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The clock at Goodison reads 97.41 (+5). The Everton players, fans, stewards, ballboys are enmeshed in a throng of hi-vis and blue joy. In the middle of it stands a bespectacled man in a black puffer jacket and black bobble hat. It’s hard to tell from the footage, but he’s perhaps 50, maybe older. He is holding the corner flag aloft, waving it high in the air in his right hand – something between a medieval spear and the world’s most passionate morris dancer. He’s just scaled the Dawn Wall, he’s circumnavigated the globe. It’s a fleeting moment before a steward assumes control of the flag and our man bounces off in another direction.
I love Corner Flag Guy. I love how football has moved him in that moment. Those of us (most of us) who support success-starved clubs often question the point of it all. Everton may be the ultimate example. They were good once. How many times now does the radio cross to Goodison at full-time: “A chorus of boos from the Gwladys Street End.” Years of blunt strikeforces, of channel balls, of being reduced to only loving your right-back; 11th, 11th, 7th, 8th, 8th, 12th, 10th, 16th, 17th, 15th. What is the point?
The point is that moment: the pure escape that leads a man to wave a corner flag. Moments that remind us why we keep going, keep following. For that goal to be the final one in a Merseyside derby at Goodison is perfection. It even feels more fitting that it didn’t even result in an Everton victory.
If you played the minute leading up to the goal a million times it wouldn’t end up with James Tarkowski belting the ball on the volley into the roof of the net. 96.28: a vintage Jordan Pickford arrowed ping upfield. 96.41: Jack Harrison brings it down nicely near the halfway line, keeps it for a bit. 96.48: the ball is laid back to Carlos Alcaraz, who plays a nice pass (the only bit of football in the sequence) to Ashley Young. 96.53: Young sticks it in the mixer. Abdoulaye Doucouré brings it down and feeds Jack Harrison. His cross is blocked. It’s a fortuitous bounce to Vitalii Mykolenko. 97.01: pick your verb, the Ukrainian hoists/helps/loops it into the box. Don’t let it bounce. It bounces. A flick-on from one of those AI-created PSR footballers, Tim Iroegbunam. 97.06: Tarkowski strikes. 97.07: Alisson’s goal bursts.
Is there anything better than a big old centre-back turning into Marco van Basten?
Tarkowski wheels away arms out, changes direction, cups his ears, slides on his knees. All the celebrations in one. Cue the melee, Corner Flag Guy, an eruption of noise around Goodison not heard since Barry Horne.
The drama isn’t over. 99.23: the camera cuts from anxious Liverpool fans to anxious Everton fans to Chris Kavanagh and his mate pointing at a screen in Stockley Park. 99.35: there’s a green line. Onside. You can hear a hum around the ground. Some people know. We’re in transistor radio territory. It’s going to be given. The noise starts to ramp up.
99.55: hang on. Has Beto pushed Ibrahima Konaté? They rock and roll it, Marais Erasmus style. 100.06: Tarkowski is on his haunches, arms clasped under his chin. It’s never a foul. Surely they can’t give that. 100.20: Michael Oliver points to the centre circle.
100.21: Goodison erupts again. Not quite the initial impact of the goal, but a sizeable aftershock. Tarkowski raises his arms aloft. 100.32: a father holds his young son, wearing a big Everton bobble hat – they will talk about that moment for the whole journey home, and the next morning.
100.36: Tarkwoski is pointing in every direction like an Everton centre-back normally does – nothing silly next five seconds. 101.31: full-time. Young jumps on Tarkowski’s back. And then the melee … Doucouré, Curtis Jones, Arne Slot. Stewards, plastic bottles, policemen’s hats bobbing up and down. You hate to see it, and you love to see it.
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My wife gave birth to our second child a couple of weeks ago. I’m not sure if anyone has ever had two children before, but it feels like a lot of children. Before he was born there were some pretty major complications concerning my wife, and although all the doctors and midwives seemed remarkably relaxed, it didn’t stop some justifiable catastrophising over what might happen over the next few days. It would be at the very least rather inopportune timing for a life-shattering event.
During the hours waiting for news, the one thing that gave me almost total escape was the football: watching Cambridge limp to a 2-1 defeat at Rotherham – at least Ryan Loft gave us the lead! Or watching a rare moment of Spurs joy with all the kids scoring against Elfsborg. And indeed listening to the Guardian Football Weekly podcast hosted annoyingly well in my absence by Robyn Cowen. Often listeners tell us it provides an oasis of calm while all manner of real life is happening around them, and that really echoed with my experience. I’m not sure if any of the words were going in, but they gave me great comfort.
Fortunately all is well at home, but the escape was real. Who knows what life has thrown at Corner Flag Guy in the past 40 or 50 years, but for those brief seconds all he felt was unadulterated joy. How lucky that something exists capable of liberating such happiness.
