“Nothing cements fandom like pain.”
Brendan Hunt
I root for Everton.
If you’re not familiar, Everton is the soccer team in Liverpool that isn’t Liverpool. We wear blue, not red, and we’re basically the human embodiment of “close, but not quite.”
Being an Everton fan is like being in a long-distance relationship with hope. You send it messages every weekend. Sometimes it replies. Usually it doesn’t.
People ask why I do this to myself. Why not just support a winning club? That’s like asking someone why they didn’t marry rich. Because that’s not how love works. You fall for the one who makes you feel something. Even if that something is mild despair.
An Everton season is a master class in emotional conditioning.
Week 1: “This could be our year.”
Week 3: “Okay, maybe next year.”
Week 7: “I think I have shingles.”
Watching a match is a full-body experience. You start hopeful, progress to anxious pacing, then arrive at the deep-breathing-into-a-throw-pillow stage. The real veterans don’t yell anymore; they just stare at the TV like it owes them money.
But here’s the thing: you stay.
Because when they do win—once, twice, maybe in your lifetime—it’s like a religious event. You don’t just celebrate; you ascend. You remember where you were, what you were wearing, who you hugged, and what you spilled on the couch.
That’s fandom. It’s not joy without pain; it’s pain with purpose. It’s community forged in sighs. It’s knowing 2–1 down in the 87th minute means there’s still time… not for a comeback, just for more heartbreak.
But that’s the deal we’ve signed.
While other fans polish trophies, we polish coping mechanisms.
While others talk about “glory,” we talk about “goal differential.”
While others build champions, Everton builds character.
So much damn character.
