Chapter 1: The End
Goodison Park roared with the kind of feverish intensity only a relegation decider could summon. The stands were soaked in a sea of blue, white, and the occasional flicker of maroon from the away fans. Rain lashed down from above, almost as if the heavens themselves mourned what was about to happen. Every seat was filled, every pair of eyes glued to the pitch, every heart thumping in collective agony or anticipation.
It was the 93rd minute. Everton 2, Burnley 2. One minute left of stoppage time. Everton needed a win to stay up. One goal from Burnley, and it would be curtains.
On the touchline stood Alex Walker, arms crossed tight over his chest, drenched to the bone, shouting instructions to his players with the raw desperation of a man teetering on the edge. His voice was hoarse, his eyes wild. He had black hair slicked back by the rain and eyes as blue as the Everton kits around him—eyes that had once seen glory, eyes that had once read the pitch like scripture. Now they darted from player to player, full of anxious hope.
"Push up! Get forward, goddammit!" he bellowed, waving his arms furiously. His players barely responded. The energy was gone. The legs were heavy. Hope was thinner than the mist curling over the Mersey.
The final minute ticked away with agonizing slowness. The ball was in Burnley’s half, hovering near the corner flag. Everton’s winger, Gordon, tried to shield it, but Burnley’s left-back came crashing in, shoulder to shoulder. The ball spun loose. Burnley broke.
Alex screamed. "Foul! That’s a foul! Blow the damn whistle!"
The referee waved play on.
Burnley surged forward. A long ball. A flicked header. A through pass.
Alex’s heart stopped as Burnley’s striker, Thompson, galloped toward goal. Only Tarkowski between him and history.
The crowd gasped. Time slowed. Raindrops hung in the air like tiny daggers.
Tarkowski lunged. A clean tackle. The ball squirted sideways. Everton’s left-back booted it out of bounds.