These pages are usually reserved for my hobby (some might say obsession) on football finances. But I’m also a football fan too, just as passionate about what goes on on the pitch as off it.
I use Substack to write about stuff other than football, so it gets a different audience. I published this poem there but thought it worth sharing here too. Hope you enjoy it:
It started with prayers on a cold Sunday morn,
In the heart of the chapel, a giant was born.
Reverend Chambers, with a muscular creed,
Sowed in his parish a Royal Blue seed.
Not yet the Toffees, but St. Domingo’s name,
Forged in the fire of the People’s game.
But landlords and greed forced a bitter divide,
So we walked from the rent to the other side.
We crossed Stanley Park with a purpose so stark,
To build our own fortress: Goodison Park.
The World’s first major stage where the drama would start,
A cathedral of steel for the city’s blue heart.
Behold the Grand Old Lady, stately and steep,
Where Archibald Leitch’s criss-cross balustrades sweep.
The only ground where the Church meets the ball,
St. Luke’s in the corner, watching over it all.
The wooden seats rattled, the bear pit roared,
A terrifying din that shook the floors.
First to the title, first to the prize,
We pioneered the game before others’ eyes.
Numbers on shirts and heat beneath soil,
A legacy built on innovation, passion and toil.
While others followed, we led the way,
The School of Science, where only the masters play.
And oh, the Titans who graced this turf,
Proving their valour and proving their worth.
Dixie, the King, who could part the air,
Sixty league goals, a record beyond compare.
And Hickson, the warrior, with blood on his crest,
“I’d die for this club,” he beat on his chest.
The Golden Vision, gliding like light,
Alex Young dancing through the night.
Then the Trinity came, a midfield so sweet,
Kendall, Harvey, and Ball at our feet.
White boots flashing, a telepathic design,
Football as art, spiritual and fine.
But the art turned to steel when the Eighties arrived,
Under Kendall, our leader, the spirit revived.
He built us a dynasty, hungry and bold,
With Ratcliffe the captain, a sight to behold.
With Sheedy’s left foot, a magician’s decree,
And the power of Sharp and the grit of Peter Reid.
We conquered the continent, the League, and the Cup,
While our Boys in Blue lifted the silverware up.
And guarding the gate, a mountain of green,
The greatest goalkeeper the world’s ever seen.
Neville Southall, the Binman, who defied every rule,
With reflexes lightning, and a temperament cool.
He stood between sticks like a colossus of old,
Turning shots into whispers, and chances to gold.
Yet football is more than the glory and game,
It’s the bond of a city, the sharing of pain.
When Hillsborough broke us, and tears fell like rain,
Red and Blue stood together, united in name.
A mile of scarves stretching across Stanley Park,
Solidarity shining deep in the dark.
For when grief touched the Mersey, no colours remained,
Just a city of brothers, by tragedy stained.
Now we look to the river, the Bramley-Moore Dock,
A new age has dawned, a turn of the clock.
We’ve left the Old Lady with tears in our eyes,
And built a new fortress beneath our Mersey skies.
But the soul isn’t brick, nor steel, nor wood,
It’s the city’s senior club doing more good.
From the food-bank to walk-ins, the community’s breath,
We are Everton, always, our roots with untold depth.
So here stands the tower, the Prince Rupert’s crest,
Nil Satis Nisi Optimum, nothing but the best.
More than a team, it’s the city’s deep soul,
A story of passion, the ultimate goal.
The Club of the people, forever we’ll be,
The Blue heart of Liverpool, eternally free.
In memory of my Granddad, who passed his Blue passion to me