8/7/2025
Goodison Park Goodbye
The Final Whimper of Calling it a Day.
From my first trip to Goodison, I had known that there was an impending finale. I sat (stood) in the Gwladys Street End directly behind a wide post. One positive of being sat behind an infamous Goodison post is that you don’t have to watch the putrid product on the pitch, but this particular match was one of the brightest Everton performances of the past decade: a 4-0 victory over Manchester United and a returning Romelu Lukaku. I met club captains Seamus Coleman and Phil Jagielka in the parking lot. I met fans and made friends from all walks of life. From that day, I set out to return to Goodison as many times as possible, and to bring family with me, albeit with no misguided convictions about future performances. When my brother and I planned his two-man “stag do,” a trip to Goodison in its final season had to be included.
We flew to London and got settled, spent a night in Nottingham at the darts, and stumbled into Liverpool the following day. While much of the trip had been planned ahead of time, the centerpiece, our Goodison goodbye, was still on the rocks. Tickets were incredibly difficult to come by. This was to be expected for the fifth to last (men’s) match ever at Goodison, and while I had been an Everton member for some time, I hadn’t been able to build any credits while living in the States the past few years. The other usual channels had all run dry. After a week of fending off scam artists and Twitter gremlins, we secured two resale tickets on the day of: we’d be sat a few rows apart.
It was a perfect day. I saw half the West Ham squad getting coffee on a quiet street near our hotel, their security eyed me as I measured them up before our afternoon showdown (footballers are always much bigger in-person than I expect). We circled the historic docks in the morning. We took the crowded Merseyrail and made an obligatory pit stop at The Brick. We had another beer in the concourse and found our seats. I noticed the man next to me was sat by himself as well and asked if he’d be willing to trade with my brother a few rows closer to the pitch. He smiled and said that his son was actually next to my brother and that he’d be happy to. We were together for all 90 minutes. We sang as the team came out, but barely sang again the rest of the match.
The Brick.
With it being so close to the end of our time at Goodison and many in the stands’ final visit, I expected the atmosphere to be raucous and fun-spirited. Yet, familiar groans and a certain stench followed the squad as they labored around the pitch. The atmosphere was dreadful. I felt a bit embarrassed; we had visited Arsenal a few days earlier for the second leg of their UCL draw against PSV where a half-empty Emirates was treated to an exhibition and was out-sung by the traveling Dutch supporters after taking a 6-1 lead in Eindhoven. I told my brother, probably too many times, just wait until we get to Goodison, the atmosphere will be completely different. Yet, with Premier League football secured for another season and nothing to play for, and West Ham being in a similar position, the stadium buzzed with the noise of a fruit fly.
Between Graham Potter’s dull football and Everton’s dull side, one that was missing our two best creative threats (Iliman Ndiaye and Dwight McNeil), there was very little to cheer for. I figured there might be some collective applause for David Moyes, a man who delivered West Ham their first major trophy in more than 40 years and whose mid-season return to Everton had been lauded with shouts of cult-hero status, but not even affable Moyes could rouse a chant.
After 67 minutes, It was West Ham that opened the scoring with a very Moyes-y goal through the very Moyes-y Thomas Soucek who seems to always score against us. Finally, in the last stretch of the match, the boys in blue decided to kick it into gear. Basketball power-forward converted to right back Jake O'Brien (one of the only bright spots in the squad) grabbed a late equalizer, and sub Charly Alcaraz flashed a last gasp winner just wide of Fabianski’s far post.
…
The night before the match, my brother and I walked from our hotel at sunset towards the new stadium at Bramley Moore Dock. The sky was cloudy and the breeze, that didn’t seem to bother the tankers pulling into the Liverpool port, was biting at us. It sobered me up from the previous evening’s Nottingham shenanigans. As the clouds broke and revealed a brilliant sunset, the new stadium at Bramley Moore Dock rose to present itself like a starship levitating up from a gap in the earth. Architecturally this couldn’t be further from the truth as the stadium was constructed upon 480,000 cubic metres of sand dredged and packed from the Irish Sea.
It was brilliant. While there are more well-traveled football fans than myself, I have seen matches in some of the most beautiful cities in the world, and I had never seen a setting quite like this one.
iPhone image of the stadium at Bramley Moore Dock.
...
At the final whistle of the West Ham match, my brother and I stayed back and absorbed the scenery. Many, who were likely attending their final match at the Grand Old Lady, seemed to be doing the same. We took a few pictures and made our way down the aisle towards the pitch to take a few more. There, an attendant called us over and asked if we’d like for her to take our picture. She immediately registered our accents.
“Where are youse from?!”
“The United States.”
“He lives in Texas and I live in D.C..”
“Johnny, Johnny, these are from AMERICA!”
She was as excited to meet us as we were to be there.
“Give me just a moment until my supervisor walks by. He’s trouble, and then we’ll get youse on the pitch.”
“Actually?”
“Yea, come on! Just pretend like you’re standing here for a picture for a moment.”
She ushered us over the barricade and gave us a moment to take it in, truly pitch side. I felt like an exuberant ball boy his first day on the job. I had been to Goodison a half dozen times but had never stepped foot on the pitch. The stadium had almost cleared by then and some of the reserves were going through their post match cardio and cool-down a few yards away. We spoke for a while about her fascination with Texas, her long career as a steward, and leaving Goodison.
“Alright it’s probably best we get going here.”
I pinched the tops of a few blades of grass and slipped them into my jeans pocket, and we were given a special escort out of the stadium (at one point it seemed as if all the gates had been locked and we were stuck. I wouldn’t have minded). We circled Stanley Park as the sky turned pale and the falling sun crested a field of yellow daffodils. Goodison stood quietly in the distance.
Goodison from Stanley Park.
…
I welcomed the news that the Everton Women would be moving to Goodison for next season and potentially the foreseeable future. On one hand, I’m not sure I was quite ready to say goodbye. On the other, for all its history and glory and victories, Goodison has become synonymous with the failures of Everton in the 21st century. The boos, the moans, the relegation battles. Goodison is not a reflection of a club stuck in the past, but it is the specky anti-petrol protestor tied to the goal post; you don’t quite know what to do with it. The cause might be right and the heart is big, but the impediment is no less frustrating.
Yet, it is that big heart that no pitch, no match, or no city can contain. It has moved me from an ocean away. It has taken me onto the field where my heroes have bled through their badges. It has made me friends and bonded me to people I would have never met otherwise, and it gave me the opportunity to share one of the most important parts of my life with my brother.
The setting, the stadium, it is only the place we go to fill our cups. The memories, the people, the Blues, are the ones that fill it.
