Does He Want a Blue Heart?

Many of us toil with the existential question: what is our purpose?

I honestly couldn’t answer that question until this Monday, January 8th. Prior to a few nights ago, I meagerly attached my identity—subsequently, my purpose—to my job and my passion, which is the whiskey industry. Part of my job is to unceremoniously visit haunts across the country with ceremonious amounts of whiskey to consume. As of Monday, though, I’ve traded-in a barstool for a car seat. I welcomed my first child, a beautiful baby boy into the world.  

Author Ryan Holiday writes, “If your purpose is something larger than you—to accomplish something, to prove something to yourself—then suddenly everything becomes both easier and more difficult.”

The decision to dedicate my purpose to my boy is a seamless one. I want to demonstrate to him that the challenges, the failures, and the successes learned from those struggles are the most beautiful, rewarding moments of life. And what better way to teach him how to overcome the bleak botches of existence than as an Evertonian. Yes, for the last decade, I’ve been under the influence of the Toffees. Shockingly, it was quite easy to choose the blue side of Merseyside. It was a natural fit because I am a sports masochist. In the early ‘90s, at my own demise, I independently selected the Chicago Bears and Cubs as my teams. My American idealism has always drawn me to the underdog, the less talented, ya know, the more self-destructive organizations. Still, my fandom was autonomous and quite simple. However, the simultaneous difficulty remains: do I vicariously pass down my love for Everton Football Club? Do I subject my son to the tidal wave of consecutive relegation battles; Italian Papas heading to the store for chianti and cigarettes to only abandon us for an old flame, and to never return home? Is it even justifiable to let him watch the most beautiful of footballers receive errant red cards for phantom excessive force?

Suddenly it all seems more difficult. However, my purpose is to raise a good human being. The pain and the loss that Everton will supply doesn’t create an easy route. My boy could freely select a team with trophies. Yes, actual trophies to fill their trophy cabinet—along with 100-plus evaded Financial Fair Play allegations to join them—but where’s the life lesson in cheering for a club planted at the top of the table? Nevertheless, the circuitous path doesn’t have to be merely pain, loss, and defeat. Glory is built into the DNA of Goodison Park. 

Anthony Bourdain said, “Don’t be afraid to wander. Don’t be afraid to eat a bad meal. If you don’t risk the bad meal, you’ll never get the magical one.” Oh, how we’ve wandered as a club. We’ve wandered more than Wolverhampton. Still, though, Everton haven’t gotten relegated. This season’s ten-point deduction hasn’t moved us. And we even have options when Ginger Pep leaves the club as three coaching legends are now out of work. Bill Belichick could turn Doucouré into the Ballon d’Or winner.

Imagine, just imagine how delicious it’ll taste when Everton does return to glory. The Florida Cup will feel like a fleeting memory when my delusion of Everton someday winning the league turns into reality. And, by then, the decades of bad meals and building something greater than myself will be a transformative Michelin experience—since I’ll have my son sitting right next to me. 

Sports at its best—just like whiskey—brings us together.