An Homage from Across the Pond
"Alan Ball was right", writes an American Evertonian, chosen at the heights of David Moyes's first reign as the Blues' boss, in this brilliant piece that describes how the club captured his heart
I. Change
If a hitman was tracking me, he’d charge the flat rate. I’m easy to find. I’m a teacher. The same bell dismisses me at 2:15 p.m. I walk out the same door. I park in the same section of the school lot. In December of 2019, I was then off to daycare pickup. In a departure from my teenage years, full of back streets, service roads, and local driving nous, it was now my choice of mile upon mile of southbound steering down Rte 259 or mile upon mile of southbound steering down Rte 261. Nudge the wheel to one o’clock to avoid roadkill. This is adulthood in the Rochester, NY suburbs, 350 miles and an awful accent away from my Staten Island roots.
I didn’t skip and whistle my way upstate after marrying my wife, a Rochester native. For years, I refused to compliment the locals' beloved Wegmans grocery store, or Pontillo’s Pizza, or the low crime rate. Give me a bodega, Nunzio’s, and a train station robbery any day of the week. The Buffalo Bills? The Sabers? I’ve been alive for four New York Giants Super Bowl victories, and remember three of them. I was in my parents' bedroom in 1994 watching the Rangers win the Stanley Cup. My address changed, not my sporting allegiances.
On this day, however, I had a distraction on the radio that was not Rangers, Giants, Knicks or even Yankees. Instead, I was nearly breaking my hand on the steering wheel over professional athletes an ocean away, in a stadium and city I have never set foot in.
Tom Davies side-footed a Richarlison cross into the back of the net, bringing Everton within a goal against Leicester City. I celebrated with Darren Griffith sand Ian Snodin on the commentary like I was a boyhood Evertonian. By the time I idled in the daycare parking lot, just long enough for Leighton Baines to crack a thunderbolt into the top corner in stoppage time to level the match, I was six inches of hair away from being mistaken for a grunge-era front man.
For some reason, this game was all I cared about anymore. I couldn’t yearn for something I had left (Giants), and didn’t want to jump in with something I was begrudgingly a part of (Bills). Rather, I had Everton. Here was Duncan Ferguson — former Everton striker and cult hero — as interim manager. Here was Brendan Rodgers, jotting down his favorite brands of chapstick in his notepad, in the opposing dugout. Here was a full Goodison Park under the lights, at full voice, and MY club going to penalty kicks for a spot in the Carabao Cup semifinals.
The Blues lost that penalty shootout. My sons and I pulled into the driveway. I was miserable for days.
II. Roots
I grew up with soccer at Miller Field, the outdoor forerunner to Starbucks — the original place for moms to sit and gossip, only in folding lawn chairs with hooded jackets to battle weekend wind. Their sons were tolerated more than coached, unleashed rather than disciplined. It was our chance to have fun before tryout fees, verbal abuse of referees, and pointless excursions to New Jersey hotels became the 21st century norm. For us, the higher in the air the ball went, the better. The farther it went, the more impressive. Playing to feet was an accident. If the almighty Silver Lake travel club entered a team in our rec league, we were flummoxed when their first two passes went backwards to start a game that ultimately ended in a 6-0 shellacking.
From the age of 5, when my mom would make me wear a hoodie and sweatpants under my uniform, I was a left back. I’m as lefty as the PGA Tour. I was Leighton Baines without the cool, Lucas Digne without the crossing, Vitalii Mikolenko without the check back-pass to a center back. I never got a chance to kick the ball with my dominant foot, and never learned how to kick with my weaker foot. If my feet were soup, they were brought out cold and after the dessert course.
When I entered Curtis High School, I had about seven career practices on my resume, no idea how to shoot with my laces, and a tactical acumen to rival Douglas Haig. My teammates were different. Richard and a host of other teammates were from Liberia. Some were from Nigeria, Poland, Guinea, Albania, or Mexico. In fact, I was the only American on the team in 10th grade. I fit in like a bacon, egg and cheese in a vegan restaurant. And not because of my citizenship. It was because I could only play in blowouts or for throw-ins to guys who grew up with a soccer ball at their feet. Richard nutmegged me seven times in a row in front of my future cross country-coach, who knew I had to switch sports.
While my “career” was short, I remained interested in the sport. I watched local games. When I enrolled at Syracuse University, I went to many home games long before SU turned into a national title contender and eventual winner. When a guy in our dorm with a PlayStation turned on FIFA, I knew the national teams from the World Cup. But club sides? I chose Chelsea because it was a neighborhood in Manhattan.
III. Inspiration
In 2006, I fulfilled every Irish-American stereotype by flying to Dublin for a semester abroad, paperback history of the Troubles in tow, and the perplexed look when a foreigner is asked “What’s the craic?” for the first time.
I read the Irish Independent every day, trying to immerse myself in my new country. On January 22, after a few weeks of getting my feet wet in the damp Irish sod, I entered a South Dublin pub to watch Manchester United face Liverpool. I sat next to another early-arriving gentleman, and started to receive my primary education in world football: Ronaldhino; Wayne Rooney; how Celtic would fare in the Premier League.
By the time Rio Ferdinand headed in an injury-time winner, and I watched Gary Neville run the length of the pitch to give an American peace sign to the Kop, I only thought of one thing. Where can I pay for the cheeseburger and French fries I ordered 3 hours ago?
I did not have a true rooting interest in any one team. I found myself following the day-to-day of the Irish national team, the Boys in Green, who had just hired Steve Staunton as manager. The Irish Independent doled out double digit pages of coverage. But I did not have a favorite Irish player. Ferdinand had not made me love the Red Devils. George Weah is distantly related to every Liberian person on Staten Island, but that wasn’t tilting me toward Chelsea or Manchester City. Syracuse was not a pipeline to elite soccer.
So I just watched. A lot. Roy Keane was promoting Sunderland to the Premier League. Wenger’s “young guns” kept winning games for Arsenal. Staunton had just called up teenager Terry Dixon from Tottenham for two friendlies. I kept watching, even after returning home from Ireland.
It was the short guy with braids, though, who roped me in. He was South African. His other midfield teammates were from Australia and Spain. It was like a United Nations convention, and Steven Pienaar was unlike any footballer I’d ever seen. Most footballers I watched found success in typical ways: speed and athleticism, brute strength, or elite skill. Pienaar wasn’t blowing by defenders. He wasn’t the target man on corner kicks. He was not first or second choice on free kicks, or doing thousands of stepovers.
And yet, everything ran through him. I couldn’t stop watching. Any defensive scheme against Everton aimed to nullify his partnership with Baines, and failed miserably. Pienaar picked up every little pocket of space. He saw the two or three passes ahead, and could get fouled as often as Shaquille O’Neal at the end of a close Lakers game. Need a cross whipped in? He’d orchestrate that with Baines. Need to unlock a defense sitting deep? He’d make a run or dummy a pass to open up the real estate for his teammates.
David Moyes had a team filled with players who elite clubs couldn’t be bothered with, and lesser teams didn’t deserve. Pienaar was my favorite. For two years, I watched a lot of Premier League football, with no official rooting interest. But every time Everton Football Club was on, the debate over who I wanted to win was about as one-sided as a Man City field tilt map. Alan Ball was right.
Eventually, I was figuring out how to change my text message notifications so I did not accidentally read about a match result I was DVR-ing. I was wading into the murky waters of Everton Twitter with a rescue flare and swimmies. I was sitting on my couch, calendar cleared, for the 2009 FA Cup final at Wembley Stadium. It was a spoiled first season. I did not understand the rarity of the occasion if not the magnitude.
IV. Running
Every human lives for moments. A first kiss. A child’s birth. A marathon’s finish line. Every soccer fan lives for moments. Seeing your team walk out at Wembley is a moment. Important goals are moments. There’s a name for goal celebrations in Britain: limbs. You will be shamed online for trying to document it with a phone. That’s not what a moment is. It’s you, the people you’re with, and your pure spontaneous outpouring of emotions. Moments are not manufactured. It requires the right blend of passion, tension, and environment. Football is a moment merchant, with how rare and valued a goal is.
I teach high school English and coach girls cross-country at Hilton High School. In 2019, I took over a program that was the best high school team in the United States more than a decade before I arrived. I was essentially replacing Howard Kendall and holding myself accountable to a 1984 Cup Winner’s Cup standard of excellence. Our first season did not go as planned, competitively or culturally, and that Leicester cup tie was a month after the season’s end. We had no moments to celebrate as a team, and I felt that was in my control. So I leaned on Everton a little more than usual. Those games were out of my hands. Many people say that football is the most important unimportant part of their lives. The Saturday match day routine is the escape from whatever work, family, or other unwanted stress a fan has. Everton was my escape.
In the spring of 2022, my wife and I were getting ready for the June arrival of our third child. I rarely get to watch matches live, and will instead watch at night, without knowing the result ahead of time. I stay off social media all day. I don’t open my podcast app in case The Blue Room post-match pod has loaded. Friends know not to text me. One of those friends is from Manchester and a lifelong City supporter. He was the only person who truly understood the stress of 2022. Everton were not competing for cup semi-finals anymore. He wrote me a note that said “The Toffees Will Not Be Relegated” and I kept it in my car from December to May.
On March 17, I taught until 2:15, drove to daycare pickup, came home, cooked dinner, washed the dishes, and helped my sons get ready for bed. I made the lunches for the next school day, and walked down to the basement to finally watch the game against Newcastle. The Blues were the owners of 4 straight losses and ruining my daily mood. When Z Cars commenced, and the team walked out of the tunnel, I was ready. Until my wife asked me if I could help her install the car seat in the garage. At 9 p.m. In March. Our daughter was due in June. My wife does not care about Everton. She loves the Bills. We installed the car seat, checking and rechecking more than VAR. Remember when Carlo Ancellotti tried to sub on Djibril Sidibe, who was only wearing one sock? I channeled Carlo levels of patience as my wife re-read the owner’s manual, before finally — mercifully — returning for kick off.
Little did I know that an oil protester, upgraded red card, and 14 minutes of extra time were on the docket that night. When Allan was dismissed and the Blues had to play with 10 men, I lambasted referee Craig Pawson through the screen, prompting my wife to text me from two floors above “Are you ok?” I replied: “Everton.” I imagine her eyes rolling high enough to see over the Main Stand. But if you know Everton, and you know Goodison Park, we do injustice better than anyone. Unwarranted red card? We’re out for blood. Points deductions? Lock the doors. Years of misery? Stock up on blue flares. So when Seamus Coleman, Dominic Calvert-Lewin, and Alex Iwobi combined for the winning goal in the 99th minute, I had my personal limbs celebration, screaming into a blanket to avoid waking up my family. I even cried.
Everton have been mediocre/bad for a while now. We as a fan base have been left with moments tied to relegation survival: The Crystal Palace comeback under the lights and Abdoulaye Doucore strike to beat Bournemouth a year later. They are still amazing moments, just like Iwobi’s goal, but there is an embarrassment behind them. In coaching, I can’t celebrate a league meet victory against three neighboring schools when we beat every team in America many moons ago, right? How can one of English football’s proudest and most decorated institutions celebrate finishing 17th out of 20 squads? We have recently had some of the best moments and most meaningful games of any team in the division, but it’s under the wrong circumstances. What David Moyes has done in his short return is allow us to have meaningful games in only one regard: they are the final games played at Goodison Park. There are places in this world that mean more than others. New York City high school student athletes get to play their championship games in Madison Square Garden and Yankee Stadium. FA Cup Finals are played at Wembley. The field and court dimensions are the same, but these are hallowed grounds. There have been important games played elsewhere, major sports stars who have competed elsewhere. But not every sporting venue has a soul. Goodison Park has a soul - a product of its history, community, and staying power. Maybe you want your meat pie to taste better. Maybe you want your video board to be less pixelated. Maybe you want that pillar to not block your view of the field. But you secretly don’t, because then it wouldn’t be Goodison.
I’ve never seen a match at Goodison Park. I will never see a match at Goodison Park. Arsenal. City. Ipswich. Southampton. Four games remain. That’s it. The local Evertonians will figure out how to be a match-going fan at the stunning new stadium at Bramley Moore Dock: the travel, the pre-match routine, the people near your new seat. I will have an easier transition, but I will certainly miss Goodison. Steven Pienaar was the start, but the atmosphere he and his teammates created, that famous Goodison roar, that solidified it for me.
V. Manhattan
Actors dream of Broadway. Climbers envision Everest. Muslims try to get to Mecca once in their life. Evertonians outside the U.K. have surely tried to pilgrimage to Goodison Park in its final season. When I took over the cross country program, I knew we had a similar trip to take. About six hours southeast of us, in the Bronx, is the hallowed Van Cortlandt Park. National champions, All-Americans, and Olympic medalists across generations have competed through the cow path, over the back hills, and down Broadway. If you’re a high school cross country runner in the Northeast United States, you should run there. It should be part of your upbringing in the sport.
Besides a cancellation and travel restrictions from the pandemic, we have traveled down to the Manhattan College Cross Country Invitational every year since I got the job. New York City-based alumni have come out to cheer us on. We’ve met professional distance runners. The girls have walked through Central Park and Times Square, and added their names to the list of athletes who have tested their mettle over Van Cortlandt’s famed 2.5-mile course.
Our first non-Manhattan year, in 2020, was the first year of running for Maria and Joan. A year later, still with no Manhattan trip, Peyton and Marisa joined the team. While they didn’t have the natural talent to elevate our program back to national prominence, they fostered a culture where I wanted to be at practice every single day, regardless of results. It was like having four Seamus Coleman’s. The girls understand that reference. I never kept my Everton support separate from my coaching. They even messaged Steven Pienaar on Instagram to try soliciting a birthday message for me.
In 2022, they were going to Manhattan for the first time. There was a coaches race scheduled at Van Cortlandt Park to kick off the meet. I made a wager with my team that if they met some targets at our race the week prior, I would run the coaches race and they could select my racing kit. They met the target, in a day that was our Crystal Palace moment. They improved their times by minutes, not seconds, in a performance that no one outside of our bubble cared about. But it was a validation of all of their hard work and commitment in the summer. My kit reveal took place at a team meeting in our hotel the night before the race. I was expecting a ballerina tutu or a chicken costume. Instead, they unfurled a red t-shirt signed by each girl in permanent marker. The shirt contained the logo of a club who plays their games in the stadium Everton built before moving to Goodison Park.
I love my family. I love Everton Football Club. And I love the girls on my team. I wore the shirt. Someone yelled “You’ll never run alone!” as I passed by during the race. I sang “Forever Everton” in reply.
VI. Home
My favorite piece of sports journalism is Jeremy Collins’ “13 Ways of Looking at Greg Maddux”. It recounts the author’s best friend, who was as invested in Greg Maddux’s pitching performance as some are in their sobriety. Late in a tense World Series game, the best friend disappeared. Collins wrote: “Driving home after the game, I asked Jason where he went after the top of the seventh. 'Nowhere,' he said. 'Just walked.' It made him uneasy, he confessed, to care so much about something over which he had no control.”
Everton is liberating for me. I can finally care deeply about something outside of my control. Raising healthy, happy, and caring children — that’s up to me. Being a supportive husband — that’s up to me. Creating a positive team environment with competitive race results for a storied program — that’s up to me. Each occupies a lot of space in my head. Getting Idrissa Gana Gueye to keep a long-range effort on frame? Unless I’m in the Gwladys Street end, I’m useless.
Thirteen years ago, I moved from home. Staten Island has changed. My favorite teenage shortcut home is now a speed trap to boost local government revenue. Nunzio’s is now a kitchen cabinet showroom. The parents of every aspiring youth left back write a four-figure participation check and dole out protein shakes at halftime over orange slices. Change is the one constant in life.
After 133 years, Goodison Park is succumbing to that reality. That stadium is a repository of moments. I’m sure you could walk in an empty Goodison on a weekday morning and feel them. Special places store prized memories. But they are not lost when Goodison is gone. Those memories are forever. Those moments live on. Players, managers, and fans created them. Goodison housed them. But so do people’s hearts. I remember the important moments from the first 27 years of my life, and I’ve made many more in the past 13. Evertonians will be at Bramley Moore Dock next year, sucking the ball into the back of the net, creating another forever moment that will share space with the memories of those from the Grand Old Lady.
Reader Responses
Selected thoughts from readers26/03/2025 10:48:09
Enjoyable read
How are the Van Courtland Rangers doing these days ?
26/03/2025 14:08:09
Great read Michael - this did make me laugh:
‘ When Allan was dismissed and the Blues had to play with 10 men, I lambasted referee Craig Pawson through the screen, prompting my wife to text me from two floors above “Are you ok?” I replied: “Everton.”’
26/03/2025 15:34:28
A shame that you didn't get to Goodison Michael, but be sure to make the trip to Bramley Moore Dock. She's going to be special.
I like New York City. Second only to London in terms of the worlds two alpha cities, but it's a close call for different reasons.
I also like upstate New York and spent time hiking in the Catskills. I'd have to say in terms of the east coast, New Hampshire and the White Mountains are up there and I love Annapolis, where I spent quite a bit of time with work.
I used to work for a Texas company who's HQ was in San Antonio. I can't confess to understand American football any more than I understand Rugby, but I did enjoy watching the Longhorns when I was out there.
26/03/2025 22:56:13
Loved everything about that article Michael. Having the attention span of a small child, I don't usually take the time to read the really long articles, but I absorbed every word of that - you're quite the wordsmith!
It's amazing what Everton can do to you. I grew up hundreds of miles from Merseyside with no obvious connection to the club, but there I was, 15 year old me, launching my radio across my bedroom and putting a hole in the wall when we went 2-0 down against Wimbledon in 1994 (before regaining my composure enough to put said radio back together in time to shed tears of joy at the final whistle).
27/03/2025 10:28:49
Wonderful article, thank you
27/03/2025 10:53:03
Really enjoyed this! Wonderfully written and I was laughing throughout…proof that Everton can touch you even internationally!
27/03/2025 16:27:01
Thank you all for reading!
Ged, I hear you. I felt dirty wearing it.
Jon, had to look up the Warriors reference. Another in a long line of great movies I've still yet to see.
Peter, no answer was going to stop eye roll, so I kept it short and sweet!
Danny, my grandmother had a house up in the Catskills that I spent time at as a kid. Leeds was the nearest town. My wife has family in Austin with one UT grad.
Jamie, that Barry Horne strike is still one of the greatest goals I've ever seen!
28/03/2025 11:47:20
Brilliant read!
Thanks for taking the time to write it and share it with us.
28/03/2025 16:37:05
Hi Michael, I loved this article, made me smile throughout. Look forward to more articles - well done and thanks.
28/03/2025 20:14:19
Ged, we'll be surrounded by them in their cesspit, our first home, on Wednesday night. I don't like going there, but it's a necessary evil. I'll carry my Rosary Beads and holy water.
I find it great that Everton reaches wide and far internationally. It's easy for me. I think it was in me from my first breath and it will be until my last. From cradle to grave as they say, I've never known, thought, or wanted anything else.
But for those who found Everton, you are just as big an Evertonian as any of us and part of the Royal Blue family. It never leaves you.
Michael, if you make it over, there will be no shortage of people giving up their tickets for you. Just stay on these pages.
29/03/2025 03:38:50
Michael I’ll be making a pilgrimage to Coney Island one day of the back of The Warriors, I’m sure you’ll get over here one day.
01/04/2025 09:29:07
Danny,
They have been exceedingly quiet in the run up to this one.
Nerves? I hope so.
I am feeling quietly confident for this one.
Normally its a sense of trepidation or impending doom.
How I would love it if we beat them tomorrow night.
Show no fear and get into em!
K.A.G every single one of them.
UTFT
01/04/2025 16:30:15
A homage indeed; virtually a paean and a superb piece of writing from the heart.
I find it life affirming when pieces from the most unlikely sources can appear and move me as this one has.
Keep the faith indeed!
02/04/2025 16:23:06
Beautiful writing, Michael, I enjoyed every word and its set me up nicely for the roller coaster ride later at Castle Greyskull.
From the bottom of my heart I truly hope you get to visit our beloved Blues, in our amazing new stadium, very soon.
Just one question.
What does "top of the seventh" mean?
UTFT
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26/03/2025 09:32:27
Excellent article Michael.
Enjoyed reading it.
I would, however, rather have incurred the wrath of my wife and daughters than have to wear anything with the logo of the great unwashed and un toilet trained rabble from across the park.