Once Everton has touched you, nothing will be the same – Part Two: Matchday

Liz Lefebvre (@elefebvre11) an Evertonian from Minnesota recalls her first time watching Everton play at Goodison Park. 

I got to the stadium excessively early on Sunday, not wanting to miss a single moment of atmosphere. It was quiet—vendors were still setting up, teenagers taking their place at program stands. I took a full lap around the stadium, the sun gleaming down over St. Luke’s, walking down the actual Gwladys Street, seeing flowers laid at the foot of the Dixie Dean statue. I was surprised at how narrow Goodison Road is, imagining it packed with Blues for the infamous coach welcomes. There was the Winslow. The Goodison Cafe, The Goodison Supper Bar. I did a few laps around the memorabilia display in the attic at St. Luke’s before grabbing a hospitality tea from downstairs. I ate some food from the Fan Zone, popped into the Winslow, now crammed full of people. A small crowd was gathering for a mini coach greeting, and I snapped a shot of a smiling Iwobi through a sea of fans.

Thanks to another combination of fate and the overwhelming kindness of the Blue family, I was due to get a few moments pitchside before the match. I blinked as I headed toward Park End Reception—was that Andros Townsend just passing through? It was, and he stopped for a quick photo with a kid that a parent snapped, and the three of us exchanged a look of happy disbelief at running into a player on match day.  

Rounding the corner of the family enclosure toward the stadium I issued a warning that I was probably going to cry. Then we were there, stands still mostly empty, sprinklers going, right near the corner flag, imagining all the goals and saves and tackles that I had watched happen from this very spot. I couldn’t do much more besides look around in absolute awe, eternally grateful for the opportunity.  

I squeezed (very literally) through the turnstile and into my seat in the Main Stand. Before I knew it the players were on the pitch, Gordon and Mykolenko coming over to clap our section during warmups. The atmosphere was a bit muted at first, with no Z Cars and the tributes to the queen. The match itself passed in a total blur—so different to watching on TV. I kept changing my mind about who I loved most between Iwobi, Gana, and Onana. Three generations of Blues were seated together in front of me, while behind me a tiny child chattered away to his dad with nonstop questions about the match and players.

Then in a flash—limbs! A great finish by Maupay, trying to recall how it all came together, I felt pretty sure it was Iwobi who had played him in. A classic Goodison post obstructed my view of the Park End goal, so I legitimately could not see in multiple instances how a late equalizer didn’t go in for West Ham—the woman seated to my left and I shared several glances of equal parts terror, shock, and relief until the whistle finally went at the end and we were still ahead, the first league win of the season. Gana danced along to Spirit of the Blues, Onana grabbed a phone and took a selfie with the Gwladys, and I sang Forever Everton as loud as I could.

Then it was off to The Abbey for post-match beers with an England-based internet friend who graciously stayed and bought a round before a long drive home, and it was absolutely lovely to meet and spend some time together in real life. Another internet friend who had also happened to travel over alone joined us as well. Neither of us had a specific plan for after the match, but we had each independently thought about trying to catch The Blue Room recording after the match and decided to head that way together.

We didn’t make it back to town in time to hear any of the podcast, but what unfolded was quite simply one of the most fun evenings I have ever had. I once again wasn’t sure what to expect. I once again was welcomed with open arms—and bombarded with beers and questions. Mainly: Why Everton? 

I told variations of the same story: I wanted to follow Premier League and knew I would never get up early to watch games without being all-in on a team, I couldn’t stomach picking a “big 6” team, I had heard of Everton because of Tim Howard, I knew they were a big enough club to never be in relegation danger (LOL), I read about all their work in the community, etc etc. But what I really wanted to say was what I had seen painted on a wall outside Goodison that afternoon: We are chosen. We do not choose. “It sounds stupid…” I kept prefacing, realizing that it might seem silly to people who were born and raised on Everton. On the surface I had chosen, I could have picked any club I wanted. But as I tried to say, perhaps not very eloquently after so many beers, is that I felt like I’d been born an Evertonian—I just didn’t know it for 30-some years. Everton had chosen me, not the other way around. It’s not stupid, was the response. It makes total sense. You’re an Evertonian, that’s all we need to know. 

The beers kept flowing, the football chants kept going—I might never get the Nathan Patterson song out of my head. Some I knew and joined in, others I didn’t (Do you guys know this one? Here’s how it goes…). Some I wasn’t sure if they were going to turn into football songs or if we were all just singing along to bangers (both, as it turned out). I was able to clasp hands with someone and declare together that Tom Davies has gotten too much shit from everyone. To confess that I love DCL more than most people I know in real life and be met with knowing nods instead of blank or worried stares. To hear about how much of an impact American Tim Howard had made to them.

We’ll look out for you, multiple people said to me throughout the night. This had a literal meaning—we’ve got your beers covered—but I felt it in every possible way. “You’re going to London? Let me give you recommendations on where to eat.” “You walked all around the city? No, you need to be shown around by proper Scousers.” “If you end up in this area tomorrow let me know, I live right there.” “Where are you staying, do you want someone to walk you home?” 

The whole trip I was worried about forgetting little details—I wanted to remember every single second. While I’m sure some of the finer details will fade with time, there’s no way I’ll ever forget the warmth that radiated throughout my entire time in Liverpool.

Everyone kept asking me: “Who did you travel here with?” No one, I kept saying, explaining I was meeting family in London after. But while I might have traveled by myself, I was never truly alone.

I was killing a bit of time on Monday morning before my train to London that I had scheduled around a stadium tour that had of course been canceled for the queen’s funeral. I went to grab a hearty breakfast, necessary after the previous night’s beers. Walking from the register to my table, I caught a figure out of the corner of my eye and did a triple take. Surely that wasn’t Leighton Baines seated just a few tables away? I’d just taken a selfie with his face on a mural the other day. But it was, because of course it was, because everything about this trip had been perfect from start to finish. Everton are magic.