The smile of Howard Kendall had entranced him

and the dogged determination of Alan Ball

had always stuck in the mind of this

good son of Goodison as he took his seat

or stood withstanding the noise of the Kop

on alternate Saturdays,

from the days of childhood,

through pouring rain of success

and the desert years of despair, he was faithful,

always sucking on the toffee,

cheering on days of Imre Varadi and the hours

between cup and league, his home painted blue

in a sea of red, holding his head high as latched

firmly onto the world of Goodison;

nothing else mattered, he revelled in the underdog status

that the city provided him as in later times

he took a photograph of Dixie Dean

every week with this season’s

hope, praying shaking hands and new scarf

hanging round his neck.

No noise from Anfield could detract him,

this good son of Goodison from ever knowing

that his support was based on love and not fashion, in his eyes,

the day he stood next to the flag at Wembley

in which Watford were put to the sword, was the finest

of them all,

this good son of Goodison lives only now to have one more

day in the sun and drape his scarf round Dixie

before heading into town

to paint the town red.

 

Dedicated to all the dedicated fans of Everton Football Club.

Ian D. Hall 2016