A Family Tradition at Goodison Park

My father loved Everton football club. To him, it wasn’t just a football team—it was part of who we were.

On match day, everything else stopped. Wrapped up in scarves and bobble hats, my brother and I followed him to Goodison Park, feeling as electric as Christmas Day.

The Sights, Sounds, and Smells of Match Day

The air was a heady cocktail of boiled hot dogs, stale beer, cigarette smoke, and the occasional sharp, sulfuric bite of a smoke bomb ignited by the braver, or perhaps more foolish, fans. It wasn’t just a smell—it was the scent of tribal loyalty, the kind of aroma that clings to the back of your throat and whispers, this is where you belong.

Everywhere, there were flags snapping in the cold wind, banners sagging under their own weight, and scarves held aloft like badges of honor. A sea of Everton blue, shimmering under the pale winter sun, stretched out before you, a proud and defiant tide of passion and hope. It wasn’t refined or pretty—it was gritty, honest, and utterly intoxicating. This was match day, not a polished spectacle but a living, breathing beast. And you were part of it, for better or worse.

Inside Goodison, the sound hit you like a wave. The chants and songs weren’t just loud—they were alive, rising and falling with a rhythm that seemed to come from the very heart of the crowd. When the team ran out onto the pitch, the roar was deafening, the kind of noise that made the hairs on your arms stand up.

In the stands, you were shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers who didn’t feel like strangers at all. The packed space was warm despite the cold, and every jostle or nudge reminded you that you were part of something bigger. When Everton came close to scoring, the whole crowd leaned forward in unison, an unstoppable wave of hope and tension.

The Ritual of the Match Day Pie

And then, of course, there was the pie. Unlike Granny’s family pies, this one was mine and mine alone. Holding it felt like a rite of passage, a small but mighty treasure cradled in my hands.

The paper wrapper was warm against my palms, and when I peeled it back, the smell of the flaky crust and rich filling hit me like a promise. Meat and potato or steak and kidney—it didn’t matter which. Both were steaming hot, their savory aroma mingling with the cold air and the cheers around me.

The first bite was a delicate balance: I’d blow on it to cool it down, but I could never wait long enough. The crust crumbled just slightly, and the filling—oh, the filling—was pure comfort, thick with gravy and chunks of tender meat. As I chewed, the noise of the crowd seemed to fade for just a moment, the warmth of the pie spreading through me like a secret handshake from match day itself.

Bovril was its perfect companion. I didn’t know what it was back then—just that it was salty, hot, and somehow exactly what I needed. I’d take a sip, the heat lingering on my tongue as I turned my attention back to the pitch.

When Everton scored, the stadium erupted. People jumped and shouted, beer sloshing over cups, scarves whipping through the air. Strangers hugged each other like old friends, the energy so electric it seemed to pulse through every inch of Goodison.

More Than Just Football

Looking back, it wasn’t just the football.

It was the sights of banners and scarves, the sounds of chants and cheers, the feel of a packed crowd moving as one, the taste of a perfect pie and the saltiness of Bovril, and the smell of Beer and smoke in the crisp air. It was all of it together, a symphony of senses that created something unforgettable.

But most of all, it was sitting there between my dad and my brother, part of that big, loud, messy family of Everton fans. No matter what happened on the pitch, we had each other.

And, of course, the pie. You could never forget the pie.It would be unfair of me not to mention that I became a Liverpool supporter in my teenage years. My father and brother, ever gracious, always respected my choice—and for that, I raise a pie in their honor.