A Blue Lament

I won’t be there on Saturday, at least not the ageing body bit… I sadly now reside 11,500 miles away, indeed it's as far away as you can get and still be on this planet. Step either side of that imaginary line and I am one step closer to home.

I know every step from the Pier Head to Bramley-Moore Dock, walked it often as a child with my docker grandad after meeting his shift. It’s a cold walk on a winter's day with the wind biting across the Mersey. But I won’t feel it. I can only remember it. Nor will 50,000 blues walking with a permanent smile on their faces, you can’t wipe it off — it's permanent, you see. Behind the high stone walls, a fortress tall, our castle stands proud over a Royal Blue Mersey.

All around the world, there will be hundreds of thousands of other Blues just like me, silently shedding a tear of pride and sadness, so close yet so far away. Scattered in the winds of time and distance, we plant blue seeds wherever we go; once Everton touches you, you are never the same.

But our hearts feel the ache and that tyranny of distance eats you from inside out. To be there, just one more time, we are remembered by moments in a life — and this Saturday is one such moment for every single Blue who enters into the new stadium.

If you are a Blue so far away, such a moment is quickly forgotten because you could not be there… and that hurts more than words can say. I wasn’t there. Like so many, I am one who could not be there with you. I wonder if such a time or stadium will exist that will seat every Blue — no matter where they hail from, no matter where they now reside.

Cherish that moment as you pass through those gates for the first time; remember it. It will keep you warm on a winter's night, will forever be a moment captured in time that no one can ever sully. A smile to cherish on the hard days. Generations will remember this day, so aptly almost caught by William Shakespeare for whom I give apologies for the version below… St Crispin's indeed!

This day is called The Feast of Everton:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Everton.

Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But we’ll remember with advantages
What feats we did that day: then shall the names,
Familiar in our mouth as household words,
Moyes the king, Pickford and Garner,
Branthwaite and Barry, Tarkowski and Gana,
Be in our flowing cups freshly remembered.

This day shall the good man teach his son;
And never, never shall a day go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we who were there shall be remembered;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he today that shares blue blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:

And gentlefolk across the lands now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their support so cheap whiles any speaks
That roared with us upon this day.

Just about sums it up really.

You happy few, but behind you in a small town at the end of the world is a fellow Blue, where the lights come on at 2 am, where shouts and curses abound. A scene played out in every country, wide and far, every time we play, lost in a storm but held together in pride.  Vietnam, Thailand, Colombia, USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Argentina, Russia, China, India, Sri Lanka, Africa — and in every town or village, someone, somewhere is cheering, watching, we are few, but we are many.

Another generation will tell the tales of the new Everton stadium across this land and sea, and from all the outcast Blues in far away lands, in places you have never even heard of, who will sit in front of a screen wishing they were there with you, enjoy, be proud, be happy. I applaud you. For we will be there through the tears and laughter, I will be watching from afar. Proud of every single one of you. 

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