Memories of a Lifelong Friend

I first met Goodison Park in October 1970. I was six. We were the champions. Alan Ball spoke about the start of five great years for Everton. We’d started the season badly, but I didn’t care as Dad led me up and down Goodison Road to soak up the atmosphere, dodging men in a hurry and enormous police horses. Through the turnstiles, up the stairs. Then that first sight of that bright green pitch, bathed in floodlights. No-one forgets that moment, pure magic.

Out came the teams to a huge noise, the game started, I was transfixed. Then, my first Everton goal. Not Joe Royle, not Alan Ball, but Johnny Morrissey. 60,000 erupted, the highlight of the day. Derby equalised in the second half and the game ended 1-1. It was wonderful, I was hooked, which I think was Dad’s plan all along.

Dad worked most Saturdays, so we went to the match less often than I’d like. After a couple of years, I was allowed to go in the Boys Pen with a mate whose Dad gave us a lift and left us in their while he went to his seat. That was my home for a few years, a feral Durrell-esque cage in the corner with bullying, fights and intimidation that toughened you up for those away games later in life. One day, we ran into the Street End to join the men, straightaway we saw Latchford get the second against lowly Carlisle. ‘That’s the win wrapped up’, we thought, before Carlisle scored three for a shock win.

That workmanlike Bingham team was one of five at the top, none of whom seemed to really want to win the league. Eventually Derby won it. Fourth meant we were in Europe the following season. On the Park End terrace with Dad for the visit of AC Milan. An Italian flag on fire in the Street End, Milan banners pulled down at the front of the Main Stand. We played a team so dirty that even my Dad swore (that only happened twice, you can guess the other game!). Gary Jones’ shirt was ripped so badly it was hanging off. The referee shrugged and let it go. An exciting night ended 0-0. A few months later, a promising cup run saw in the last 16, home to second division Fulham. They scored, we equalised, Kenyon scored, disallowed mysteriously by the referee, Mr C Thomas. Fulham got a shock late winner, I never saw my Dad so disappointed at the match.

Five great years for Everton turned out to be five barren years. A great team broke apart and badly replaced. Looking back, I remember the swearing, the anger, the disappointment, with hindsight all down to dashed expectations. I didn’t care, I just loved being at the match.

To 1977, my first season ticket in the Street End, cost £17.50. First game hammered by newly promoted Forest, to much derision from all Blues around me. No-one knew that team would walk away with the league that season. What a wonderful season that was. Lovely football, a sense of expectation, a long unbeaten run ended by Man United on Boxing Day. Latchford bagged a hat trick in a 6-0 romp against Coventry. We faded near the end of a good season to finish third, but had the consolation of seeing the Latch get his 30^th goal of the season on the last day against Chelsea.

We celebrated like we’d won something. I loved that season, it was the first Everton team I fell in love with. All we needed was a decent keeper. Of course, we didn’t buy one. Third became fourth, fourth became a lot lower, ‘Lee out’ rang around Goodison until the unluckiest manager I’ve seen at Everton get sacked after what he described as a ‘transitional’ season. We were dreadful.

Things bumbled along for a couple of years after that. I got to know everyone around my spot in the Street End; under the roof, church side in line with the penalty area. The away keeper always got an ovation, the only blemish was when Alex Williams strode towards us and someone held up a burning cross. The highlight was the great cup run of 1981. Arsenal dispatched after two own goals in the last few minutes. A titanic cup derby against ‘them’, with our old friend C Thomas making a dramatic entrance before the game. A wonderfully brutal game that had a bizarre own goal, Varadi scoring and getting a pie chucked at him and a 2-1 win to a tumultuous Goodison. My first derby win, after 11 years. I celebrated royally and illegally at 17!) After a nine-hour return journey to watch a goalless draw at Southampton, we did them in extra time in the replay. Then it was City in the last eight. They kicked everything except the ball. We went 2-1 up, missed chances, then they equalised with a few minutes left. In the closing febrile minutes, a young Kevin Ratcliffe was sent off for a fabulous headbutt. Of course, we lost the replay.

In 1983 I let Liverpool to study in Portsmouth. All of a sudden, a half hour bus journey became a six-hour marathon. All of a sudden, after looking in peril, we had two great cup runs and two visits to Wembley. Goodison purred with joy. Fellow students stopped asking me why I supported Everton. Goodison became a place of high expectation, positivity and anticipation. Took a bit of getting used to. The long train from Portsmouth via London, or the overnight bus from Oxford became the norm. A lunchtime drink in town then the bus to the happy place was wonderful. All my old friends in the Street End were still there, all overjoyed, all shellshocked at how consistently good we were. 

A happy few years only shaken by that 3-1 win against United in 1986, with my young niece and nephew as joint mascots. Jamie had leukaemia and regularly met all the players for training. He ran off the pitch before the start of the game. It was the last I saw of him as he died in his sleep that night, a very happy young Blue. The club were marvellous through that time. Both Reid and Bracewell joined us at his funeral.

And suddenly, it slipped away. I recognised the bitter anger I’d experienced as a small boy in the 70s. What went wrong? Why us? For me, we were never really well run. We stumbled on success and let it stumble away. Twice. This time I was angry too. But Goodison was still my home. Train up from Euston with ESCLA, pint, match, pint with Dad, train back to Euston was the Saturday routine.

Then in 1999, Dad passed. We got a plot for him behind the Park End byline. We had a little ceremony there. It wasn’t the same without Dad. I didn’t go as often, but still felt at home when I saw that wonderful stadium rise above all those tightly-packed houses.

I haven’t been very often in the last 15 years. Lots of reasons, mainly geography and business responsibilities. Whenever I went, I ended up in tears thinking of all those great times. Even when we were rubbish, they were great times with great people. We lived through the rubbish and saw some well-deserved success, and celebrated with gusto.

That wonderful stadium with its obstructed views, the feral boys pen, the old Enclosure, the wonderful Street End and all its familiar faces, the Top Balcony with its wonderful views and steepness that still shocks every time you walked through the entrance.  The Winslow, the Oak, the Thomas Frost, the Harlech, the Bank Hall. The community of Everton, centred around Goodison, the friend that lit up my life for 55 years.