Like trips to the cinema and popcorn, like fish and chips, like JR and Sue Ellen, Everton and Landon Donovan just kind of go together well. Why though? What the fuck has a Californian with a big fod got in common with a football club in the Merseyside heartland of Walton? There was absolutely nothing to suggest that the loan deal of Landon Donovan from LA Galaxy to Everton in January 2009 would be anything more than a couple of fleeting substitute appearances that at best would sell us a few more shirts in the USA. But ohhhhh nooooo, Landon and EFC became like Jack Daniels and Coke. They just clicked. Donovan got off the plane at Heathrow and basically got straight on the pitch across London at the monolithic Emirates Stadium, home of Premier title chasing Arsenal. He announced his arrival with a delightful delivery which was met by the diminutive Leon Osman as Everton dominated the game and were robbed of victory with two deflected Arsenal goals. 2-2. After that, Landon made his home debut against the oil rich Arab owned Manchester City, a side playing fantasy football with the best players in the world and convinced they were entitled to a run at the title - or Champions League qualification at the very least. Everton completely played Citeh off the park winning 2-0 (should've been more) and Donovan put in a good solid display and the 'American players are shit' brigade began to re-examine their pre-conceptions. After that, Donovan saw some sobering lows (Birmingham in the FA Cup and a scratchy, ugly defeat across the Park) but some scintillating highs (Goodison defeats of Chelsea and Man Utd, a rousing home farewell and sign off goal in the 5-1 hammering of hapless Hull and the emotional goodbye at St.Andrews) but the overall feeling from his time at Everton was overwhelmingly positive. There's a few reasons for this I think. Landon offered us something we've desperately needed for some years now...attacking pace to burn and direct running down the right flank. He showed a passion, desire and will to win that every fan can associate with. He did our precious number 9 shirt proud, albeit in an unfamiliar part of the pitch for the Everton 9 to be plying his trade. The short-lived love affair between the LA boy and EFC wasn't just about his ability on the field though because I'm sure there are more technically gifted attacking right-sided players on the planet right now. He seemed to always say the right thing. From his first press conference to his final Facebook status update when he was sitting in Heathrow departures, the soundbite or quote was always on the mark. Tony Blair's PR spin machine would've been proud. Which brings me to my only nagging doubt. Landon Donovan. Everton FC icon and legend in the making, blue blood and never forgotten until he returns someday? Or fucking excellent politician?
We're playing West Ham at Goodison in a couple of days. I know that the current crop of Hammers 'boys' haven't quite got the reputation of their ICF peers of the 1980's (mostly blokes now who've got mortgages and drive Mondeo's) but thinking of West Ham got me remembering a few of my scariest escapades supporting the blues through the dark days of early eighties football hooliganism.
It was about 1983 and I was standing in the terraced paddock right in the shadow of the main stand not too far from the old Park End - the days when it housed the away fans behind the goal and was about three feet wide. We were 2-0 up with about five minutes to go and I suddenly became aware that the crowd around me was dissolving. I looked around wondering WTF was going on and looked to my right. Everton had opened the gates ready for the final whistle and about half a dozen ICF had decided to have a wander into an Everton part of the ground and were steadily walking towards me, a 16 year old shithouse who was beginning to rapidly become isolated! They were doing these 'come on, let's fakkin' 'ave it!' motions with their hands and all looked ready to leave a calling card or two on the nearest Scouser. Which at this very moment was me. They started to go into a kind of pincer movement and began to speed up towards me as I suddenly thought 'Oh bollocks! Gotta go here!' - and as I turned to join the rest of the quickly retreating crowd one of them produced a blade which flashed under the floodlights. I saw my pretty boy, New Romantic looks disappearing fearing I would never look like Simon Le Bon when from nowhere three hefty coppers pounced on them and a bit of a ruck started which resulted ultimately in them being escorted from the stadium by the local constabulary.
The only other occasions I ever felt that I needed to genuinely fear for my existence happened in Manchester. Three times. A night match at Maine Road, home of Manchester City was something to behold. A walk through the edges of Moss Side, gun and drug capital of the north-west and through a maze of little terraced streets offering a multiude of hiding places and ambush points. We got legged all over those streets after a game one night, they never caught us though the dirty Manc scumbags. Then there was a visit to Old Trafford sometime in the early nineties. We were given a police escort from the station to the ground and talk about the gauntlet of hate. They bottled us, threw piss at us, spat at us, threatened to cut our throats...and that was just the police! And then the time I was at Picadilly in Manchester after a game at Old Trafford waiting for the train on my own and got approached by three Manc lads clearly desperate to give any Everton fan at all a slap or three. They asked me who I supported and I managed to answer in a decent enough Manchester accent 'A dornt like footah' and they had a bit of a debate about whether or not to give me a kickin' and finally decided not to. I was working in Manchester at the time so had the accent down ok luckily.
I know these accounts all involve me avoiding getting me face slashed or my head kicked in and I'd love to be able to tell you all about how I led a firm of ten lads and chased Tottenham all over London - but I'd be lying wouldn't I?
Everton did have some serious players around that time though and you can read all about it in the absolute classic book 'Scally' by Andy Nicholls.
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