The Saturdays

“You choose a scorer, I’ll choose a score.

I don’t hesitate: “Beardsley.”

“I’ll pick you up in 20 minutes.”

I put the phone down, my mum gets my scarf ready, tightens the lid of my flask, and I await my Grandad Percy’s arrival.

An hour later, we’re on our way out of William Hill with a couple of pounds on a double.

It’ll come in too. Peter Beardsley will score a hat-trick in a routine win against Coventry City.

“He won you that money all by himself!”

And that game, at the start of the nineties – with its pre-and post-match routine – would become lodged in my memory as a template Goodison Park Saturday.

The script was more or less fully formed before that day. For Everton and for us.

And it would stay pretty much the same throughout the decade. The main Goodison Park drama – that of a giant football club falling in and out of an almighty slumber – housing thousands of little subplots, each containing families and friends, arriving together fortnightly to witness the theatre of it all.

My cast would remain largely the same: at first, just me, my dad and my grandad. My younger brother became a fine addition when he began regularly attending in '94.

My grandad would withdraw from his starring role as the nineties came to a close. Although his guest appearances would continue well into the new century.

It was always a drama in five parts.

There was the preposition: Saturday morning telly, the papers, Saint and Greavsie (replaced by Footy Focus in 1992), cheese butties, and the putting on of too many layers of clothes.

Then, once we’d finished at the bookies, the action would begin to rise as we began our journey to Goodison along its terraced tributaries. We’d usually park somewhere at the top of Westminster Road, then head down Harlech Street.

We’d receive our regular greeting from the shopkeeper – “Hello, boys!” – and buy a trusted pack of Trebor Softmints (always spearmint or else they’d lose). We’d cross County Road next to Barnie Shieldhouse (which offered a more reliable opportunity of seeing a new kit than the club shop ever did).

Our first glimpse of Goodison Park, down the length of Andrew Street, would be my grandad’s cue to issue a word of caution about whoever he perceived to be the opposition’s danger man: “He’s lethal, this Ekoku, ya know.” And he was.

The Hats-Badges-And-Ya-Scarves man would welcome us to the ground. As would the backside of a couple of police horses, and their smell. Our destination was the Family Enclosure, but we’d always take the time to jostle down Goodison Road, milling around the reception and the players’ entrance for a glimmer of the glamour; a sighting of Alan Ball or Ray Wilson or Bobby Moore would tick that box.

Then we’d retreat to Family Enclosure, turnstiles 1 and 2, tucked away in the shadows of the church and the Main Stand. There, a big friendly steward would greet us. My brother and I would nickname him Charmin, after the bear on the toilet paper commercial.

And then we were in.

The bell would ring in the Lower Gwladys to signal a player making their way out. Over time, I’d become quite adept at gauging the atmosphere we could expect for the rest of the afternoon. You could always tell by glancing across to behind the goal to judge how vociferously the bell was being dinged.

The aisle behind the back of the seating resembled a moat. My grandad, never the best with his nerves, would often find refuge there in injury time as we clung on to a narrow lead.

I never underestimated how lucky we were to have the seats that we did. We were front row behind the dugouts, separated by the tunnel. My dad and grandad would swap over at half-time but I’d stay put behind managers Kendall, Walker or Big Joe Royle. It was bloody brilliant. We were in the action. We literally understood the manager’s point of view. We’d slap the players’ backs as Z-Cars rang out, offer the subs a chewy, and chat away to Brian Labone and Dave Hickson.

After the high point of the match itself came the resolution of the journey home.

We’d join the throngs near the church, clamber around the William Hill on the corner – a branch my grandad never trusted: “They’ve got a captive audience.”

The Hats-Scarves-And-Ya-Badges man would be at it again, but we’d be off down Andrew Street for our post-match analysis.

The final scores and Alan Jackson’s post-match phone-in on Radio Merseyside would soundtrack our car journey home.

Then it was the denouement of a Saturday evening: a walk to the shop for the Footy Echo and a lottery ticket. I’d scan the goal scorers in the results section for Fantasy Football purposes before handing it over to my dad. There’d be spag bol for tea, and either a debrief in The Jube or some light entertainment on the telly, before Match of the Day.

And we’d do it all again a fortnight later. Or the next week if the fixture list presented us with that most welcome of gifts: consecutive Saturday home games!

Happy days.

And they’re the Goodison days I miss the most: the Saturdays.

I just Googled that Coventry game. It was 21 September 1991. Kendall was manager, Beardsley partnered Newell up front, Warzycha and Atteveld formed what might have been our first ever wholly international right-hand side. And it looks to me like Sheedy might have been centre-mid because Mark Ward was also playing.

I love figuring all that stuff out. Retrospectively placing those late eighties and early nineties games in the context of us having been Champions as recently as 1987 is something of a morbid fascination of mine.

But, however gloomy the outlook on the pitch might have been at times (although there were thrilling moments too), it’s the sights, sounds, traditions, routines and people that I remember the most. That’s what Goodison means.

It’s not been a regular part of my life for a long time now, but when I do occasionally get across the Irish Sea for a game, it's usually always on a Saturday.

I’ll make sure I get at least one more in before May. And, as ever, it will be with those formative days in mind.

The new place will be great, of course it will. But as I head down Harlech Street, spearmint Softmints in hand, and perhaps even a little flutter on a double, I know that I will feel really really sad.

But I know also that the memories of those Saturdays will stay with me forever.

 

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