Shaped by Everton, a tribute to an unlikely Blue

 

The year had just ticked over into 1983. I was 12, about to start high school and flying to the other side of the world with my parents and younger brother. Guiding us on this family adventure was my Dad, Robert Sharratt (Rob), a lifelong Evertonian.

It was very early and still dark outside the Heathrow terminal as we shuffled, exhausted and confused, through customs and to the rental car desk. We had celebrated New Year's Eve twice on the long-haul flight from Sydney, Australia as we crossed time zones through the night.

Bristol in south-west England was our destination; we were moving for a 'working holiday' as Dad had decided to call it. It took only a few weeks from that early morning arrival for me to make my decision to become a Blue. There wasn’t much debate in my mind – of course you follow your dad. 

The next few years were a delirious blur of success for Everton Football Club and we had a front-row seat. Beyond the trophies, certain things stayed with me: watching the lads sing off-key on Top of the Pops, a winning goal scored mere feet away from our seats at The Dell, that post-match Andy Gray interview after the European Cup-Winners Cup win against Rapid Vienna where all he wanted to do was get into the dressing room to celebrate with the boys – it was all magic. I certainly did not appreciate how lucky I was to be a new Evertonian during that period. Supporting arguably the top team in Europe was somehow normal.

Our family struggled financially while in England; however, in 1985, we were lucky enough to be on our way to Wembley for the Charity Shield – Everton v the Red Devils. My Everton scarf was proudly flying from the back window of our tan Ford Cortina as we drove through the throngs of people walking to the stadium.

Inexplicably, my younger brother did not follow our Dad – his blasphemous Man Utd scarf fluttered out of the opposite window; the duality garnering playful outrage from everyone around us. What an atmosphere!

We parked and walked excitedly to the stadium having no idea that Dad in his wisdom did not yet have tickets to this match. After a bit of wandering around, he started chatting with a man. 'Who is this guy?', my brother and I thought.

As tickets and cash were exchanged we heard a shout and saw a man steaming towards us. “Quick kids, this way!” Dad said as we scuttled off and pushed through the gates before the official could close the gap.

“Why was that guy chasing us, Dad?” we wondered aloud. “Don’t worry about it, we’re ‘ere now!” If the adrenaline wasn’t pumping before, it certainly was now! Two goals to the good, and a memorable day for all of us.

In 1986, our family moved back to Australia. Our working holiday experiment ended for similar reasons that had compelled my Mum and my Dad (separately) to leave England back in 1968: under-employment and a lack of sun.

My Dad’s love for Everton started in atypical fashion. Born in Coventry, his father, Joseph Sharratt returned from World War II with an aggressive cancer and tragically passed away when Rob was just 3 years old.

It was his step-dad who brought him and his older brother to his first match. It was 5 April 1952. Both Coventry and the visitors Everton were battling it out in the 2nd Division, the Toffees having been relegated the previous season.

Everton lost 2-1 but, for reasons that even he doesn’t understand, Dad was smitten with the losing side. Maybe he simply preferred Royal Blue over Sky Blue. Perhaps he really liked toffee? Or, maybe he just sensed a winner – Coventry would be relegated to the 3rd Division South that same year while Everton reclaimed their rightful place in the 1st Division just 2 years later. 

In his late teens and early 20s, along with his brother Mick, they attended every game they could, moving to Liverpool to be close to Goodison Park and travelling the country for away games. I’ll bet there are memories of that time that he couldn’t share with me but the ones he and my Uncle Mick did share are entertaining.

Being showered with rocks by Leeds supporters for having the audacity to attempt to enter Elland Road. Missed trains and slept through stations that took them to places unknown and unplanned. Heading to Wembley in the back of a lorry full of fellow supporters. Absolute despair in the stands at the 1966 FA Cup Final before Everton’s astonishing comeback.

Being unceremoniously, and semi-consciously passed down to the pitch stewards at the Bridgford end of the City Ground (after a lengthy pre-game pub crawl), then brought through the players' tunnel past a bemused Harry Catterick who apparently said something to the effect of “Pull yourself together lad!”

Rob left England at 23 as a 10-pound tourist' to find work and a new life in Australia. Despite the distance from Goodison, support for his beloved Everton was a constant, something that grounded him and kept him connected to his native England. It helped him to forge friendships all over the world, made easier in the 90s as online fan forums started popping up. His favourite player was Alex Young – or 'Yung' in his fading Brummie accent.

Dad and I were different in many respects; however, Everton was our tether and I found comfort in the bond that we shared supporting Everton Football Club. There are fond memories of being dragged out of bed to watch matches at some ungodly early hour. Made easier knowing that Dad always had a nice cup of tea and a biscuit waiting for me.

Then, of course, it was 90 minutes of screaming at the TV and jumping up and down while simultaneously attempting to avoid the appearance of Mum at the top of the stairs berating us for sounding like a herd of elephants.

Dad’s last game at Goodison was in May 1998. A day full of emotion – the final game of the season against Coventry. Relegation somehow averted on goal difference – I wonder if his snub of Coventry as a boy somehow influenced that outcome. Passionate as ever, he left my Mum in the stands to storm the pitch and sing a few scathing chants regarding the current management of the club.

My Dad passed away last year after a long cancer battle but he was a positive chap right up until the end. His devotion to Everton never faded, however – a loss no longer ruined his mood and his weekend; he seemed to have a much more relaxed outlook about his beloved team. Now, that didn’t stop him from having to grab Mum’s hand tightly in a close one as he wished his way to the final whistle!

Thanks for the memories, Dad, and for the gift of Everton – the best gift of all is something to be passionate about: to celebrate, to sometimes grieve for, and to feel part of a family.

I live in Los Angeles now which is happily a much more agreeable time zone for catching live games. My 8-year-old son is also an Evertonian (after a brief flirtation with Wolves for their yellow shirts… lord help me!).

If the stars align, hopefully a trip to the Grand Old Lady is on the cards for us during her last season. What a dream it would be to pay tribute to my Dad, his Granddad, in a stadium that gave him so many memories, and with a group of supporters that helped to shape his fortunate life.

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