There’s No Hokeypokey in This Game : Football: Portland State phenomenon is part show-biz, part strategy; but more than anything, it’s popular.

It’s as if Pokey and Dream have this slogan, “Watch What We’ll Do Next” for Portland State football games.

Right now, they’re putting together Mascot Day. Michelin Man, Smokey the Bear, McGruff the Crime Dog and dozens of other characters of varying degrees of fame will parade around at halftime, just for the heck of it.

With Pokey and Steve (Dream) Weaver around, Portland State does lots of kooky stunts and draws publicity around the nation. The crowds love it all, and sometimes even get to call some of the plays. Of course, the Vikings also have reached the Division II national championship game the last two years, so the crowds have grown and grown.

Steve Weaver, the director of marketing and promotions at Portland State, may even be thinking about “Monday Night Football.” He has already tapped into everything from the school paper--he took $300 from a student in one of the more memorable attention-getters--to “The Today Show.”

And Pokey Allen, the coach, takes care of the rest. He goes along with Weaver’s stunts and wins the games.

He also is given to sleepwalking and once, while somnambulating, stepped off his houseboat on the Columbia River and into the drink.

Pokey’s Fun Football

His real name is Ernest Duncan Allen Jr., but he was Pokey before he even knew it. His father’s nickname was Pokey, too, so little Ernest inherited that moniker right along with the given name.

“There’s not a lot of people out there named Pokey,” Ernest Jr. said. “Probably a few dogs and a couple horses.”

He attended high school in Missoula, Mont., then went to the University of Utah, where he was captain of the 1964 team that went 9-2 and won the Liberty Bowl game. His playing career ended after three years as starting cornerback and backup quarterback to Joe Kapp for the British Columbia Lions in the Canadian Football League.

He has been a coach since 1967, everything from an assistant in Canada to defensive coordinator with the L.A. Express and Portland Breakers of the United States Football League. But nothing ever like this.

For one thing, it’s the first time Allen has been the head coach, not counting the four years spent as co-coach at Simon Fraser University in Burnaby, British Columbia.

For another, the folks at Portland State are a little, well, far out.

“I don’t think his (real) personality is a match to the crazy-living personality he has (developed),” said Dick Coury, Allen’s boss with the Breakers and now the Rams’ quarterback coach. “He was involved with some of the things they’d done with the press and the fans and he likes what it does for the program.”

So when Pokey comes on TV to push attendance by warning, “If you don’t get your tickets now, a big meteor is going to land in your back yard,” understand that it’s the script. But realize at the same time that it works. The average attendance last season was 11,594, up from 4,071 in 1985, the year before Allen arrived. That’s a 285% jump.

“I think I’ve gotten across to the people of Portland that Portland State is a place to go to watch fun football,” said Pokey, whose team plays host to Cal State Northridge Saturday. “The coaches are the ones who started the tailgate parties.”

At Portland State, a commuter school with an enrollment of about 16,000, half of whom are part-time or night students, the popular pregame parking-lot parties didn’t go over big at first. In fact, they were mostly coaches-only affairs.

“Some transients stopped by to grab some lunch meats,” Allen said.

That was back when they played “The Hokeypokey” song after every Viking touchdown. That gimmick has disappeared, though, and so have the winos. Fans have taken their place.

Pokey and His Paycheck

Pokey made a bold prediction while speaking to the State Board of Higher Education in December, 1987, during a presentation intended to show that the program had enough support to consider moving up to Division I-AA. He said that the Vikings would average 10,000 fans for home games the next season, including playoffs. He felt so confident, the coach said, that he would bet his paycheck on it.

The next fall, Bill Clunie remembered and decided to hold him to it. A columnist at the Vanguard, the student newspaper, Clunie offered to donate one of his monthly paychecks, worth about $300, to the athletic department scholarship fund of Allen’s choice if the Vikings broke the 10,000 mark. If they didn’t, Allen would forfeit one of his checks, about $2,100 after taxes and IRA payments, to the English department scholarship of Clunie’s choice.

Some in the athletic department were infuriated with Clunie, accusing him of trying to show up the coach. But Weaver, who never met a promotion he didn’t like, and Allen, thought it was a great gimmick. They held a press conference on the 50-yard line of Civic Stadium one day to promote it.

At the time, Portland State had a 4-2-1 record, was averaging 8,017 for its home games and had only two left on the schedule, although the Vikings were strongly hoping to be back in the playoffs.

But the gimmick took off. More than once, Pokey would be walking along when somebody would roll down the car window and shout: “I’m coming. I’m going to save your paycheck.”

And save it the fans did.

The Vikings got 14,163 in a victory over Southern Utah.

Then, after two road games, including a 49-0 thrashing of Cal Lutheran before 1,733, they returned to 13,934 at Civic Stadium and beat Montana.

Next came victories in the Division II playoffs: Bowie State before 9,773; Jacksonville State in front of 13,210; and, finally, with 21,079 looking on, Texas A&I; for a second consecutive trip to the title game in Florence, Ala. Portland State, which in 1987 lost the championship game to Troy State of Alabama, 31-17, was beaten in Florence by North Dakota State, 35-21.

But when it came time to collect on the attendance bet, the football coaches went soft. They didn’t want to take Clunie’s money.

They talked about holding a postseason tailgate party, making a cake to look like a check and having Clunie eat that.

But no. Clunie paid up.

And Pokey and Dream said they took the money.

Others aren’t so sure they didn’t slip most of it back to him.

Pokey just thinks about the attention it all got and smiles.

“It’s like any promotion,” he said. “People like to laugh and be cute, but you’re not sure it’s going to work.

“Like when I bet the paycheck. It was just a fluke that the school paper reporter remembered what I said at a school board meeting. But that was maybe the most fun we ever had. That may have been the first time we really brought the school together.”

A Dream Homecoming

Mark it on your calendars: Coming Nov. 4, it’s, Geez, I Can’t Get to My Homecoming Homecoming.

Take in the 7 p.m. game against Western Illinois at Civic Stadium and pretend it’s the homecoming you couldn’t get to. Forget that work commitments won’t allow you to get home for the real thing. Pay a to-be-determined fee--this is a fund-raiser for the athletic department, after all--and it’ll be the next-best thing to being there.

Portland State will take care of the rest. You’ll even get a name change to celebrate with.

Can’t get to Chapel Hill? Welcome alumni from the North Carolina Tar Vikings.

Trip to South Bend too expensive? Hello representatives of the Notre Dame Fighting Vikings.

But, wait. There’s more. A, Geez, I Can’t Get to My Homecoming king and queen will be elected.

Dress accordingly.

The Dream Weaver

“I’m the demented promoter behind all this,” Dream says.

No one disagrees.

He was simply Steve Weaver until 1976, when Gary Wright had a pop smash on the charts in “Dream Weaver.” The nickname stuck to Steve, who, unlike Ernest, didn’t mind the tag much. It fit nicely.

In 1974, he was director of public relations for the St. Louis Stars of the North American Soccer League. He read the autobiography of Bill Veeck, perhaps sports’ greatest nonconformist-promoter and wrote to the Chicago White Sox owner.

Veeck responded, wished Weaver luck and told him to stop by if he ever was in Chicago. Dream did. He stuck around for six days, learning about promotions.

Allen called last September, saying he could use some help pumping a Division II college. Dream, who was promoting air shows at the time, came, planning to stay 10 weeks. He has never left.

Of his relationship with Pokey, Weaver says: “Somebody once told us, ‘You two are cut from the same cloth. And it’s out of style.’ ”

Except that Viking football has become very trendy. It’s just that no one could have Dreamed it would be this popular.

The Great Bag-Off

When it was time for the Bag-Off, everything was in place. The judges certified that all the groceries on the table in front of Pokey and Dream would fit into three bags. Mark Goodman, host of Allen’s weekly radio show--not a bad platform for a Division II coach--readied to call the play-by-play.

The object, beyond bagging the goods, was--what else?--raising money. The Bag-Off promoted Football Fever, itself a fund-raiser by food manufacturers, distributors and grocery stores around Oregon that, contrary to the name, got money for non-revenue sports. After eight years with just Oregon and Oregon State participating, Portland State was allowed in for the first time this season.

Dream declared the contest to be held under the rules of Australian Rules Bagging, and they were off. Weaver was the first to fill. Allen didn’t go quietly.

“I bagged hurt,” Pokey announced on his show the next week. “But I tried not to let it hurt my performance.”

Bleacher Quarterbacks

Last month, in the second series of the second half during the season opener against Cameron University of Lawton, Okla., the Vikings took over on the Cameron 26-yard line after recovering a fumble.

The crowd went wild.

The scoreboard went wild, too, urging fans to “Help Pokey Call The Play” and flashing “Run” or “Pass” underneath.

The cheerleaders went wild, encouraging the fans to hold up their signs.

The public-address announcer went semi-wild, telling the fans to help Pokey call the play.

This was perhaps the pinnacle of Portland State promotions, even though it wasn’t a Dream original. The 1,500 fans in two sections just behind the Viking bench were asked, ta-da, to call the series.

“The place went absolutely nuts,” Weaver said. “Pokey had a big grin on his face when he saw all the cards go up. It was a pretty amazing sight.”

Just before halftime, eight kids had gone into the stands, handing out white 18 x 24-inch cards. One side said RUN in eight-inch red letters, the other said PASS, in green. The crowd would actually determine how Portland State would go.

Without much time to get a quick reading and then send in the play, Pokey turned to his new offensive coordinators. Suddenly, this didn’t seem like such a great promotion.

“It sounded a lot better in June than it did on that day in September,” he said.

Pokey stayed with it anyway.

PASS, the crowd decreed.

The play was good for 14 yards, and a roughing-the-passer penalty moved the ball to the six.

“It was only 14-7 and we were struggling,” Allen recalled. “I said to myself, ‘If we screw this up, we’ll be laughingstocks.’

“There was more than some stress involved. You’re on the field with 15,000 people yelling and you have to turn around and see the signs and who’s yelling pass and who’s yelling run? It’s hard to tell. There were so many signs in the two sections and you have only about 10 seconds to make the decision.

Pokey turned again for the next play.

RUN, the crowd said.

Good thing, too. If the fans had called for a pass, he might have run anyway and claimed he had miscounted in the pressure of the moment.

When running back Curtis Delgardo, the 1988 Western Football Conference player of the year, scored on the next play, the crowd was off the hook. So was Pokey.

Hoping to get a reading of how popular the stunt was on the first try, Weaver went into the stands the next day, figuring anyone who had had a good time would have kept his card. He found only 15 of the 1,500 that had been handed out.

He and Dream will probably try it again next season, but not before. Pokey said he couldn’t stand the pressure.

Dream, however, thrives on pressure.

“Next year,” he said, “we may do the house.”

The every-week fan-involvement gimmick here is Call a Play. Pokey resorts to it once a game at home games. The mailed entries are coming in at a rate of about 120 a week now, and Allen and the staff sort through them, picking the best one. Something catchy and tricky but not too ridiculous.

When it comes time to put the chosen play into action, Pokey, still facing the field, waves a white towel over his head. That’s the sign to the fans.

Some suggestions that don’t figure to fly:

--The receiver should run out of bounds and then back into play. “If you don’t get caught, this could work,” the fan wrote.

--The running back should take the ball and run up the middle past “the hiker guy.”

--An entire drive, one play to supposedly set up the next all the way to a touchdown. The fan submitting it said worked great for his high school team in 1948.

A couple of fans’ suggestions that have been used:

--Quarterback Don Bailey faked a handoff to the halfback as fullback Burnell Harvin headed up the middle, turned right and did a buttonhook about six yards upfield. Bailey overthrew him.

--A naked bootleg by quarterback Darren Del’Andrae on a two-point conversion. He didn’t make it.

Fans can pick up forms at a chain of local sporting-goods stores. The stores give a $10 gift certificate for every yard the chosen play gains, $20 if it results in a touchdown.

Some people get downright serious about their pet plays. One person inserted the names of the starters on the forms, except at one guard, who would have to pull on the running play. There, the backup was substituted. “He’s quicker to the outside,” the guy wrote.

Next!

A Good Night’s Dip

About that sleepwalking . . .

Pokey usually takes midnight strolls about nine or 10 times a year, about half a dozen of which are during football season because of tension, he says, which indicates how serious he really is about the job.

The time he walked into the water, Allen says, he pulled himself out and walked back to the bedroom. Didn’t realize what had happened until morning, when he woke up with wet nightclothes and saw the tracks leading from the boat slip.

Pokey’s nocturnal wanderings may strike some as strange, but he doesn’t mind talking about his sleepwalking. Heck, it may even generate some publicity for the program.

“We know we’re good coaches and players at the Division II level,” Allen said. “We kind of enjoy the attention, and it helps Portland. Maybe they could hire us over at the Chamber of Commerce.”

What would you do for them?

“I don’t know,” Pokey said. “Ask Weaver.”