Our recent upturn in fortunes has had me thinking: I have endured a torrid Everton upbringing, at times a depressing and lonesome journey... but finally, after all the pain, images of utopia are flooding into my mind. For once, my dreams are not easily discardable, and instead, a tangible reality.
One thing I have always harboured is hope. The images of my Evertonian utopia seem almost upon us: bold, striding, confident, their arms flung out as if to claim space, their legs apart, feet planted squarely on the earth. There is something renaissance about Everton at present, and I like it.
Everton, it's an enthralling name, isn't it? It suggests one adventure after another, one disappointment after another, one improvement after another, and one joy after another. It suggests rejuvenation, pain overcome and transcended, and endless love. The real promise in Everton, for me personally, is immortality.
I look at David Moyes and I see a jungle cat, eyes focused, fixed for the pounce. No quailing, no clinging on, but relentless desire. Maybe David Moyes revels in the belief he can attain our former glories — after all, some of us retain an appreciation for the old things, Evertonians more than most.
For long periods of my Everton puberty, I had treated watching Everton as a chore, an unpleasant chore to be gone through as fast as possible so it could be over with, a regimented obligation. Steel myself, my Dad would say, before exams I was not so confident about, or matters that were of concern to me. I never thought that much at the time about what the phrase meant, but it had something to do with metal, with armour, and that's what I would do, I would steel myself, because I was an Evertonian.
As Evertonians, we unite for each other, it is our duty. Helping one another in our daily Everton chores as we walk the path of an Evertonian life together, we each perform our appointed task. There can be bonds of real affection that form from this.
But what, I ask, makes us keep going back for more? Is it because we are all, in our own little way, an integral part of the Everton armoury? Is it because to our beloved Everton, we are more than just a body? Is it because to Everton, we are not just a boat with no cargo, a chalice with no wine, an oven minus the bun? Is it because we can fight, we can wrangle, we can name-call, but it won't change anything underneath? Is it because she will always be my first, last and everything? Probably all of the above.
Living with your head in the sand doesn't create utopia. So what do we do? At Everton — to quote Al Pacino — we fight for that inch. We scrap, we battle, we sweat, and we bleed for that inch, because quite frankly, we know no other way.
Evertonianism can be considered our disease, our malfunction, but we desire no remedy, not really anyway. Things are looking up, the sky is Blue, anyone can be red, but you're born to be Blue.
Joe Jennings - a proud member of the shatterproof family, the Evertonian family.
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