters of Maine represented Hearts Nation, so very far from home that second Sunday in November.

As is customary, the Velocity funneled visiting supporters into a single section — to keep an eye on us, mainly, but also to foster esprit de corps. We numbered no more than 50! Huddled together in Section 129, we watched the sun go down while temperatures dropped into the 30s. I was the only Maine-based supporter who drove to Spokane (!). Two-dozen folks flew in. There were several transplants who drove from Pullman, home to Washington State University. They arrived fully kitted out in Hearts gear. I chatted with the father of striker Titus Washington. Club founder and president Gabe Hoffman-Johnson led a healthy contingent of front-office colleagues. That was it.

But oh my, what a din was created. Two bearded fellows led the cheers and never stopped. Not for 120 minutes, until the deciding penalty kicks placed all on tenterhooks. It was an epic, impressive performance from the cheerleaders. Several Spokane fans came over, after PKs went to terribly wrong, to say so.

Again, to be clear and honest: It was a bit much for me. In a large, British away-fan section, one can nip in or isolate from such chanting and singing. At Fitzy Park, one is free to roam about the place and detach from what seems a bit like a manic cosplay of European support behavior. In the tiny confines of Section 129? Detachment was impossible. During the deciding spot kicks, I could actually hear the larger crowd…

But this is to quibble. Because you know who might call me churlish and tell me to fuck right off? Murphy and his players. Led by the Englishman Oliver Wright (front and center in the starting XI below) , they all came across the pitch to applaud the other-worldly support in Section 129. The boys were physically exhausted, emotionally gutted. They had competed so hard, only to tragically kick a result away. Twice!

Bundled against the cold, they were 15-20 in number — about the same as we fans who lingered post-match. All were devastated, so maybe it wasn’t so odd that our Hearts did more than applaud the fans. They shook hands. There were hugs, and tears. Everyone seemed to recognize what a long, strange, truly wonderful trip it had been.

Had Jay Tee Kamara converted that 5th penalty kick for the victory, the denouement would have proved so very different. A final in Knoxville a week’s hence, of course, but also a big night out in Spokane. I made a lot of friends that night; with further lubrication, I would have surely finagled a hotel couch within walking distance. As it was, as the disconsolate players wandered away, there was only dejection in Section 129. I found a Holiday Inn Express in nearby Spokane Valley and crashed hard.