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Remembering ESPN's Chris Mortensen, who changed how the NFL is covered

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Remembering ESPN's Chris Mortensen, who changed how the NFL is covered

The phone call Adam Schefter always feared came on his first Sunday at home in five months. It was early March, and ESPN’s senior NFL reporter had recently flown back from Indianapolis after a week at the scouting combine. He was about to sit down for breakfast with his family when his cell buzzed.

It was his boss, Seth Markman.

“We lost him,” was all Markman could muster.

For years, Schefter had known the call might come — when your close friend and colleague is diagnosed with Stage 4 throat cancer at age 64, you prepare for the worst. There were a few times in 2020, and a few more in 2022, when Schefter thought to himself, This might be it. But Chris Mortensen always pulled though.

“A tough son of a bitch,” Markman said.

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“He fought for every single day he got,” adds Daniel Jeremiah of NFL Network.

When Mort first revealed his diagnosis to Schefter, over email in 2016, he begged his pal to keep it quiet for a few days — Mort’s son, Alex, was about to coach in college football’s national championship game, and he didn’t want to spoil his moment. Mort was always more worried about what this would do to his wife, Micki, than the grueling treatment ahead. “Micki is really struggling,” he closed the email. “I’m still going to be a jackass.”

He never let on how draining it was: the chemo, the radiation that left burns all over his neck, the IV regimen that sapped his strength but not his spirit. He dropped weight. He lost hair. His voice faded. When friends would ask how he was doing, he’d shrug them off. “I’m fine, I’m good,” Mort would tell them. “I’m dealing with it.”

He worked about as long as he could. At the 2023 draft, Mort’s last at ESPN, he had to use a spray bottle to wet his mouth between segments. His saliva glands had stopped working.

He retired. He spent last fall watching Alex call plays as UAB’s offensive coordinator. His friends thought he was doing fine, all things considered. Schefter called him from the combine this year after finding out one of Schefter’s five dogs, Benny, had been diagnosed with lung cancer. Mort consoled him, never mentioning how he was feeling. It was the last time the two spoke.

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“He sounded better, like things were going the right way,” Schefter says.

Adds ESPN colleague Mel Kiper, Jr., “Nobody was prepared for it to happen now.”

Mort spent the night before he died at home on his horse farm in Arkansas watching football drills and TV coverage of the combine, cracking jokes on text threads.

Jeremiah got the news during a commercial break the next day, then broke down when Rich Eisen asked him about it on the air. The man who’d jumpstarted his career — “None of it happens without him,” he says — was gone. With tears in his eyes, Jeremiah tried to settle himself.

“Mort would’ve punched me in the face if I didn’t finish that broadcast right,” he says.

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A few hours later, Schefter’s phone buzzed again. It was John Walsh, a longtime ESPN executive. “I want you to know how much Mort pushed you for this job,” Walsh told him.

“I know, John, I know,” Schefter said.

“No, I don’t think you really do,” Walsh followed. “You wouldn’t be at ESPN if not for Mort.”

Two months later, Schefter is in his office, staring at a picture of him and Mort from a Super Bowl a few years back.

“I miss him making me laugh,” Schefter says. “I don’t laugh as much without him.

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“I just …”

He pauses. He sighs.

“I just cannot believe he’s not here.”


Adam Schefter (left) was hired at ESPN in large part because of Chris Mortensen, and the two grew close over the years. (Courtesy of ESPN)

They didn’t come for the reporter. They came for the man.

Former head coaches. Current general managers. Hundreds of ESPN colleagues who overlapped with Mortensen during his 32-year run at the network — Adrian Wojnarowski even flew in during the NBA playoffs — descended on a small Arkansas town last week to remember one of the most influential reporters in NFL history.

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But they didn’t tell stories about what he did. They told stories about who he was.

Mort was a prankster, the coworker who always made the room feel lighter. In all his years at ESPN, nobody gave Chris Berman more grief. Once, when the network’s new fantasy football expert, Matthew Berry, walked into the room to watch his first Sunday slate of games with the group, Mort piped up. “Why don’t you sit here, Matthew?” he said, guiding Berry to a spot in the front row. What Berry didn’t know: The seat belonged to Berman, every Sunday, no questions asked. And Berman hated fantasy football. “Still does,” Schefter says.

A minute later, Berman entered, looked around the room and saw the fantasy football guy parked in his seat.

“You’re in the wrong chair,” he bellowed.

Mort and the rest of the room burst into laughter.

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(For years, Berry named his fantasy team “The Wrong Chair.”)

After Berman’s daughter, Meredith, was diagnosed with tongue cancer a few years back, Mort became her sounding board. A rapport developed, two patients slogging through treatment, venting for hours on the phone. One would make it. One wouldn’t. “He was a rock for her,” Berman says, “and probably on some days when he was suffering terribly.”

He was selfless. When Markman was recruiting Schefter to ESPN in 2009, his bosses were on board — as long as Mort was on board. At the time, Mort was ESPN’s chief NFL reporter, the face of the network’s coverage for two decades running.

One Sunday morning, Markman nervously made his way to the green room, worried that Mort might squash the idea entirely. “He had that kind of power,” Markman remembers.

“I’m gonna be honest,” he told Mort, “it’s gonna cut into your screen time quite a bit.”

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Mort didn’t hesitate.

“Seth, if we can get Adam Schefter, you get him,” he said. “Less of me on TV is a good thing.”

Markman laughs, reliving the story 15 years later.

“Are you kidding me?” he says. “Less of me is a good thing? Nobody in this industry says that.”

Mort and Schefter grew incredibly tight. And as Mort’s health deteriorated following his diagnosis, and as Schefter climbed into the top chair, Mort coached him behind the scenes.

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“That sort of thing never happens,” says Bryan Curtis, who writes about sports media for The Ringer. “People who get to that level are very, very competitive, and in almost every instance, it doesn’t work. This did. And it allowed ESPN to own NFL scoops for 10 years.”

Mort was the best kind of mentor. When Jeremiah was still in college, he walked into his parents’ living room one afternoon and wondered why the guy from ESPN was sitting on the couch. It was January 1998, a week before the Broncos played the Packers in the Super Bowl in San Diego, and Mort was in town to cover the game. He’d attended a church service hosted by Jeremiah’s father, David, and stopped by for lunch afterward.

Daniel was a 21-year-old quarterback at Appalachian State with dreams of getting into broadcasting.

“Well, I’ve got an interview with Reggie White tomorrow, would you wanna come with me?” Mort asked him.

“This was literally the first time I met him,” Jeremiah remembers. “I was like, ‘Reggie White! Are you kidding me?’”

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After that interview wrapped, Mort urged him to tag along at media day later in the week. A year later, he was sitting next to Mort at the NFL Draft in New York City, answering his phones and jotting down notes from GMs. A year later, Mort introduced him to Jay Rothman, who produced “Sunday Night Football.” Jeremiah had his first full-time job.

“All because of Mort,” he says.

A few years later, after Jeremiah spent time scouting for the Ravens and Browns, it was Mort who pushed him to jump on this new social media platform called Twitter and dissect draft prospects. Mort would routinely urge his followers to check out @MoveTheSticks, and each time he did Jeremiah would pick up thousands of new followers.

Jeremiah just wrapped his sixth draft as NFL Network’s lead analyst, and his first without a tradition he’d come to cherish: a meeting with Mort the morning before the first round. They’d done it every year dating to 2000, when he was just a grunt answering phones and scribbling down notes.

“It was so weird not having him there,” Jeremiah says. “That man is literally the reason I’m in the seat I am in.”

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Mortensen was a prankster, a coworker who always lightened the mood of a room. (Courtesy of ESPN)

Chris Mortensen wasn’t the first football scribe to make the jump to TV full-time — that distinction belongs to Will McDonough — but, after joining ESPN in 1991, he became the most prominent, a pioneer of what’s become ubiquitous today: the insider.

“If Will McDonough created the role of NFL insider,” Curtis says, “then Mort refined it, sped it up and brought it into the era of cable TV.”

Still, back then some saw it as a risky move. ESPN wasn’t yet a sports media juggernaut, and newspaper beat writers still carried considerable weight. So did Sports Illustrated.

“The other writers used to make fun of their brethren when they moved to TV,” says Chip Namias, a former PR director for the Dolphins, Oilers and Bucs. “They’d say, ‘Oh, you’re a pretty boy now? Being a newspaper guy isn’t good enough for you?’ When Mort made that jump, it was a gamble.”

It paid off — for him and ESPN. Mort brought with him the reporting chops he’d honed at The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, The Sporting News and The National. Suddenly, he was everywhere: on “NFL Game Day,” which became “NFL Countdown,” which became “Sunday NFL Countdown.” As the league’s popularity boomed, Mort became one of the faces of the network.

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More than that, he became the pulse of the NFL.

Peyton Manning used to carve out a few minutes on Sunday mornings before kickoff, hoping to catch “The Mort Report” in the locker room, Mortensen’s weekly segment in which he’d dish all the morsels of info he’d gathered during the week. “QBs watched, GMs watched, coaches watched,” Manning says. “You had to watch. Mort knew who was getting fired before the people who were actually getting fired knew.”

Back when he was a Broncos beat writer for The Rocky Mountain News and later The Denver Post, Schefter would make sure he was in his hotel room, or next to a TV at the stadium, whenever Mort was on the air.

Curtis says during his AJ-C days, Mort began every conversation with a source the same way: “Tell me something I don’t know.” But more than merely breaking news, he loved to uncover the why behind a firing or the release of a player or a trade. That took time. And trust.

“He never blindsided you with anything,” says a longtime NFL PR director, Dan Edwards, who worked for the Steelers and Jaguars. “Mort was like a boy scout.”

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He was also ahead of his time. Mort was working even when he wasn’t. An example: in the early 2000s, he grew close with Archie Manning, patriarch of the most famous family in football. That led to trips down to Louisiana for the Manning Passing Academy each summer, where Mort befriended Peyton and Eli and also dozens of the top quarterback prospects in the country. “Mort was always five steps ahead of everyone else,” longtime NFL writer Peter King says. “By the time those kids got to the NFL, Mort had known them for 10 years.”

One year at camp, after a few coaches flew home early, Mort volunteered to run some drills. It was the last practice of the week, the one all the parents watch before picking up their sons. “My dad pulls up in the golf cart and sees Mort teaching these kids the three-step drop,” Peyton says, trying not to laugh. “Then he sees all the parents watching. Dad goes, ‘Well, this is it. This is officially the end of the Manning Passing Academy.’”


Peyton Manning (right), like many QBs, coaches and executives around the NFL, regularly watched “The Mort Report.” (Courtesy of the Manning Passing Academy).

Of all the star players Mort covered, he grew closest with Peyton Manning. In the winter of 2012, it was Mort who first warned the quarterback, coming off a fourth neck surgery: “Be ready, the Colts might be moving on.” They were words that might’ve seemed obvious to everyone else at the time but stung Manning nonetheless.

“Oh, wow,” the QB responded.

The two traded emails during Manning’s free agency tour a few months later. “He’d give me the lay of the land with each team, an unbiased opinion I needed,” Manning says. “I could confide in Mort. Mort could confide in me.”

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Four years later, after Manning helped the Broncos win Super Bowl 50, Mort broke the news of the QB’s retirement from a hospital in Atlanta. Manning had told him the day before, asking for one last night as an NFL quarterback. Mort vowed to hold the story until morning. Markman was up all night, fearing they’d get scooped.

“We won’t get beat,” Mort kept telling him.

“He wouldn’t break his word,” Markman says now. “And of course, he was right.”

Today, Manning keeps a folder in his email of all the notes Mort sent him over the years.

One came after his first preseason game as a Bronco. Manning had sent a select few — family, friends, Mort, that’s it — a clip of him hitting a receiver on an out route, then taking a nasty hit in the pocket. It was the sequence that told him he could still play in the NFL.

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“Super proud to see this,” Mort wrote back. “Enjoy this. You deserve it.”

On the job, Mort was a disciplined reporter — “the last of the old school guys,” Schefter calls him. He’d bicker with Markman, agitated over some of the segments they’d run on ESPN. Mort loathed hot takes. He’d grumble each time one of the NFL shows ran its “Safe or Out” segment, a debate about which NFL coaches were about to get fired. “These are human beings,” Mort argued. “We’re talking about people’s lives here.”

Kiper says whenever he’d get some shaky intel from a source, Mort would reach out. “We should talk,” he’d warn. “That was code for, ‘I’m hearing different,’” Kiper says.

Andrea Kremer remembers the way Mort welcomed her when she became ESPN’s first female reporter in the early 1990s. “It was always support, courtesy and respect,” she says. “This was a different time for women in the business, and when a coach or a GM sees Chris Mortensen treat you that way — as an equal — that gives you instant credibility.”

Mort’s influence was so immense, his Rolodex so envied, that at one point an NFL team actually hired him.

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In 1994, the expansion Jacksonville Jaguars lured Mortensen away from ESPN for a role as vice president on the personnel side. They wanted him to help build their football team. Mort accepted the gig, only to emotionally back out a few days later, mainly because Micki didn’t want to move to Jacksonville.

“When you think about it on the surface, the job made no sense,” says Pete Prisco, a longtime NFL writer who was then covering the Jags for The Florida Times-Union. “They thought because Mort had access to all this information around the league, they could use that. But the reality was nobody was going to tell him anything now that he worked for a team.”

Plus, Kremer points out, “Mort was always a reporter at heart.”

The lone stain on Mort’s Hall of Fame résumé — he received the Dick McCann award in Canton in 2016 — arrived a few years later, after his initial report of the Patriots’ use of underinflated footballs during the early days of the Deflategate scandal later proved inaccurate. The ire of New England’s fan base trailed him for years, and Mort, by then undergoing treatment for cancer, said he received death threats. He later acknowledged errors in his reporting.

“Nothing really got to him, but when you hear vicious things about your family, things that got overtly personal, anybody would be bothered by that,” Markman says. “It got pretty bad.”

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The tributes poured in after Mort passed away on March 3 at 72.

On his show, Dan Patrick told a story from his “SportsCenter” days. Mort had a scoop, and before running the story, the bosses wanted confirmation from another source. “We don’t need another source,” Patrick told them. “It’s Mort.”

“A GOAT,” Eisen called him on his show. “A trailblazer.”

Like Jeremiah, it hit Schefter hardest on draft weekend. For 15 years, they’d covered the event side-by-side. Now Mort wasn’t there.

“It was my honor,” Schefter says, “to sit next to one of the legendary figures in sports journalism for as long as I did.”

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ESPN paid tribute. Booger McFarland remembered the nerves that accompanied one of his early appearances on TV and the encouraging words that came from Mort after he finished. “You don’t know how much that meant to a guy just starting in this business,” McFarland said. Louis Riddick remembered all the meetings they sat in together. “If you were talking football, and Mort was nodding his head, that was affirmation you knew what you were talking about,” he said.

On his way into Detroit for this year’s draft, Schefter was talking with his driver, Sean Malone, about how weird it would be covering the event without Mort.

“God, I loved that guy,” Malone told him.

“We all did,” Schefter replied.

Then Malone shared his own Mort story. He’d driven him to and from the airport dozens of times, mostly for the draft. And each year, after it was finished, Mort would hand him a $100 bill and tell him and the other drivers to go out and enjoy a few beers on him.

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“No, no, no, I can’t take this,” Malone told him at first.

Mort wouldn’t hear it.

“Take it,” he said. “And send me a picture in a few hours so I know you guys are having a good time.”

So they did, year after year. It became a tradition.

Schefter heard that story and took the lesson to heart, one more assist from his mentor and friend. When Malone dropped Schefter off at the airport after the draft finished, Schefter handed Malone a $100 bill.

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“This is from Mort,” Schefter told him.

(Photo illustration: Dan Goldfarb / The Athletic; top photo courtesy of ESPN) 

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Culture

The Bears need a coach who holds players accountable. Look no further than Ron Rivera

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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.

GO DEEPER

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Why the Chiefs love Steve Spagnuolo: Exotic blitzes, tough love and home cooking

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.

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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.

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Ron Rivera returned to the Bears as defensive coordinator from 2004 to 2006. (Jonathan Daniel / Getty Images)

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.

go-deeper

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Ron Rivera’s Commanders tenure: Winning the news conference, losing where it counts

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.

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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.

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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.

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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)

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‘A long road. A big mountain to climb’: Inside Matt Murray’s emotional journey back to the NHL

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‘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.

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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.

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“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.

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“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.”

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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.

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“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.”


Matt Murray saved 24 shots in a 6-3 win over the Sabres, earning his first NHL win in 638 days. (Timothy T. Ludwig / Imagn Images)

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.

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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.

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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.

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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)

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How Merseyside became America’s 51st state

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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.


Everton’s new waterfront home (Paul Ellis/AFP via Getty Images)

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.

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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.

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Everton is a club of contrasts. 

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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.

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“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. 


Goodison Park – with Anfield visible at the top of the picture – is sandwiched into terraced streets (Michael Regan/Getty Images)

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. 

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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.

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Liverpool have retained their working-class feel (Simon Hughes/The Athletic)

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.

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John W. Henry visits Anfield for the Brentford game in August (Michael Regan/Getty Images)

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. 

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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.

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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.

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Everton’s new stadium, as viewed from Birkenhead across the Mersey (Christopher Furlong/Getty Images)

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.

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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.


Tranmere’s homely but ageing Prenton Park ground (Simon Hughes/The Athletic)

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.

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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.


Joe Tacopina, sat next to former U.S. President Donald Trump, wants to buy Tranmere (Andrew Kelly-Pool/Getty Images)

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.

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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. 


Tranmere’s ground rises out of the streets in Birkenhead (Lewis Storey/Getty Images)

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.

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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.

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“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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