Everton chose me, and we all know what happens when touched by this storied club. My Toffee love affair was stoked by Tim Howard, lit on fire by Tom Davies, and fully consummated on ToffeeWeb. I was not born with Everton in my blood, but I’m now as Blue as they come, proud to pass down to my son the passion and bond we’ve shared since he was born in 2015.
Only in England could I find my true lifelong football family. America does do some serious football in the 21st Century, but not like the rest of the world. We Yanks with religious zeal for the beautiful game (we call soccer) thus accept what it means to have adopted, rather than birthed, the sport.
We are home to a perfectly decent professional league, without promotion and relegation to up the stakes, full of sleazy billionaire owners like England, but all without the raw passion and community rootedness that have defined clubs from Europe to South America for more than a century. Our clubs Stateside and their fans are mostly fickle and uninspiring, unworthy of maniacal support on and off match days. I have long yearned for something more.
The last seven years have been one helluva ride. Whereas once I awoke at 6 am to bring my little Lukaku, as I affectionately called my infant son, to the Irish pub in Minneapolis for the early match, alternating between breakfast sandwich, Bloody Mary, and bottle feeding; today, he wakes before me, throws on his jersey, and gets the match ready while I brew coffee and calm my nerves.
For my birthday last year, he made sure to get me a full kit to match his – and yes, the picture of the two of us is as cute as they come. By age four, when he cried inconsolably after we lost a nail-biter, I didn’t know whether to be proud or embarrassed; but I assured him that he’d better get used to losing, and he has not cried since. He is now old enough to celebrate the ups, console me when we’re down, and embrace me when I tackle him and scream like a madman after a big goal. He accepts what it means to be a true Blue.
The top three American soccer legends of my formative years are Tim Howard, Landon Donovan, and Clint Dempsey, so as far as I’m concerned, for two of them to have played for and loved Everton means every Yank should feel some kinship with our club. (Fulham deserves recognition, too, for signing not just Dempsey, but our own Brian McBride and Antonee Robinson, plus Carlos Bocanegra, Kasey Keller, and Tim Ream.)
But bandwagons being what they are, the Sky Six garner much of the attention and allegiance here in the States, and I’ve always liked it like that. Those other gobshites will never know how special it is to rarely win trophies, endlessly fire managers, receive unprecedented points penalties, and endure conversations about whether relegation may be a saving grace. I pity those fools.
Amidst the misery of the past 7 years, the highs sprinkled in made it all worthwhile. As noted above, it was a baby-faced Tom Davies scoring that magical first goal under the lights at Goodison that first rocked my world. It was Romalu Lukaku banging in 25 goals that season, a star in the making, who brought us routine joy even as we knew he’d soon be gone, leaving us hopeful that the fee he’d command would at least leave us in good stead.
It felt special to see the second coming of Rooney, and the accompanying few moments of magic, even as it affirmed our second-rate quality. Richarlison, for all his sulking and diving and poor first touches, gave us the blood, sweat, and end product we so desperately needed to weather the storms. And watching the tail end of the careers of Leighton Baines and Seamus Coleman, I’ve been proud to witness top-class professionals who bleed for the badge.
Through it all, mired in a muddy pit of mediocrity, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the rise of Jordan Pickford and Dominic Calvert-Lewin, the budding star of Jarrad Branthwaite, and the hint of stability that Sean Dyche has brought to our club. There is hope after all.
We all have the moments along the way that lifted us out of our seats, the jolt of thundering goals, remarkable saves, and fan unity that shake stadiums and remind us why sport is truly special. While so many others have been lucky enough to capture those moments at Goodison or among the best away section in all of the land, what’s remarkable is how that stadium energy can be felt across oceans.
My spine still tingles rewatching Spirit of the Blues being sung at the King Power stadium two seasons ago. I know which dining room chair I nearly knocked over when Michael Keane scored the last-minute stunner against Tottenham and when Alex Iwobi buried Newcastle in the 98th minute. I did not care that I injured my shoulder alone in my office when Demarai Gray netted the stoppage-time winner against Arsenal.
And of course we all screamed in primal relief when Calvert-Lewin headed home against Crystal Palace and Doucouré saved us versus Bournemouth — then collectively tightened our bums as we held on for the wins. The mood of Evertonians in recent years has surely bordered on insanity, and yet we survived, in no small part due to the best fans in the world.
Everton captured my imagination from afar, and in some pre-internet world, maybe there exists a few wild foreigners who came to love our club from newspaper stories about our heyday in the 20th Century and Dr David France books. My full initiation, though, was only possible when I found my way to ToffeeWeb.
I stumbled upon the site a few years back, read every last article and just lurked for a good while, then one day dipped my toe into the comments, which I still do from time to time. I’ve made a few missteps, been a tad obnoxious or overly reactive to this or that, and my comments are probably a bit too wordy.
But what matters most is that I’ve found a home with fellow Blues, a place for excellent articles and match write-ups; deep insight into the game and the club; witty puns and dirty jokes; political banter and fascinating history lessons; heart-warming compassion for comrades who are suffering; and an appreciation for one another and our shared passion. I will never meet most of my fellow ToffeeWebbers, but I know I am part of the family.
As I have the good fortune of living mere steps from Allianz Field in Minnesota, home to Minnesota United, I was over the moon when I learned that Everton would come to play a friendly against our club, then managed by one Adrian Heath. The match on that beautiful evening two summers ago is mostly forgettable, but the night was one to remember in the lovely company of ToffeeWeb’s own Kieran Kinsella and Neil Copeland, who came from afar to watch our beloved club lose embarrassingly 4-0.
The night prior to the match, I had the pleasure of bringing my family to hear stories from Leon Osman, then buying him a pint afterwards. In the end, like so much about being an Evertonian these days, I have such fond memories of that match despite the product on the field: Just Neil, Kieran, my wife, my kids and I joyfully coming together around a common (not completely lost) cause.
My story, though, would not be complete without a pilgrimage to Goodison Park before it’s no longer. In early April, I will hop on a flight across the Atlantic for the Burnley match, six days in England on my own with only one clear objective: to soak in the atmosphere of a home matchday.
In a perfect world, we are no longer fighting off Luton Town at the bottom of the table and we play Burnley off the pitch. I imagine a long-range strike from McNeil, a Calvert-Lewin header, and a Doucouré counter-attacking master class putting us up comfortably at halftime.
But win, lose, or draw, I’ll be living the dream. I hope to make it extra special by meeting a few of you along the way, maybe for a pint or three at a local watering hole. You’ll spot me by looking for the lone American — black Everton baseball cap, black Hummel jacket — exuberantly dancing and singing Spirit of the Blues, feeling right at home.