*Note: A lightly edited version of this piece was published in two parts at Toffee Link. Please visit to read Part 1 & Part 2.
This is a post about my first trip to Goodison Park, or what it feels like to come home to a place you’ve never been before.
“You made it!” proclaimed the banner in the distance, visible from the exit of Liverpool Lime Street Station on a beautiful Friday late afternoon. I broke into a huge grin right there on the platform. I had crossed my fingers for months that there would be a home match this weekend, as I was already set for a family vacation to London over international break the following weekend to watch Laver Cup tennis. The schedule worked out; I was able to get a ticket. Despite a nervous few days as the date of the queen’s funeral was being decided and Premier League matches hung in the balance, everything ended up falling perfectly into place. It seemed like fate: the match was happening, I was going to Goodison to watch Everton play West Ham. I had made it.
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I set off right away to try to cram in a bit of sightseeing before things closed for the day. I had seen on Twitter that there was a special event with the View from the Bullens podcast that night, but I hadn’t gotten a ticket, not sure if I’d run into travel delays or what exactly I’d be up for once I arrived. Taking a quick breather on a bench in the World Museum, I decided as long as I was in Liverpool, it was worth trying to spend my time meeting actual Blues. I pulled up Twitter to ask the podcast crew if there was any way I’d be able to attend the event, which was ticketed and sold out. I hesitated, to the point of deleting the message entirely. What if they were annoyed that I’m an American, or interpreted it as presumptuous that I thought I could just show up or bend rules or cut a line? I went back and forth about it but ultimately decided the worst thing that could happen was they would roll their eyes, ignore the message, and I’d just get some rest that night.
I had been wandering around the city without a specific destination when I turned a corner and caught a glimpse of the Mersey. I changed course immediately and sat down at the waterfront, between the Museum of Liverpool and the Mersey Ferries building, the Liver Building looming in the background. It might have been the jetlag, but I was overcome with emotion at the Liver Building. Get a grip, I thought to myself, it’s just a building, you’ve seen pictures of it before! But something about the birds and their watchful perches facing the river and the city just hit me right in the feels, thinking about how many people had come and gone from the city over time.
That’s when my phone buzzed—a Twitter DM. How many tickets do you need? Come on over, just say your name at the door! The sun was setting over the Mersey, the seagulls adding their voices, the liver birds towering behind me. It might have been the jetlag, but I felt tears welling up in my eyes.
I had no idea what to expect at the event. As instructed, I gave my name at the door. I was greeted literally with open arms and given a big hug as if I were an old friend coming home for the first time in years, rather than just a rando from Twitter. I was pulled inside to be introduced to more and more people. Some I knew of from social media, one was another American who happened to be spending a few months in Liverpool, some were from the #HerGameToo WhatsApp group I’m a part of (absolute saints who took me under their wing and dealt politely with my increasing inability to form coherent sentences as the jetlag DEFINITELY started kicking in). As the show got underway, the hosts announced that there were two Americans in the audience, encouraging us to stand up and wave as everyone gave us a hearty welcome.
The evening proceeded with songs, conversation with former Everton players, and just a sense of happiness and camaraderie. I’d gotten a taste of what a big gathering of Blues is like at the preseason match in Minnesota over the summer, but being surrounded by a pub full of locals was something entirely different. Over the years, I’d had to specifically seek out an internet-based Everton community, desperate to connect with other people who love Everton as much as I do, and now here I was in a room full of born and bred Evertonians.
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I set out for more exploring on Saturday, another day of perfect weather. I grabbed a morning tea on Bold Street, walked around St. Luke’s bombed out church, toured the cathedral, strolled through the Georgian Quarter.
Fate then intervened again: I had set off in the general direction of my lunch destination at Baltic Market when sidewalk construction sent me down some side streets off my planned route. I knew I was near an Everton mural that was on my list of things to see, but I wasn’t sure exactly where it was, only that I was close. I peeked down an intersection on my altered route—and there it was. Once Everton has touched you, nothing will be the same. Here I was, a living testament to the words. I was in Liverpool, flown in from across the world, not another soul in sight, walking around a warehouse district…and wouldn’t have had it any other way.
I rounded out the day at the waterfront, circling Albert Dock, fighting off seagulls eager for my pastry crumbs, checking out the Tate, hopping on a Mersey Ferry—I think alarming some other tourists as I very eagerly took about a hundred pictures of Bramley Moore rising from the skyline, I’m sure wondering why I was taking selfies with a bunch of construction cranes.
After logging a full 24,000 steps, I felt I’d done my best to see as much of the city as I could in one day. As I collapsed back at the hotel later that night, I sent a text to a friend: When can I move to Liverpool?
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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.
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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).
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?”
It might sound sappy or possibly even pathetic to write this much about how a bunch of people I had never met before were nice to me at a bar. But due to various pandemic-related circumstances, watching Everton has been a solitary, often lonely experience for me. I had only followed the team for a few months before the pandemic hit and I was left unable to develop real relationships with the lovely local community of Blues in Chicago. It meant absolutely everything to me to be 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.
As some folks may know or remember, the last year was absolute shit for me, as it was for many, and topped off by catching covid again in early August, as I was still trying to put my long-covid life back together. Even one small act of kindness would have meant so much to me at this point; a weekend of welcoming and acceptance was overwhelming in the best possible way.
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.
Toffeeliz 