Up until yesterday, Everton were the only team in English football to win something in every decade of it’s existence; a statistic which had been playing with my head ever since Dan Gosling bagged his winner against Liverpool in the fourth round. To lose such a record hurt my pride; just one of the many emotions I felt as Cup Final Fever swallowed me up.
There was a belief instilled in Everton, after the extra-time win over Liverpool, that I had never witnessed before as an Evertonian. It was a belief which soon poured onto the Goodison terraces as the fans started to believe that maybe, just maybe, the Gods of Football were going to afford the Toffees a rare moment of celebration.
This belief was fortified by Everton’s triumph over Aston Villa, the best away team in the country at that time, in the fifth round, with Tim Cahill’s goal becoming a symbolic moment of the 2008/09 season. The only time this belief wavered was when the Australian blazed the opening penalty, of the semi-final shootout, over the bar.
The semi-final was a glorious day for the club. The first trip to the New Wembley for the blue half of Merseyside, and against one of the best teams in the World, we knew this was an occasion to remember. From the club banners, carried onto the pitch by military men, to the atmosphere generated by the fans, the game was of epic proportions.
So when Everton progressed into the FA Cup final, I silently felt that the Cup had our name on it. Compare the teams we had knocked out, to the ones Chelsea knocked out, and there was only one team who deserved to take that trophy home. Of course, we knew that the team we were facing were not exactly going to give it up easily.
Since Andres Iniesta pummelled them out of the Champions League a few weeks ago, a massive injustice had hung over Stamford Bridge, and they were desperate to make amends. With one of the best and most proven managers in the world at the helm, they had the tactical know-how to upset the Evertonian party, too.
And given just what a club Everton is, the Gods of Football had to stack everything against us, with Yakubu, Arteta and Jagielka all suffering innocuous injuries. These three players consitute the spine of the Everton team, and given that none of them had ever suffered a long-term injury before, there had to be some force at work to sideline them. Compare these injuries, for example, all caused by minor twists and knocks, to Joey Barton’s horror tackle on Xabi Alonso a few weeks ago at Anfield. The Spaniard was okay after a few weeks, whereas the Everton trio were sidelined for long periods; it’s the little things.
I walk down Wembley Way for the second time in the space of one-and-a-half months, in the knowledge that this is where our club needs to be. As you walk towards the England national stadium, you cannot help but be attracted to it’s beauty and it’s stature; it is representative of English football, and it is where very professional aspires to be. Simply knowing that, soon, eleven Everton players were going cross the white line in such a glorious arena, packed with famous figures e.g. Kofi Annan, filled me with an incredible amount of pride. Unlike Pompey and Cardiff last year, however, I knew that this was not going to be the one and only time I would travel down Wembley Way.
National anthems are sung, flags waved, horns blown; this is really heating up now. And the game kicks off. I had hardly taken my seat and readied myself, for what was to be a nervous ninety minutes, when the ball is bobbling dangerously around the Chelsea area. Bang! 1-0. Elation. Louis Saha, the enigma of Everton’s season, has produced the magic Moyes had wanted from him all season, to give the Toffees a dream start. We are bouncing, dancing, jumping, singing, and simply not believing what is happening before us. Surely, the Gods of Football, those who gave us such a horrible FA Cup draw and injured our key players, were not going allow me to smile. Were they?
We’re on the cusp. We’re going to win this. Phil is going to lift the cup and we’ll be back here for the community shield. Then, suddenly, Hibbert is caught completely out of position and Malouda is given space on the wing. His ball finds Drogba in the box, and the Ivorian makes no mistake in powering his header past Tim Howard. 1-1. Gosh darn it! You could just see that coming…
Come on Blues! Let’s get to half-time, eh? The next twenty-five minutes fly by, to leave the scores level at the break. I am standing, completely still, staring at that Wembley pitch, and wondering if these eleven blues have the quality needed to finally beat this resilient Chelsea team. They are not lacking passion, nor enthusiasm, but the long hard season is definitely showing here. We need inspiration from somewhere, but our name is on this trophy, isn’t it? Somehow, we are going to win, and Cahill is going to be punching the flag fifteen metres from me.
Being honest, the inspiration did not arrive. Everton were largely uninspired in the second half, and Chelsea’s midfield completely dominated the play. It seemed the cup may have been moving away from us, but Saha had other plans. Rising in the box completely unmarked, he should’ve directed his header into the net, but instead, blazed it over. Compare this header, to Drogba’s clinical finish in the first half, and therein lies the difference. In terms of financial support, it’s ocean-liners versus rubber ducks.
Lampard turns Phil Neville on the edge of the box, but Howard has got that. Oh no, he hasn’t. The sea of Chelsea supporters erupt behind the goal as dejection comes over the Evertonian faithful. Maybe this isn’t our time after all. Our grip was weakening, our star was dimming, our hope was fading. And many thoughts raced through my mind, as quick as the Wembley clock, which seemed to be moving far too quickly.
Will we ever be what we were? How long will it take to get back to that? How much money do we need? Can we afford another summer with Kenwright at the helm? Yet the most prevalent thought in my mind was not about Everton at all, but rather about the fans on the other side of Wembley. A hatred was growing inside me for this team we were playing; a completely bank-rolled team that had bought it’s way to success and still had a much inferior history to ours. Their racist fans and their hooliganism are well-documented, so why did they deserve this victory over me? Most of them did not follow Chelsea until Abramovich came but now they are there in their glory.
A Chelsea fan of my age, will have seen so many glorious moments for his team, yet for me, this was not the case. I had seen Everton progress slowly but surely, and just when I thought I was going to see some silver, it was being snatched away from me by this dross. The final whistle went, but the tears would remain long after. I applauded the efforts of the boys in blue, just to show some dignity, but in all honesty, I was unsure what I was clapping for.
The walk back to the station took it’s time, as did the collection of luggage and journey to Euston Station. So many sentiments and emotions swirled around my head endlessly, and one startling thing remained. I looked back to 1985, and wondered if you asked an Evertonian, then, where they saw their team in the future, what answer you would get. I severely doubt they would have predicted just what a downward spiral the club would go on.
Just two final appearances in as many decades is a far cry from what we were before 1990; in those days, a final was our bread and butter. And there was just too much of a small-time attitude in the air for my liking. The applauding of the players after they collected their medals, whilst dignified, was also rather tame. Of course, you have to applaud your team’s efforts, but we had just lost to a team who hasn’t a mark on our history, yet. However, keep walking along the road of no investment, and they will soon catch us.
Confusion soon became an issue. On the train I sat, unable to make anything out of the day. It was a bag of snakes. Should I be happy? Should I be upset? Should I be asking questions? Should I be looking forward to next season? Or backwards at the twenty lost years of Everton Football Club’s history.
To talk to my Uncle before the game and hear of how we were United’s equivalent in the 80’s, is to wonder whether we will ever reach the summit once again. Can I honestly see Everton competing in the latter stages of the Champions League? Honestly? Only time will tell, I suppose.
Do I commend the players and the manager for their terrific efforts this season? Or do I berate the Chairman for not supporting the club enough financially? After all, it’s not Kenwright’s fault he has not the money to take us to the top.
Seldom have I thought more about the future of our club. Truth be told, there is not a quick answer to what the future holds for us. We thought this year was our time, and for whatever reason, it was not; be it injuries, the FA Cup draw, the lack of investment, or a culmination of the lot. When Portsmouth reached the Final last year, it was Cardiff who awaited for them, but such was not Everton’s luck.
The day, in all, was a cocktail of happiness, elation, disappointment, confusion, pride and a knock to said pride. Such is a day, in the whirlwind life of an Evertonian.
No comments:
Post a Comment