A Visit to Goodison Park

May 2019

On Friday I visited Goodison Park to watch an Everton match, fulfilling a dream birthed nearly six years ago, when I set off on my journey as a fan of the Blues.

It’s been quite a ride.

There have been incredible highs – that first year under Roberto Martinez, Jagielka’s screamer against Liverpool, Lukaku’s emasculation of Young Boys. Naismith’s perfect hattrick against Chelsea, Oumar Niasse showing up Ronald Koeman by scoring two late goals as a substitute in a comeback victory, Rooney’s storybook return at the start of last year.

But this is Everton we’re talking about, so there also been miserable lows. Epic collapses – from John Terry’s late “equalizer” to the match against Bournemouth, to THAT goal against Liverpool. Drubbings, like the 4-0 away fixture at Anfield, our evisceration by Yarmolenko in Kyiv, 5-0 against Chelsea. Consistent inconsistency, frequently embarrassing performances against bottom-feeders, the grim acceptance of the gap between us and the “big” teams. Bitter disappointment has been a frequent flavor these past few years; there’s a reason we say “Classic Everton that”.

I’ll be honest – there have been times I’ve asked myself why I picked THIS club, instead of Liverpool or Arsenal like so many of my American compatriots.

I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something has kept me coming back. For there is a mysterious allure about Everton, some unique blend of its proud legacy, strong traditions, and fierce underdog spirit that lights a fire in the heart and keeps it burning amidst the storm. Like the city it calls home, this club has seen better days. But like the denizens of Liverpool who are its supporters, it holds its head high and strives for meaning amidst the adversity. The immense investment in its community, the commitment to doing things the right way, the lofty bar to which it holds itself (Nothing but the Best is Good Enough)—this is truly the People’s Club.

Goodison Park is perfectly symbolic of this. It is a cathedral of world football, England’s first purpose-built football stadium, host to more top-flight matches than any other stadium in the country. It’s an integral part of the neighborhood—less than five meters from people’s homes, sharing a wall with an old church, across the street from a primary school. But it’s also 127 years old, and you can tell. The roof leaks, pillars obstruct the views, and the facilities are aging. Yet the Grand Old Lady somehow holds her own, generating atmosphere formidable enough to rival that of any ground in the world.

I’d read about all this beforehand, imagined the experience dozens of times in anticipation. But nothing really prepares you for the first time you walk up the steps of the Gwladys Street End. Looking out onto the verdant expanse you’ve seen hundreds of times on TV, a maelstrom of noise swirling about you…there are few things as visceral as the materialization of an experience previously restricted to two-dimensional imagination.

There was Gylfi Sigurdsson, lining up for a free kick fifteen feet in front of me… Kurt Zouma rising for the header…here was Richarlison nutmegging a defender and peeling it back to Seamus Coleman…there was the wily Bernard. The second goal went in and the crowd roared “Sixty Grand, Sixty Grand, Seamus Coleman…” and I sang along with them… I was ACTUALLY HERE!

As a match-day experience, it was truly exceptional.

The view from my seat

My seat (Row C of the Lower Gwladys) was veritably on top of the pitch. What it lacked in match visibility (at pitch level there’s no depth perception – and when everyone stands up you can hardly see across to the other corner) it made up for by being at the center of Goodison’s beating heart. There’s an incredible sense of community amongst the crowd, as it comes together in song and chant (“60 Grand”, “Richarlison”, “Zouma”), jeers and claps. Being so close to the pitch, you truly feel like you are part of the match. You hear the players’ shouts to one another and the thud as Lucas Digne clear the ball out of play. A wall of noise rises to meet Gylfi Sigurdsson every time he walks down to take a corner—and when he turns and claps you really feel he’s heard you screaming his name.

The match itself was superb, a dominating performance from the home side that saw two quick goals followed by an assured close to the game. There was not a single moment in which I felt the outcome was in question, which is saying something this season. It lacked the rollicking thrill of the match against United a few weeks ago, but nonetheless made for an excellent experience.

Perhaps the highlight of the night, though, was the warm welcome shown by the local Scousers. I know Liverpudlians are good people, and from reading about others’ experiences I’d expected friendliness – but I was truly amazed. My interactions—be they with employees at Everton One or the random dude who took my picture in front of Goodison—were characterized by the easy, affable warmth that seems characteristic of Merseyside.

An Anecdote:

At halftime I was standing in line (the queue?) to grab a pint as per tradition, when I inadvertently stepped on the shoelaces of the guy in front of me. When I apologized, he noticed my foreign accent and asked where I was from. Upon finding out that I’d come all the way from California, his face lit up. Brendan (I think that was his name) insisted on paying for my drink, and brought me over to meet his father and uncles. I spent the halftime chatting amicably with his dad (a season ticket holder since 1968), who regaled me with tales and anecdotes of Everton history. An incredible episode, sparked by the most chance of encounters!

My seat (Row C of the Lower Gwladys End) was veritably on top of the pitch. What it lacked in match visibility (at pitch level there’s no depth perception – and when everyone stands up you can hardly see across to the other corner) it made up for by being at the center of Goodison’s beating heart. There’s an incredible sense of community amongst the crowd, as it comes together in song and chant (“60 Grand”, “Richarlison”, “Zouma”), jeers and claps. Being so close to the pitch, you truly feel like you are part of the match. You hear the players’ shouts to one another and the thud as Lucas Digne clear the ball out of play. A wall of noise rises to meet Gylfi Sigurdsson every time he walks down to take a corner—and when he turns and claps you really feel he’s heard you screaming his name.

The last thing that struck me about my experience was how “normal” attending a match seems to be here. Most sporting events I’ve been to in the States—with their frequently high ticket prices, snarling stadium traffic and exorbitantly expensive concessions—have felt like BIG things, akin to going to a theme park or on vacation. You commit your entire day or night to the experience, spending nearly as long in transit or lines as you do inside the arena. In contrast, I rocked up to my hostel 1.5 hours before the match started, strolled over to pick up my ticket, met up with a fellow Redditor at a local pub, grabbed some chips across the street, and was in my seat just after kickoff. It seemed the same for many of the local fans – turn up for a match, cheer on the Blues, head home, repeat. Surely I’m generalizing quite a bit, but I was impressed at how easy a match-day experience this was.

In all – my visit to Goodison was tremendous, an evening which I’ll cherish amongst my favorite memories. I sincerely hope to return before the Old Lady shuts her doors for good. Until then, I’ll continue to live vicariously from afar—wherever I may be.

COYB.

View of the stadium from my hostel.