Culture
As Steve McMichael battles ALS, old friends visit with stories to tell
The doorbell rings, and it feels as if the sun has broken through the clouds. The dogs rush to the front door. There’s Blue, the yapping chihuahua, and Marshmallow, the Shiba Inu with a limp. And here comes Misty McMichael with a big smile and a big hug.
A visitor has arrived, and Steve McMichael is as buoyant as someone in his situation can be.
Whoever is at the door undoubtedly will bring up his upcoming induction into the Pro Football Hall of Fame, and if he could still smile widely and proudly, he would.
For a while, McMichael derived pleasure from Haagen-Dazs vanilla ice cream in his feeding tube, but he was cut off because it made him vulnerable to pneumonia. For now, he can experience flavor only in ice chips — Pedialyte, cranberry and Coca-Cola.
These days, satisfaction is scarce and pleasure is mostly a memory.
Three years into a diagnosis of ALS, McMichael, the former Chicago Bears defensive tackle, is about one year beyond when doctors said he might expire. He can’t move his legs or arms. Misty, his wife, has rushed him to the hospital at least 10 times over the last few years, always with dire fear.
He hasn’t been able to communicate verbally for about a year, but he expresses simple sentences through a speech-generating device that reads eye movements. The machine has a few phrases saved that he uses frequently.
“Ass on fire,” he makes it say often, a plea to address a recurring pain.
“More meds,” is another.
If the visitor is expected, he often won’t ask for more meds to ensure he isn’t foggy. There is a lot that McMichael can’t do anymore, but he can still connect with the people who have been important to him.
Some people ring that bell once. Some do it every so often. Some ring all the time.
They experience humanity and intimacy in a way they never have.
In the living room is a gray reclining chair.
It was bought so Steve’s sister Kathy McMichael would have a place to sleep in 2021 and 2022 before he had 24-hour medical attendants.
As well as anyone, she can soothe his pain.
She holds his hand and talks about old memories, including games she saw him play going back to high school. Sometimes they watch a YouTube compilation their sister Sharon put together with videos of him playing football at various levels, wrestling, singing and more.
Staying with him for extended periods has been easy for her. Leaving, not so much.
“When I was there, I tried to be upbeat for him,” she says. “But when I was leaving, I thought he would die and I would never see him again. I would cry all the way home on the plane and spend the next two days in bed crying.”
When Kathy was a toddler, Steve — “Stevie” she calls him — played dolls with her. She had a Barbie; he had a G.I. Joe.
“I have the fondest memories of him,” says Kathy, who is a legislative director for the Texas attorney general’s office. “People don’t realize how kind and sweet he is. He’s always been my hero.”
For most of their lives, they talked almost daily on the phone. When Kathy went through a divorce at 26 and was so upset she couldn’t eat, Steve showed up with a U-Haul to move her, set her up in a new apartment and took her out for a meal every day for a couple of weeks. “He saved me and it turned my whole life around,” Kathy says.
She was with him in February for the announcement that he would be inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame.
Kathy thought he didn’t look good at the time. She couldn’t see the lovely green in his irises. She feared the worst.
Now, Kathy thinks differently. “He’s not ready to go,” she says. “We’ve talked about it. I don’t know that he ever will be. He doesn’t give up on anything. It’s not in his makeup.”
She’s looking forward to traveling to Canton, Ohio, for the induction, but if Steve can’t go, Kathy will be at her big brother’s bedside.
When Mike Singletary first visited McMichael after his ALS diagnosis, they prayed together.
“My hope was he could get healed,” Singletary says.
That isn’t happening, but the middle linebacker keeps praying with his teammate. Even now, there are blessings to be thankful for, and more to request.
Singletary tells stories, too, hoping to see that old spark in McMichael’s eyes. He talked about a 1984 game against the Raiders in which McMichael, Singletary and company knocked out quarterbacks Marc Wilson and David Humm. Next up was supposed to be punter Ray Guy — but he refused to go in.
“He loved it,” Singletary says. “It’s kind of like reading a bedtime story.”
One day Singletary told him how much he always appreciated him, how much he meant to him, and how he felt he could always trust him. When they were playing together, Singletary said, he always knew where McMichael was going to be.
McMichael tried to respond using his speech-generating device. He tried and tried, but he couldn’t get it to do what he wanted it to.
“He got so frustrated that he started crying,” Singletary said. “That was a tough moment.”
A world traveler, John Faidutti has been to Egypt, Russia, Thailand, China, the United Arab Emirates, Argentina and many other destinations. He has climbed Mt. Rainer and Mt. St. Helens.
But he hasn’t traveled in almost three years.
“I’m afraid of leaving because if Steve dies when I’m gone, it will kill me,” he says. “I have anxiety about that.”
Faidutti, an investor, met McMichael about 25 years ago at a party and bonded on summer afternoons at a swimming pool outside of the apartment complex where McMichael lived. When Misty gave birth to Macy 16 years ago, Faidutti was in the delivery room. Steve asked him to be her godfather and started calling him “Padrino,” Italian for godfather.
“Now you’re in the family,” Steve told him. “Once you’re in the family, you can’t get out.”
When Macy started talking, she couldn’t say “Padrino,” so she called him “Drino.” Now, everyone knows him as “Padrino” or “Drino.”
Before Steve lost the ability to speak, Padrino asked him what he could do for him in the future. “Just take care of Macy,” Steve told him.
As Steve has been progressively unable to do what a father usually does, Padrino has done more.
Macy is a shy girl, but not around Padrino. On “Macy’s day,” which happens once or twice a week, he takes her to a restaurant for food. They play video games together. He helped teach Macy to drive.
Padrino makes sure Steve knows everything that’s happening with his daughter. She’s very artistic, and she shows Padrino her creations. Padrino makes sure Steve sees them.
Padrino tied Steve’s shoes back when he wore them. He shares his Prime Video password. He’s removed Steve’s catheter. He’s changed his diapers. Giving his friend comfort is a privilege, not a burden. “I have no problem doing whatever he needs me to do,” Padrino says.
Many times, it has seemed the pen was almost out of ink for McMichael. But then it keeps writing.
Every time he’s had a medical emergency, they ask him to blink once if he wants to go to the hospital to be treated or twice if he wants to let it be. McMichael always has blinked once.
To Padrino, McMichael repeatedly has indicated he wanted to keep living.
On McMichael’s 66th birthday last October, Padrino told him, “Let’s make it one more year.”
In his eyes, Padrino saw determination.
Ric Flair hasn’t seen McMichael in about a month and a half because he’s been traveling. He plans to visit him soon.
When he comes, Flair tries to limit his time with McMichael to about 30 minutes because he can’t take much longer.
The visual can be unsettling.
Except for McMichael’s spirit, everything about him is withered.
“It’s very difficult for me to see him like that,” Flair says. “It’s so hard. My job when I’m there is to make him smile and laugh, and make him know people care about him. I walk away thinking I’m the luckiest guy in the world not to have something like that.”
Flair and McMichael started out as enemies. In 1996, McMichael was a commentator for WCW wrestling when Flair hit on his then-wife, Debra. McMichael, with former NFL player Kevin Greene, subsequently challenged Flair and Arn Anderson to a tag-team match. But instead of exacting revenge on Flair, McMichael took a heel turn, attacking Greene and joining forces with Flair, Anderson and Chris Benoit as “The Four Horsemen.”
“When he came on board, his personality won me over in five seconds,” Flair says. “It’s bigger than life. He’s one of the greatest guys I’ve ever known.”
To Flair, McMichael was more than a wrestling partner.
“We hung out every night, partied and drank,” he says, laughing. “You kidding me? I spent New Year’s Eve one year with him and Lawrence Taylor in Las Vegas. Tell me about it. Steve can be something else. He gets away with it because he’s Steve.”
Not many could hang with the legendary “Nature Boy” after hours. But Flair claims to have struggled to keep pace with McMichael, who showed up every Monday for five days on the road with $15,000 in cash in his pocket, saying, “I’ve got more money than I’ve got time.”
They were bonded in the wildest of times. Now they share the most tender moments.
Flair looks forward to partying with McMichael again in Canton at McMichael’s induction.
“If they bring him up on the stage, I think that will be one of the most emotional, fulfilling moments,” he says. “It will be one of the most powerful things I will have seen.”
During his playing days, McMichael hired Michael Kinyon, a friend of teammate Kevin Butler’s, to hang mirrors at his house. Kinyon owns Michael’s Glass and also takes sideline photos for the team.
Their relationship grew, but it took time.
“I was a little afraid of the guy initially, honestly,” Kinyon says. “For an outsider like me, it probably took a year and a half of hanging around with him almost every week before I felt comfortable.”
The turning point came when he was with a group of Bears players in a private room at a golf outing and a photographer from the event came in to take pictures. McMichael charged at him and told him to leave.
“We’ve got our own photographer,” he told him, punching Kinyon in the chest, sending him stumbling and leaving a bruise.
Butler turned to Kinyon and said, “You’re in.”
After McMichael was stricken with ALS, Misty asked Kinyon to install mirrors so she could see him in his bedroom from her bedroom.
Kinyon often brings liquid CBD and THC to put in McMichael’s feeding tube. It helps with the pain and anxiety.
On a recent visit with former Bears equipment man Gary Haeger and defensive tackle Jim Osborne, they brought up a 1984 game. Quarterbacks Jim McMahon and Steve Fuller were injured, and Mike Ditka had no choice but to play Rusty Lisch.
Then McMichael set his eyes on the screen of his speech-generating device and worked diligently. Minutes passed.
And it was McMichael who dusted the cobwebs from the tale and delivered the zinger.
“Ditka cut him on the plane ride home,” he said through the machine.
Laughter, loud laughter.
Dan Hampton often brings mutual friends to visit McMichael.
In numbers, there is comfort.
They go around his bed and try to bring him cheer.
“Normally, his eyes are laden and sad,” Hampton says. “But if you tell a good story, his eyes light up.”
Lifting his spirits is one thing. Lifting his body is another.
When he still could speak, McMichael sometimes asked to be held upright to stretch. But lifting him was like lifting a 175-pound sandbag, and hardly anyone had the strength and assuredness. Hampton, who still looks like he could bull rush through a double team, would do it for close to a minute. He can’t do it anymore because McMichael, who now weighs about 150, doesn’t have enough core strength. “I’d have to squeeze him so hard to pick him up, I’d be afraid I’d break something,” Hampton said.
McMichael has called Hampton his big brother.
When McMichael arrived in Chicago to sign his first contract with the Bears, Hampton was sent to the airport to pick him up. They came together like two pieces of flint, and the fire they created burned spectacularly.
They raised hell between the tackles and then did it between sips of Crown Royal.
Hampton and McMichael became the true colonnades of Soldier Field, and the dominating Bears were built upon them. The night before Super Bowl XX, an emotionally charged McMichael threw a chair at a blackboard with such force that all four legs stuck. Then Hampton bashed a film projector to pieces.
In another era, it seemed as if they controlled everything around them. Things have changed.
After McMichael’s diagnosis, Hampton had a load of lumber delivered to the house and board by board, nail by nail, he built a wheelchair ramp from the laundry room to the garage. Former teammate Richard Dent helped.
Between them, the flame remains. You can feel it when Hampton is at McMichael’s bedside.
“I hate going,” Hampton says. “Hate it. I hate to see him in this condition. I hate being a part of this phase of his life. But after leaving the house, I always realize it means something to him. That’s all that matters.”
During their playing careers, McMichael and Hampton were part of a band called the Chicago Six, which included Walter Payton, Dave Duerson and a few Chicago Blackhawks players. In 2013, they wanted to revive the concept. At a corporate appearance, they met Johnny McFarland, a construction equipment salesman who played guitar on the side.
Hampton and McMichael asked him if he would be interested in a reimagined Chicago Six. McFarland, Hampton and McMichael joined forces with former Bear Otis Wilson and two other musicians, playing at local fests, fundraisers and the NFL Draft.
McMichael gave McFarland a new name — “Johnny Guitar.” He also encouraged him to take over the stage during guitar solos — McMichael would step to the side — even though everyone was there to see the former Bears.
“Make it sing, Johnny, make it sing!” he would say.
After Johnny Guitar and the other band members who were not former Bears finished their day jobs, they rehearsed at Hampton’s house. McMichael always came with an extra-large pizza, a bucket of wings and a case of Bud Light. When he found out Johnny Guitar preferred Stella Artois, he brought those.
“He’d say, ‘I know you guys are coming straight from work, so I got something,’” Johnny Guitar said. “And he refused to take money.”
Now Johnny Guitar brings his two-stick guitar to McMichael’s house, and he and the other band members perform songs for McMichael that he once took part in. They play “Baddest Team Alive” and “Ready to Roll,” two Hampton compositions about the Bears of the 1980s.
Just before Christmas, they played “Feliz Navidad” around McMichael’s bed. His nurses sang along.
When McMichael joined the Bears, Jim Osborne was the venerated elder statesman. In Jim’s mind, McMichael still is the young, boisterous life of the party.
Now they watch cowboy movies together and both doze off like two little brothers after a long day. But it’s OK. “Sometimes it’s just being there, letting him know, ‘I’m here,’” Osborne says. “And as long as I’m able to be there, I will be.”
One day, Osborne left his room so a nurse could clean his tracheotomy tube. McMichael signaled to his nurse that he wanted Jim in the room.
“I thought, ‘I don’t like seeing that, but if he wants me to watch, I will,’” Osborne says.
He did, and then it hit him.
“He was giving me a message,” Osborne says. “He was telling me if he could endure this, then I could endure anything. His willingness to hang in is an example for anyone who’s encountering something difficult.”
Osborne often visits McMichael with his wife, Wanda. Soon after McMichael’s diagnosis, McMichael told Wanda he had read her book “Away: A Children’s Book of Loss” and wanted to know if she would consider writing a book with him. He wanted it to be a story about an athletic boy who has his physical gifts taken from him. And he wanted the book to be about him, with appearances from his brother Rick McMichael, Wanda’s husband and Hampton. That’s all he told her.
Within a week, Wanda had a draft written, though she wasn’t sure how. “I truly believe God blessed me with the thoughts to create the storyline Steve wanted to relay,” she says. “I can’t take the credit because I didn’t even like literature in school.”
When she read the draft to Steve and Misty, both were in tears.
After a few tweaks, they had an inspiring story about a boy who is paralyzed after a run-in with a bully but whose spirit cannot be quelled — “The Golden Life of Little Steve.”
Broadcast executive Larry Wert once fired McMichael from his job as a television sports analyst, but he remains a welcome visitor to the McMichael house.
During his playing career, McMichael delighted in crossing lines he wasn’t supposed to cross. He duct-taped radio host Kevin Matthews to a chair and brought him outside so passersby could sign him. And he forcibly administered a fake HIV test to sportscaster Mark Giangreco after implying the two of them were lovers.
When Wert fired McMichael, it wasn’t as shocking as McMichael’s gags were.
Wert comes often, sometimes with McMichael’s former teammates. He’s been there with Butler, Hampton, McMahon, Tom Thayer and Keith Van Horne. Many other teammates have visited frequently, including Jim Covert, Gary Fencik, Mike Hartenstine, Bruce Herron, Jay Hilgenberg, Tyrone Keys, Jim Morrissey, Matt Suhey, Dent and Wilson.
Because of what McMichael is going through, their arms are locked in a way they never were before. “Their loyalty has been nothing short of extraordinary,” Wert says. “They haven’t always gotten along perfectly, but they are together over this.”
During a recent visit, talk about the old days drew an unexpected reaction from McMichael.
“He couldn’t speak, but there was no question he was laughing, really laughing,” Wert says. “And it was rewarding.”
It made Misty tear up. “Her support has been amazing,” he says. “She keeps the environment uplifting and fun, with a positive energy. I don’t know how she does it.”
Jim McMahon tries small talk, even when he knows there will not be responses.
It can be awkward.
It can feel empty.
“It breaks your heart,” McMahon says. “He was a larger-than-life character. And he always had my back. He was a great teammate. To see a guy who was that big and strong wilt away is tough. It reminds me of when Walter (Payton) was sick.”
McMahon can’t watch football anymore. It bores him. But he watched a Texas game with McMichael last fall. Anything for his friend.
McMichael continues to surprise him.
“I thought maybe after he heard he was being inducted into the Hall of Fame, he’d be happy and just let go,” McMahon says. “But the guy’s always been a fighter and I know he wants to be there for his induction. There’s going to be a big party in Canton, and I’m looking forward to it.”
In a scene that once was beyond imagination, the rebel quarterback gently kisses the forehead of the wild defensive tackle they called Ming the Merciless.
A little over one year ago, John Vincent leaned into McMichael and told him how much he meant to him. It was emotional.
McMichael still could talk a little then. His final words to Vincent were, “Tell your story.”
It inspired the singer.
As a boy on the Southwest side of Chicago, Vincent had obsessive-compulsive disorder and was bullied. He felt anger, confusion and a lack of confidence.
Even though he could sing like Frank Sinatra, Vincent doubted himself. He had suicidal thoughts.
Then he met McMichael, who started calling him “Faux Frank” and brought him into his circle with other Bears players. McMichael introduced him to Ditka, who hired him to sing at his restaurant, employed him for 20 years and became a surrogate father.
“Steve made me feel safe,” Vincent says. “He changed my life.”
Vincent became the kind of person others can lean on, and he now tells his story to youth groups with an anti-bullying message.
McMichael once lifted Vincent in the air when Vincent weighed 440 pounds. The singer has lost 114 pounds and wants to lose another 80. He believes he is capable partly because of confidence Vincent never had before he met McMichael.
“You see him in that bed, and I miss seeing Steve the way he was,” he says. “But he’s still Steve in his head. I say, “Shame on you, John.’ It’s still Steve, and I have to talk to him like I talked to Mongo.”
Tom Thayer would like to forget his indoctrination with the Bears in the summer of 1985.
“The first couple weeks of camp was absolute hell,” Thayer says. “Absolute hell. Ming would come out to practice with game-day attire, sleeves rolled up, just bringing it. He would say, ‘Hey, Tommy, you’d better strap it up today. I’m coming off the ball. I ain’t playing no brother-in-law.’ And then he’d go all out.”
As time passed, he saw another side, and McMichael became a mentor. McMichael told him how to block more efficiently and pushed him to his highest highs in the weight room.
“The more I got to know him, the more I loved him, appreciated him and respected him,” Thayer says.
For a long time, McMichael was resistant to using the speech-generating device. Thayer, Kathy and others talked to him about how important it was that he use it.
On a recent visit, Misty told Thayer that Steve wanted to show him something.
McMichael had used his speech-generating device.
“Tommy,” it said, “I love you.”
There are unexpected gifts.
One of McMichael’s favorite shirts was a Tommy Bahama that features Ditka’s likeness and has a patriotic theme. He knew he would never wear it again, so he wanted Hampton to have it.
Kathy attended the Bears’ 44-0 victory over the Cowboys in 1985, so her brother gave her his game ball from that day.
A figurine set from his wrestling days was given to the son of Brandon Hiatt, who hosts a podcast with Misty.
Wanda was given a signed jersey, which says she will hold dear forever.
He gave his last Steve McMichael ESPN bobblehead to a writer.
Everyone walks away with something, even if it isn’t anything they can touch or hold.
“You always left a better man than you went,” Singletary says.
All come to give.
They leave having received.
(Illustration: Eamonn Dalton / The Athletic; photos: Jonathan Daniel /Allsport; Peter Brouillet / Getty Images; Brian Cassella /Chicago Tribune / Tribune News Service via Getty Images; courtesy of Misty McMichael and John Faidutti)
Culture
The Bears need a coach who holds players accountable. Look no further than Ron Rivera
In 1982, George Halas reached into Chicago Bears history to find a head coach and hired Mike Ditka.
In 2025, the team Halas founded needs to consider its history again.
There are candidates with no ties to the Bears who deserve consideration.
Foremost among them is Mike Vrabel, who never should have been fired by the Tennessee Titans and can win Super Bowls — plural — in the right situation. If Ben Johnson of the Detroit Lions is as dazzling as a head coach as he is as an offensive coordinator, he will transform an organization. His defensive counterpart in Detroit, Aaron Glenn, seems to have leadership and coaching qualities that few have. Steve Spagnuolo’s long history of building defenses and relationships may be evidence he could thrive with a second chance. The way Joe Brady has easily lifted the Buffalo Bills offense suggests he can handle more plates on the bar.
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And there are others. Maybe in the final analysis, one of them is best suited for the job.
However, only one person has had a football role on both Bears Super Bowl teams. Ron Rivera was a linebacker on the 1985 champions. On the 2006 Bears that lost to the Indianapolis Colts, he was their defensive coordinator.
Now he should be first in line to interview.
Rivera’s 2006 defense allowed the third-fewest points in the NFL. Without justification, he was fired after that season, and the Bears took a cold plunge. In the 19 seasons since, they have made the playoffs three times and have a .439 winning percentage.
Drafted by Jim Finks, built up by Ditka and mentored by Mike Singletary, Rivera, more than any potential candidate, comprehends what it means to be a Bear. He knows where Chicago’s potholes are. He understands the organizational strengths and limitations, the fan base and the local media.
There is no doubt Halas would have endorsed interviewing Rivera. Same for Walter Payton, who sat across from Rivera on plane rides to and from games.
Ditka was not the only former Bears player to become their coach. In their first 54 years, every one of their coaches except Ralph Jones was a former player for the team. Halas himself played for the Bears. The other Bears players who became the franchise’s head coach were Luke Johnsos, Hunk Anderson, Paddy Driscoll, Jim Dooley and Abe Gibron.
The Bears have been criticized — justifiably — for not considering former Bear Jim Harbaugh as a head coaching candidate. Ignoring Rivera would be making a similar mistake.
History is not the only reason Rivera should be considered. Like Harbaugh, Rivera is a proven coaching commodity. His coaching journey began humbly as a quality control coach for his Bears in 1997. Two years later, he went to work for Andy Reid in Philadelphia as a linebackers coach before returning to Chicago to coordinate the defense in 2004.
When he was head coach of the Carolina Panthers, Rivera’s teams made it to the playoffs four times and the Super Bowl once. He was voted coach of the year twice, which makes him one of 13 to be honored more than once. Seven of the 13 are in the Pro Football Hall of Fame, with Halas and Ditka among them.
After new Panthers owner David Tepper fired him in 2019, Rivera was unemployed for less than a month when he agreed to lead Dan Snyder’s Washington Redskins, who became the Football Team and then the Commanders in Rivera’s tumultuous tenure as their coach. And he wasn’t just their coach. He was their de facto general manager. Then he became Snyder’s frontman/shield when workplace culture transgressions and financial improprieties came to light and Snyder went underground.
Rivera arguably was the most sought-after coach in the 2020 cycle. The four regrettable years he spent with Snyder, arguably the worst owner in the NFL’s history, changed perceptions. Rivera was not the first to have his reputation diminished by the association.
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In his tenure with Washington before Snyder, the great Joe Gibbs won 67 percent of his games and three Super Bowls. After retiring and returning with Snyder as owner, he went 30-34. As a college coach, Steve Spurrier won 71 percent of his games and a national championship. With Snyder, he won 37 percent of his games. Mike Shanahan, who should be on his way to the Pro Football Hall of Fame, had a .598 career winning percentage and two Super Bowl rings as a head coach before partnering with Snyder. In Washington, his winning percentage was .375.
Rivera’s winning percentage before Snyder was .546, one percentage point better than Vrabel’s. In Washington, it was .396.
Some will question if a defensive-minded coach like Rivera is right for the Bears because of the presence of quarterback Caleb Williams, as if a coach without an offensive background should be disqualified. Hiring a head coach with one player in mind when 53 need to be led is an absurdity.
Tom Landry, Chuck Noll, John Madden, Don Shula, George Allen, Bill Parcells, Marv Levy, Dick Vermeil, Tony Dungy, Bill Cowher and Jimmy Johnson have busts in the Pro Football Hall of Fame. Almost assuredly on their way to Canton are Bill Belichick, John Harbaugh and Mike Tomlin. None of them had offensive backgrounds before becoming head coaches.
In 2011, when Rivera was hired in Carolina, there were similar concerns about his ability to handle an offense. With the first pick in the draft, the team chose a quarterback, Cam Newton. Rivera sent offensive coordinator Rob Chudzinski, quarterbacks coach Mike Shula and offensive quality control coach Scott Turner to Auburn to meet with the school’s offensive coordinator, Gus Malzahn, and try to understand what Malzahn did with Newton in helping him win a national championship and Heisman Trophy.
Panthers coaches implemented concepts Newton succeeded with at Auburn, including RPO plays that weren’t widely used at the time. Newton was named offensive rookie of the year. Four years later, Newton was voted the NFL’s most valuable player — while playing for a defensive-minded coach.
Rivera connects with players. He earns respect with authenticity, class and toughness. And apparently, these Bears need a coach who will hold players accountable.
The year after Newton was the league’s MVP, Rivera benched him because he refused to follow a team rule requiring players to wear ties on the plane. When Newton showed up tieless, Rivera tried to give him a tie to wear. Newton said it didn’t match his outfit. Rivera told him there would be repercussions, and Newton subsequently was held out the first series of a game. Newton later apologized to the team.
Rivera, who learned about aggressive strategies from Buddy Ryan and his Eagles defensive coordinator Jim Johnson, never has been afraid to take a chance. Before they called the head coach of the Lions Dan “Gamble,” they called Rivera “Riverboat Ron.”
In his first training camp in Washington, Rivera was diagnosed with squamous cell cancer in a lymph node. That season, he had 35 proton therapy treatments and three chemotherapy treatments. Rivera lost 25 pounds and grew so weak he had to be brought into the office with one arm around his wife’s shoulder and one around the team trainer’s. He never stopped coaching and leading, though, and his team rallied, winning five of its last seven games to make the playoffs.
Rivera eventually rang the bell and is cancer-free. For his perseverance, the Pro Football Writers of America voted him the recipient of the George Halas Award, which is given for overcoming adversity.
The significance of Rivera winning the award named after the founder of the Bears should not be lost on those entrusted with maintaining the Halas legacy.
(Top photo: Scott Taetsch / Getty Images)
Culture
‘A long road. A big mountain to climb’: Inside Matt Murray’s emotional journey back to the NHL
BUFFALO, N.Y. — Matt Murray looked up to the scoreboard above him, counted down the seconds as they disappeared and finally pumped his fist.
It had been 638 days since Murray last felt the feeling washing over him.
Bilateral hip surgery forced the Toronto Maple Leafs goalie out of the entire 2023-24 season, the final of a four-year contract. There was no guarantee the oft-injured Murray would play in the NHL again. A one-year contract offered him a lifeline to continue grinding far out of the spotlight in the AHL, with only one goal.
And over a year and a half later, Murray was back to where he had fought to be: in the NHL win column after stopping 24 shots in a 6-3 win over the Buffalo Sabres.
“A long road. A big mountain to climb. But I kept this moment in the front of my mind on the days it felt tough,” Murray said.
The 30-year-old’s eyes grew more red with every word he spoke after the game. His voice quivered.
“A big release,” he said, struggling to find the words to put nearly two years away from the NHL into perspective. “A rush of emotions.”
The typical goalie hugs with teammates after the win were tighter, longer. In a physical game where a player’s career can turn on a dime, Murray’s return resonated far more heavily than the 2 points the Leafs also added on the day.
“It’s good to see (Murray) smiling,” Steven Lorentz said, “because you know he’s back doing what he loves.”
In the dressing room, Max Domi immediately handed Murray the team’s WWE-style wrestling belt as player of the game. Murray’s up-and-down performance was secondary.
“He was getting that thing, 100 percent, he deserved it,” Domi said. “The ability to stick with it mentally, out of all those days that I’m sure he had a lot of doubt, it’s a long road to recovery. We’re all super proud of him.”
It’s easy to quantify just how long Murray’s road back to the NHL was in days: 628 of them between his last two appearances.
It’s far more difficult to accurately describe just how arduous that road is.
Injuries have dogged Murray throughout his career after winning back-to-back Stanley Cup titles in his first two seasons in the NHL with the Pittsburgh Penguins. His games played tapered off every season from 2018 to 2022. After he was traded to the Leafs in summer 2022, he struggled through his first season. It was fair to wonder whether hip surgery would be the final dagger in his NHL career.
But Murray would still hang around teammates at the Leafs’ practice facility during his rehabilitation last season, feeling so close but so far away from the league he once conquered.
“The fact that he’s just on his way back here says a lot about his character, his dedication to the game,” Lorentz said.
Murray kept a stall full of his gear at that facility that was never used. An important and humane gesture from the Leafs organization, but still a reminder that Murray was not playing NHL games.
Even after re-signing with the Leafs on a one-year, $875,000 deal, he felt like the organization’s No. 4 goalie. When the Leafs needed a netminder to replace the injured Anthony Stolarz, they called up Dennis Hildeby. The lanky Hildeby is seven years’ Murray’s junior.
How could Murray not wonder whether his NHL return would ever come?
“There were definitely times when it felt really difficult,” Murray said. “But whenever I felt like that, I had a great group of people around me. That’s the only reason why I’m here.”
All Murray could do was work his tail off, far away from public sight, quietly hoping for the return that finally came Friday night.
“The emotions were high today,” Murray said.
Those emotions perhaps ran highest before the game. The typically stoic Murray allowed himself to stop and appreciate how far he’s come.
“I was able to take a moment in warmups and during the anthem and look around and appreciate the long journey that it’s been and think of all the people who helped me get here,” Murray said.
It was the kind of game that reminded onlookers of the fragility of an NHL career. Just a few short years separated Murray from being a Stanley Cup winner to being largely written off from the NHL, all essentially before the age of 30.
“You feel for a guy like that because he works so hard and he wants it so bad,” Lorentz said. “We’re all rooting for him.”
Murray moved well enough in his return. He swallowed most of the 27 shots the Sabres threw at him, looking every bit the veteran he is. Murray had two goals against called back upon video review. His sprawling save on Sabres forward Alex Tuch was a reminder of the athleticism he can provide now that he’s fully healthy, too.
They’re all qualities Leafs fans might have forgotten. But they’re qualities that are still front of mind for Murray’s Leafs teammates.
“It hasn’t been forgotten in my mind what he’s accomplished in this league in his career,” Leafs forward Max Pacioretty said, himself no stranger to debilitating injuries that threaten a career. “It’s hard to almost remember what you’ve done, what you’ve accomplished because it seems like all the noise is always in the moment, whether it’s the injury or what has happened lately.”
Perhaps the Leafs win could have been predicted ahead of time. Sure, they were playing a reeling Sabres team that has now sputtered through 12 losses in a row. And they were buoyed by an upstart, white-hot line of Max Domi, Bobby McMann and Nick Robertson. They’re the third line in name only: The trio combined for three goals and 6 points against the Sabres.
But the opponent shouldn’t denigrate what was front of mind not just for Murray but also for the Leafs in Buffalo. They wanted to do right by a player who has done everything in his power to return to the NHL. You didn’t have to squint to see a defenceman like Jake McCabe throwing Sabres out of Murray’s crease with a little extra gusto.
“It gives you some incentive to go the extra mile because you know (Murray) has gone that extra mile just to get back to this position to where he’s at right,” Lorentz said. “It’s not like he half-assed it to get back to this point and he expected to be here. Surgeries and injuries like that, that he went through, that can stunt your career for a long time. You might never be able to recover to your old form.”
But Murray is working on getting back to the Matt Murray of old. And the Leafs’ need for Murray won’t end when they head north on the QEW back to Toronto.
The earliest Stolarz will likely return from a knee injury will be mid-to-late January. Hildeby doesn’t exactly have the full confidence of the Leafs organization right now after allowing a few soft goals during a recent call-up against the Sabres at home, combined with a less-than-stellar AHL season so far. He’s likely going to be an NHL player down the road, but there’s room for him to grow and develop more confidence in his game.
But Murray has what no other goalie in the Leafs organization has: experience. And that matters to Brad Treliving and Craig Berube: Both value games played and would rather lean on veterans whenever possible.
They’ll lean on Murray because of everything he’s done, and gone through, in his career.
After Friday night, that career looks drastically different.
“In reality, you’ve got to take each day as it comes and you never know when it’s going to be all over,” Pacioretty said. “So you don’t want to take days for granted.”
After Murray had dried his eyes and slowly taken off the pounds of goalie gear heavy with sweat, he sat on his own in the dressing room. The Leafs equipment staff all stopped unloading bags from the dressing room to give him a quiet pat on the back.
Murray looked up to see a note written on a whiteboard in the dressing room. The Leafs bus would be leaving in 20 minutes. There was another NHL game on the horizon.
He could smile once again knowing it certainly won’t be 628 days between being able to do what he loved.
(Top photo: Timothy T. Ludwig / Imagn Images)
Culture
How Merseyside became America’s 51st state
Beyond the dust of Liverpool’s dock road and the huge lorries rolling in and out of the city’s port, the glass panels of Everton’s new home at the Bramley-Moore Dock sparkle impressively, radiating ambition.
The site, expected to open next year, is a feat of engineering considering the narrow dimensions of the fresh land below it, where old waters have been drained to create a 52,888-capacity arena that has been earmarked to host matches at the 2028 European Championship.
The Everton Stadium, as it is currently known, has been nearly 30 years in the making and nothing about its construction has been straightforward. There were three other proposed sites — including one outside Liverpool’s city boundaries, in Kirkby — which never materialised; a sponsorship deal collapsing due to Russia’s invasion of Ukraine; three owners, Peter Johnson, Bill Kenwright and Farhad Moshiri, departing; and several flirtations with relegation.
Ultimately, Dan Friedkin, a Texan-based billionaire, will have the honour of being in post when it is inaugurated after his group’s long-awaited takeover was completed on Thursday.
It has been a momentous week for Everton, and for the region as a whole. The Friedkin Group’s takeover means both of Merseyside’s Premier League clubs are now controlled by Americans. Meanwhile, a third, League Two side Tranmere Rovers, could join them if the English Football League (EFL) ratifies a takeover by a consortium led by Donald Trump’s former lawyer Joe Tacopina.
In football terms, Liverpool is on the verge of becoming the USA’s 51st state — the name of the 2001 movie starring Samuel L Jackson and Robert Carlyle, which was filmed in the city and used Anfield, the home of Liverpool FC, as a backdrop.
It is a huge cultural shift from the days — back when that film was released — when Liverpool and Everton had local owners and an American takeover of the city’s most celebrated sporting organisations seemed unthinkable.
And for all the excitement that Everton and Tranmere’s takeovers have generated, there remains an underlying caution — born of years of fear and frustration over the direction their clubs have taken — over what U.S. ownership will mean.
GO DEEPER
Inside Everton’s Friedkin takeover: From the precipice to fresh hope thanks to new U.S. owner
Everton is a club of contrasts.
Much of their mainly local support comes from some of the United Kingdom’s most economically challenged districts in the north end of Liverpool, near Walton where Goodison Park is located, and the ‘People’s Club’ — as former manager David Moyes christened them — has long taken pride in not being connected to big business, particularly in comparison to their near-neighbours Liverpool.
“One Evertonian is worth twenty Liverpudlians,” said former local captain Brian Labone, who led the team he supported as a boy in the 1960s.
Yet it hasn’t always been this way. At that time, it was Everton — not Liverpool — who were the city’s big spenders under their chairman John Moores, the founder of Littlewoods Pools. Then, their nickname was the ‘Mersey Millionaires’ and the club’s modus operandi was unapologetically ruthless: one manager, Johnny Carey, was sacked in the back of a taxi.
Moores would detail several innovations that would grow the sport, making it more attractive to business. They included the creation of a European Super League (sound familiar?), the rise of television, as well as the removal of the maximum wage, leaving a free market in which the best players would go to the richest clubs.
When Liverpool started to dominate English football and Goodison Park experienced a dip in gates, Moores tried to raise more cash. One of his solutions was to bring corporate hospitality to Goodison, as well as more advertising boards around the pitch but the move experienced pushback.
“Fans didn’t like it,” says Gavin Buckland, who recently published a book entitled The End, which looks at some of the longer-term causes of Everton’s struggles. “They felt the boards intruded on their match day routine — an in-your-face commercialism.”
Attitudes haven’t changed much since, in part because successive Everton owners haven’t been able to expand Goodison which is hemmed into Walton’s warren of terraced streets. Under Kenwright, Everton played on that reputation of the plucky underdog punching above its weight; it was only when Moshiri, a Monaco-based British-Iranian steel magnate, arrived as co-owner in 2016 that the waters were muddied.
Under Moshiri, Everton became two clubs in one. Like Kenwright, Moshiri operated from London but unlike the theatre impresario, he had no natural connection with Merseyside. While Moshiri aimed for the stars, spending big on players and managers, Kenwright — who remained chairman and still had influence until his death last year — had a more corner-shop mentality. There was a lack of clarity over decision-making.
Enter Friedkin. Perversely, Everton’s fallen state is a major reason they represent such an attractive proposition to the San Diego-born businessman, who identified them as one of, if not the last, purchasable English football club where there is room for significant growth.
On Merseyside, there is some concern about what this might mean: Americans have tended to develop dubious reputations as owners of English football clubs due to their appetite for driving non-football revenues and seeing their investments as content providers.
Will the new stadium, for example, become a shopping mall experience, complete with hiked-up ticket prices? Buckland speaks of a “cliff edge”, where Everton are moving into a new home, necessitating new routines for matchgoing fans, while a new foreign owner with a reputation for keeping his distance gets his feet under the table. For some, all of this at once might be too much.
Given that Friedkin cannot claim to have played a leading role in the stadium move, he is likely to be judged quickly on the team that he delivers. Any new revenue-driving schemes will only float if fortunes improve on the pitch, otherwise his priorities will be questioned.
For proof, simply look across Stanley Park. In 2016, thousands of Liverpool fans walked out of Anfield in the 77th minute of a Premier League game against Sunderland after FSG announced that some ticket prices in the stadium’s new Main Stand would be priced at £77.
Liverpool had won just one trophy in six years of FSG ownership at that point and local fans, especially, felt like their loyalty was being exploited, given the organisation’s policy of investing its own money in infrastructure but not the team. The protest led to an embarrassing climbdown.
Liverpool was once described by the Guardian newspaper as the “Bermuda Triangle of capitalism”. It has since been framed absolutely as a left-wing city even though voting patterns suggest it should be described as a dissenting one. Its football supporters, whether blue or red, tend to confront perceived injustices, especially if it involves outsiders making money at the expense of locals, and even more so if they are not delivering on the pitch.
FSG were only able to buy Liverpool at a knockdown price, which its former American owner Tom Hicks described as an “epic swindle”, due to the response of the supporters who unionised themselves in an attempt to drive both Hicks and his partner George Gillett out following a series of broken promises, as the club veered dangerously towards deep financial problems from 2008.
“The missteps of Hicks and Gillett put power in the hands of the fans,” reminds Gareth Roberts from Spirit of Shankly, the fans group which is still active 16 years after its formation and which now has members on the club’s official supporters board. The latter became enshrined in Liverpool’s articles of association after FSG apologised for its leading role in the attempt to create a European Super League in 2021.
This came after several other high-profile PR blunders that eroded trust. It remains to be seen whether figures like John W. Henry, FSG and Liverpool’s principle owner, will listen to the board rather than pay lip service and carry on regardless with his own plans. Roberts says the ongoing challenge is “getting them to understand the culture”, and it does not help the relationship when Henry’s business partner, Tom Werner (Liverpool’s chairman), speaks so enthusiastically about taking Premier League fixtures away from Anfield and potentially hosting them in other parts of the world.
There was a time when either Everton or Liverpool’s local owner not showing at a match would dominate conversations in pubs and get reported in the local paper. Now, that only happens if they actually turn up.
Leading FSG figures usually fly in from Boston, Massachusetts, attending a couple of games a season — Werner was at Liverpool’s recent game against Real Madrid, while Henry was in the stands for the first home game of the season against Brentford. They appoint executives and dispatch them to Merseyside, or London, where the club has long had an office, to run the business on their behalf. Such individuals are under pressure to drive revenues as far as they can, in theory improving the economic possibilities of the team.
Roberts says ticketing is an especially thorny issue at Liverpool due to the popularity of the club. It feels like locals are under attack: that there is a race to get the richest person’s bum onto a seat.
As far as Roberts is concerned, a club that markets its image from the energy that Anfield occasionally creates is treading on dangerous ground. “The Kop still has power,” he insists. “But if you squeeze the fans and they drop off, there is a risk that the place gets filled with spectators rather than supporters and with that, you kill the golden goose.”
This, he adds, should act as a warning to Evertonians as they embark on their own American adventure.
Like Roberts, Liverpool metro mayor Steve Rotheram is a season ticket holder at Anfield and he understands such anxieties. In October, he spent a fortnight in North America exploring trade opportunities and the experience made him realise how powerful a brand Liverpool has abroad due to its connections with football and music, as well as its central role as a port in the movement of the Irish diaspora that spread across the Atlantic in the 19th century.
He says such history helps start conversations with American businesses from sectors like bioscience and digital innovation, which are now interested in investing in Merseyside due to the availability of land near the waterfront on both sides of the Mersey river, a hangover from the harsh economic measures of the 1980s and the decline that followed.
Rotheram says football, especially, plays a significant role in the visitor economy to the region, which in 2018 was worth £6.2billion. A thriving Everton playing at a stadium that does a lot more than host football matches every fortnight has the potential to add to that pot. The site at Bramley-Moore promises to regenerate the area around it and, currently, there are small signs of that change. Now Everton’s immediate financial concerns have gone away, perhaps businesses hoping to move in can proceed with more confidence.
GO DEEPER
How Liverpool 2.01 was built – and FSG abandoned any plans to sell
To reach the third professional football club on Merseyside attracting American investment, you have to cross the river.
If Rotheram gets his way, a walkable bridge will connect Liverpool to Wirral, the home of Tranmere Rovers, and potentially boost the peninsula’s economy. But for the time being, there are just two transport options: a tunnel under the Mersey or, more pleasurably, a ferry which takes less than seven minutes to sail from the Pier Head, beneath the famous Liver Buildings, to Seacombe.
In the middle of this journey, as the ferry juts north, there is a different view of Everton’s new stadium, positioned between a scrapyard and a wind farm, both of which are in the shadow of a brooding tobacco warehouse that is the biggest brick building in the world. Everton’s new home is much closer to the city and might seem enormous from the land, glistening from whichever angle you look at it, but it does not dominate the skyline from the brown, scudding channels of the Mersey.
When the novelist Nathaniel Hawthorne sailed across the same stretch of water in 1854, he recalled a scene that he thought neatly captured the personality of the Liverpudlians he’d encountered over the previous six months, having been sent to the city as American consul.
There, on the ferry, was a labourer eating oysters using a jack knife taken from his pocket, tossing shell after shell overboard. Once satisfied, the labourer pulled out a clay pipe and started puffing away contentedly.
According to Hawthorne, the labourer’s “perfect coolness and independence” was mirrored by some of the other passengers. “Here,” Hawthorne wrote, “a man does not seem to consider what other people will think of his conduct but whether it suits his convenience to do so.”
Hawthorne did not specify whether the labourer was from Liverpool or the piece of land to the west now known as Wirral. To any outsider, the places and their residents tend to be viewed as one of the same.
On Merseyside, however, distinctions are made: Liverpudlians tend to identify themselves as tougher and sharper, while those from “over the water”, tend to have softer accents and are once removed from the struggles of the city.
In truth, both areas suffered in the late 1970s and 80s when unemployment ripped through its docks and shipyards. Whereas Liverpool’s city centre has been transformed in the decades since, the Wirral’s waterfront feels less promising. Whereas Liverpool has the Albert Dock, museums and a business district punctuated by glassy high rises, Wirral has very few distinguishable features from the river beyond its scaly, grey sea wall.
Three miles or so from the terminal in Seacombe lies Prenton, the home of Tranmere, a football club that returned to the Football League in 2018, having fallen on hard times since the early 1990s when it threatened to reach the Premier League.
That history is one of the reasons why an American consortium led by Tacopina has an application with the EFL to try and buy the club from former player, Mark Palios, who later acted as the chief executive of the English Football Association.
The Athletic reported in September that Tacopina was attempting to “harness the power of his celebrity contacts” to try to propel Tranmere up the divisions from League Two. In a report the following month, it was revealed on these pages that rapper A$AP Rocky and Las Vegas Raiders defensive end Maxx Crosby were two of the investors.
According to a source involved in the deal, who would like to remain anonymous to protect working relationships, there is a belief the takeover will be completed in early 2025. While the source suggests it has taken longer than expected to reach this point after an unnamed investor dropped out, The Athletic has been told separately that an unnamed investor’s application was rejected by the EFL. This led to the buying group trying to source a replacement. The EFL declined to comment.
Tacopina has been involved in Italian football for a decade, with mixed success. He knows Tranmere is not a sexy name but neither was Wrexham before they were taken over by the Hollywood actors Ryan Reynolds and Rob McElhenney in 2021. While Tranmere has a fight this season to retain its Football League status, Tacopina would be taking on a club that more or less breaks even.
Palios is naturally cautious. For years, he’s wanted to find a minority partner but interested parties have tended to find there isn’t much up-side for such investment. Palios has since been able to convince Tacopina that Tranmere has significant potential with a full takeover, that the club has geography on its side and could become the region’s third wheel.
More than 500,000 people live on the Wirral but the majority cannot get tickets for Liverpool or Everton. There is an interest in Tranmere but many Wirral residents are only would-be fans. That would surely change with an upwardly mobile team, as Tranmere were in the 1990s when it tried to reach the top flight and a packed Prenton Park witnessed a series of exciting cup runs.
Tranmere is worth around £20million in assets. Even if the club reached the Championship, the gateway to the Premier League, the value would increase significantly, potentially leaving Tacopina with a profit if he decided to sell. Importantly, the stadium is owned by the club and Tacopina would be inheriting that. Tacopina takes confidence from the stories of clubs like Bournemouth and Brentford, who are now established in the Premier League despite playing in similar-sized stadiums to Prenton Park (Bournemouth’s is actually considerably smaller) and with little history of success at the top level.
Prenton Park, however, does not have the facilities to generate much revenue outside of matchdays. In the boom of the early 90s, the venue was rebuilt on three sides but that did not include the main stand, which remains a relic of corrugated iron and brick. Lorraine Rogers, the chairperson before Palios, suggested the stand was costing Tranmere £500,000 a year to maintain. In 2021, a League Two game with Stevenage was postponed after a part of the roof flew off during a storm.
Palios has explored other stadium options. From the Mersey, the West float slipway leads to Bidston, where a site has been discussed but diehard fans are not enthusiastic about a move three miles away which would take the club away from its roots and potentially position it next to a waste plant, and where there are few pubs and transport links are limited.
Last summer, Palios suggested the zone was ripe for redevelopment in an interview with Liverpool Business News. “I advise my children, if ever they invest in property, invest in the south bank of the river,” he said. “As sure as apples fall from trees, this place is going to get developed.”
Any relocation, however, would need assistance from Wirral Waters as well as a council that for a decade has carefully been trying to manage its budgets due to cuts from central government. At the start of December, the Liverpool Echo reported that the council will be asking the government for a £20million bailout to prevent it from having to declare bankruptcy.
While it is generally accepted the Palios era is near an end and Tranmere needs to find a way to move forward, there is a wariness and some Tranmere supporters are questioning whether they want someone who has represented Trump in a rape trial running their club.
Matt Jones, the presenter of the Trip to the Moon podcast, speaks of “excitement, curiosity and fear”. Two years ago, he tracked down Bruce Osterman, Tranmere’s previous American owner (and the first in English football), to San Francisco.
Osterman told Jones that in 1984, he was able to complete a takeover because Tranmere were “days away from shutting its doors”. Yet Osterman was humble enough to admit that he was ill-prepared for the challenges that followed, despite investing £500,000 in cash. “I didn’t know what the hell I was doing,” he admitted. “I had no experience in this area. I was a trial lawyer… I had no understanding of the history, or where we were going.”
Osterman says that if he had his time again, he “would probably have paid more attention to the team’s relationship with the community”. Over the next three and a half years, Tranmere’s financial position became bleaker and he ended up selling the club at a loss to Palios’ predecessor Peter Johnson, the son of a butcher who became a millionaire businessman in the food industry.
Johnson ended up buying Everton where he was much less popular. His story is a reminder that it is not just American owners who move around clubs, as Friedkin has. Johnson grew up a Liverpool fan, an inconvenient factoid which put him on the back foot at Goodison, where he encountered suspicious minds and hardened attitudes.
Cynicism is deeply embedded among Everton fans, who might wonder how long it will take for their club to see the benefits of being at a new stadium and under new ownership.
Yet Friedkin’s arrival potentially draws a line under much of the uncertainty. Simon Hart, a journalist and author who has written extensively about the club, speaks about the last few years being battered by “existential concerns relating to the club’s future to the extent you are largely numb, hoping just to survive. The impression that Friedkin seems reasonably sensible and hasn’t destroyed Roma is something to grasp and be grateful for.
“At the moment, the thing that needs answering is whether Everton can go into the new stadium as a Premier League club that is secure. There is a sense that anything that keeps the club alive is acceptable.”
Excitement is not the right word but relief might be. Hart thinks Goodison is irreplaceable, a venue where the terraces hang over the pitch and some of the timberwork dates back to the Victorian era. It is as much a part of the club’s identity as the Liver Buildings are to Liverpool. A departure inspires mixed emotions that swirl around the freezing reality that Everton has not won a trophy of any kind since 1995.
As the years pass and the record extends, it becomes harder to escape. Hart describes Goodison as his “special place”, but it feels like “disappointment is soaked into every brick now”. He attended the 0-0 draw with Brentford in November when the visiting team were down to 10 men and it felt as though Goodison was weighed down by negative emotion.
Perhaps their new home allows the club to embrace a fresh start and, as he puts it, “allow Evertonians to look forward rather than back.”
(Top image: Getty Images/Design: Eamonn Dalton)
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