Everton and technical partner hummel are proud to collaborate to present My Everton, a weekly series of first-hand accounts describing the most-treasured memories of fans, players, and staff both past and present.
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It was 2 December 1963, the first trip to my spiritual home.
The reason? Everton v Glasgow Rangers in the second leg of the British Championship.
It was a cold Monday night and the chill in the air was enough to take your breath away - or so I thought until I turned the corner and caught my first glimpse of the majestic Goodison Park.
I was seven years old and living in Crewe at the time. I didn't know I was going until I came home from school, so to say I was excited is an understatement.
The throngs of people around me, the shouting of the programme sellers, the old man with his bible and cross telling us we were all sinners and that now was the time to repent (he must have had God on his side as he never seemed to get any older over the years), the smell emitting from the chippies, the cafés and the cigarette smoke in the air.
The one thing that didn't surprise me was the accents! My Dad was from Garston (South Liverpool) and my Mum’s from Drumchapel (North Glasgow).
Once inside - we were in the old Park End Stand - we had a cup of Bovril... Is there any other scenario in life where you have Bovril? I’ve not come across one.
My Dad was clever with his timing. He took me up from the concourse to our seats just before the players came onto the pitch.
The first beat of Z-Cars started and was immediately drowned out by the cheers of 42,000 fans, as the 22 gladiators took to the pitch.
I was seven but I still remember being stood there in awe taking it all in.
The floodlights concentrated your gaze on to the pitch with its billiard-table smooth grass.
Stunning.
The game started but I was too busy at the start taking in everything around me. After around 10-15 minutes I started to watch the match and then that's when I saw him.
He looked smaller than everyone else and the floodlights shone off his golden hair, making him look like a God... Alex Young was his name.
If I'm totally honest, I don't remember too much about the game itself, but I do remember that God (as we called him), Young, scored.
I remember his balletic-type movement made all the other players look like clog-dancers by comparison - and I know that at every game after this one I smiled like the proverbial Cheshire Cat every time his name was read out on the teamsheet.
He was to be my first hero and while other players have come and gone, not one of them can make me smile like the memories of this man can.
I cried when he was sold to Glentoran, and later on went to watch him play for Stockport County before a knee injury forced him into retirement.
I still got a tear in my eye every time he was brought out and introduced to the crowd before more recent games at Goodison.
It's five years ago this weekend since Alex sadly left us - and I won’t lie, quite a few tears were shed that day.
The memories will live forever. There was nobody like ‘The Golden Vision’.
By Stewart Oakes, Evertonian
