Memories of Goodison

Like every Evertonian on Sunday there were a number of times when I simply count not ignore the lump in my throat, and shed many a tear during the club's immaculate send off to Goodison Park, the Grand Old Lady.

Like every Evertonian, my thoughts turned to fond memories of my experiences of Goodison. Sadly, I don't remember much of my very first visit as I was only six, but what I do remember plays like an old holiday pic slide show. I don't remember who it was against. I do know that that day there was three generations of my family in attendance, my granddad, my dad and my brother and I made the pilgrimage together to the cathedral in L4.

I remember the walk from the carpark on Stanley Park, cutting across the park a little way and then through iron gates onto Priory Road. Goodison loomed just over the tops of houses and grew larger still as we made the journey in, passing the occasional police car parked by the road and travelling as one with the throngs of other supporters on the same long march. At least it felt long to my little legs.

I remember letting out a small gasp as we reached the Park End, seeing the massive structure towering over us, the sound of the program vendor and the bloke selling hats, scarfs and badges on the corner of Bullens Road. By god he could belt it out over the crowd as they made their way in.

We went straight to the ticket office and got our little strips of cardboard, which I only remember read "Upper Bullens". My little six year old head barely had time to comprehend any of it before my dad said "Right, come on. Follow me and keep hold of my hand through this crowd" as we set of up Bullens Road towards the Gwladys Street End.

I could barely see the stadium through the jungle of legs as we got to the turnstile. It was at this point my dad probably took my ticket off me as I had no idea what I was doing, showed it to the steward and I went in, jumping at the sudden clunk of the old metal gate as I pushed through it.

On the other side I remember waiting with my granddad until my brother and my dad got through and then we started up the stairs. Up and up until we reached the concourse, lit by strip lights, intermittently broken by the glow daylight from the stairwells leading within.

Being led up those steps and seeing the hallowed green turf in the middle of the bowl of royal blue will never leave me. Hearing the dirge of whatever pop song was blaring out of the speakers around the ground over the equally loud murmur of the crowd as thousands and thousands of other fans found their seats and soaked in the grandeur of the place.

Before long we were in our seats and I just stared out at the vast open space in front of us, at the players warming up and the small crew of groundsmen jabbing away at the pitch with their tools. I remember the lights from the main stand stinging my eyes as I couldn't help but stare at those too, then my granddad nudged me and offered me a little black and white sweat from his coat pocket. "Go on son, they're called Everton Mints" he said.

He then handed me a program, which I hadn't even realised he'd got while we made our way in. The glossy finish of the cover and the big logo on the front I can still picture the word Everton in blue with a chunky white diagonal slash through the second E.

On the back would have been the squad list but once again I have no clue as to the particulars of who was playing that day. I know my granddad pointed out Duncan Ferguson in the warm-up, even from on our lofty perch he looked like a giant, easily taller than anyone on the field.

After some time, my granddad went into the inner breast pocket of his jacket from which he produced a ballpoint pen and then he sat, waiting. By this point the speakers playing the music were overpowered by a man's voice; he had been introducing the opposition team which it might be extremely obvious I could care less for... then it came, "And now ladies and gentlemen, this is the lineup for the mighty blues!", and as he spoke the name for each player a huge cheer would erupt from the crowd around us, the loudest of which seemed reserved for "Number Nine, Duncan Ferguson!".

God only knows what happened after that because this is where my memory of the day completely evades me. I think we won but I have no clue.

I do, however, know the result of the first game I remember in it's entirety. Everton 3-2 Bolton Wanderers. I know I was there because I know Duncan Ferguson scored three times. By this point I had become almost obsessed with the big fella and wanted to play as him every time I had a kickabout in school or on the streets outside my childhood home.

I also know I did not see any of the goals as, for the first two goals at least, as soon as Duncan got his chance, everyone around me jumped up off their seat before I could react and blocked my view. I had to wait for the announcement on the tannoy to know anything at all.

Eventually, my dad saw that I was having difficulty seeing so he folded my seat down and told me to stand on it, but to be careful not to break it.

For the third goal I had a much better view as the people in front had gone to the concourse, presumably for a bovrill or hot chocolate as I saw Duncan head the ball in past the Bolton 'keeper and run straight towards us in our space in the Upper Bullens.

That seemed to be a favourite spot for my dad whenever he could get it. You had a decent vantage point to see most of the pitch from there.

I have been to a few games since then that I can remember, a defeat to Blackburn in the early 2000s, a draw with Wimbledon; they played in that weird, red-orange away kit. Both Duncan's and Ossie's Testimonial and the odd early round cup game - by this point my dad was convinced we were a curse to the team every time we turned up, we seemed to have a stinker. I think his heart also couldn't take the stress of watching the turgid nonsense that's been dressed up as "football" from the team in the last few years.

I wasn't able to go on Sunday, but I caught it on TNT. I thought back to those days and I shed a tear at z-cars playing for the final time as Seamus led them out, fittingly. I cheered when Ndiaye scored and groaned whenever Beto was caught offside. I cheered again at full time, but with a small pang, knowing this would be the last time I'd see the Toffees play at the place I'd always known them.

I'll finish with a small story as to how my granddad, a native of the Isle of Man, came to supporting Everton, as told by my dad after he died - I never thought to ask him myself as I thought it only natural- he had gone to see Liverpool play at Anfield one week, they were beaten comprehensively (as they should be), and he wasn't impressed with the crowd. He then went to see Everton play and they tore apart their opposition, playing brilliantly and that was it, his mind was made up. It also helped that blue was his favourite colour, apparently.

I thank him and my dad for introducing Everton to me as it has become my passion and my specialist subject, much to my wife's annoyance. I'm proud to be a blue and any Evertonian is a friend, no matter where they come from. Its bigger than all of us and as the saying goes, "Those who understand need no explanation, those who don't, don't matter".

UTFT at the Dicky Hill Stadium...COYB