A Sign of Hope

5:30am CST. I wake up, filled with anxiety. I’m consumed by the stress that is the reality of Everton facing the league leaders, The Arsenal. After weeks, no, months, wait, years of turmoil, the Toffees were forced to reckon with another new era. Within the next hour, our boys at the bottom of the table would meet the Premier League leaders, maybe even the best club in all of Europe.

I was wide awake, so I took my husky for a frigid run along the shores of Lake Michigan to avoid the fear; to hide from darkness that consumes by blue heart. The Chicago sky was black. A harsh wind blew through the edge of the city. Yet, somewhere along mile three, 16 degrees didn’t feel so cold. Dreaded thoughts started to petrify my bones and my mind. I began to think about our Irish captain, our boyhood folk hero with blond locks and 26 on his back, and 40,000 fans wandering through the thick, dark forest of The Championship.

Relegation felt real by mile four.

My husky started to take the lead as my pace slowed and tears began swelling in my eyes. On my final mile, a coincidental song, “The Last Song” by The All-American Rejects started to play. As we veered west of the lake, I began to think: what if this is Everton’s last song, our last dalliance in the Premier League? What if whatever tomorrow brings, only darkness and a path to Sunderland is the only route for this historic club? I viscerally started to yell, “Come on you blues,” to the empty city streets. My feet started moving faster, as if my quickened pace would somehow help my chosen club, 3,800 miles away. By the end of our five-mile run, I played a 90-minute match of drama and heartache through my mind…

 And then I watched.

And after a true 90 minutes, tears began swelling in my eyes, once again. However, these weren’t drops of sadness. This was an emotional response to a sign of hope.

 Up The Fuckin’ Toffees.