Goodison Road was becoming packed, plastic pint pots spilling out of The Winslow. More cameras – not mobiles but actual cameras, the strap around the neck Nikons – than ordinarily acceptable. More fans stopping on street corners for pictures of the Grand Old Lady.
There was a guy resting against the blue brick of Everton’s main stand surveying all of this, the buzz of nostalgia and the buzz of history and the buzzing hope of creating lasting memories. He seemed to have a kind face, nudging to ask, “what do you reckon today”.
He asks that because that is what you do to strangers on days like these, when the champions – easily dethroned champions yet champions all the same – arrive for one final time.