Everton women will move into the stadium next season, but Sunday's game with Southampton will still be an emotional farewell for most fans

I live 238 miles from Goodison Park. That number has never dipped below its current, frankly ridiculous mark, even growing to nearly 300 during my years at university. And yet, I support Everton Football Club.

Alan Ball and his white boots are to blame. My dad, despite being born in Leyton, east London, and having no connection with the city of Liverpool, spotted him wearing them while watching and in the early seventies. He was playing for the Blues, and that was that. Everton forever.

My dad has been making the pilgrimage to Goodison for almost 50 years, travelling up from Kent to witness some of the most glorious days in the club's history, and some of the worst. This weekend, we'll make the trip together one final time.

Sunday's game with Southampton is Everton's last at their spiritual home, at least as we know it. News that the women's team will move in next season and that the ground will be preserved is more than welcome, but let's not pretend that this isn't goodbye.

Against Ipswich Town a couple of weeks ago, my dad claimed he'd "be alright" – another way of saying he wouldn't cry – during the Grand Old Lady's farewell fixture, but I'm not so sure. Despite the beauty of our new stadium at Bramley-Moore dock, leaving Goodison Park is gut-wrenching.

Getty ImagesThe first visit

My first sight of Goodison in the flesh came on February 24, 1996. I was eight years old and we tied the trip in with a visit to some family friends who lived not too far away. Nottingham Forest were the Blues' opponents, but they were no match for Joe Royle's men that day.

Memories at that age are hazy at best, but I remember visiting the club shop and, for some reason, seeing midfielder Anders Limpar outside, seemingly picking up some club merch. I followed his lead, getting my hands on a home shirt with 'Kanchelskis' on the back for the princely sum of £1 per letter, my parents cursing the fact that Craig Short wasn't my favourite player.

Duncan Ferguson, Dave Watson and Andrei Kanchelskis found the back of the net that afternoon, sealing both a 3-0 win and a perfect day for an increasingly football-obsessed boy who had never seen his team play at home before, let alone at somewhere as special as Goodison.

Looking back, that experience was the start of something much more. It's now more than 29 years since that day and my dad and I are still making the same long journey to L4, still taking in the majesty of one of football's great old grounds and still hoping Everton aren't rubbish.

AdvertisementGetty ImagesMadness of it all

When I occasionally ponder my Everton fandom – which is usually on the train after a heavy home defeat, having spent £150 and given up half my weekend for the pleasure – I realise just how mental it all is. The colour of Alan Ball's boots – along with him being a brilliant player – have effectively dictated a large chunk of my life.

I'd be lying if I said there haven't been times when I've cursed my dad for not following in his father's footsteps by supporting Leyton Orient. They're a lovely little club and, crucially, they're just half-an-hour down the road. I would've certainly been able to get to more games over the years, wouldn't have annoyed mates and girlfriends by disappearing for entire Saturdays, and wouldn't be paying a small fortune to Avanti West Coast Trains for the privilege.

But Orient aren't Everton, and Brisbane Road isn't Goodison. Despite the distance, 30-year trophy drought and everything else that goes into supporting a club at the other end of the country, my dad getting caught by the blue bug all those years ago – and then passing it on to me – just feels right, and neither of us would have it any other way.

As the saying goes: .’ I couldn't agree more.

Joe StrangeGetting to Goodison

My relationship with Goodison is a little different to most match-going supporters, those who can take a stroll, jump in the car or hop on a bus to arrive at the Grand Old Lady in 10 or 20 minutes once a fortnight, and are generally unaffected by TV kick-off times and games in midweek.

While I went up more regularly in my teens and early twenties, working weekends in sports media, regularly going to away games, becoming a father and developing a somewhat unhealthy obsession with golf have combined to limit my visits to five or six a season in recent years.

My dad's claim that he'll be unaffected on Sunday stems from getting to Goodison less regularly than most season ticket holders, but being unable to go every week has only increased my affection for the place. Every visit still feels special, even if the results and quality of football have often left a lot to be desired.

I've been lucky enough to get on the pitch twice, too. Both times, even if only for a brief moment, it felt as if my boyhood dreams had come true 10 years too late, and I was out there playing for the Toffees. Even better was seeing my old man having a kickabout and casually sticking one in the back of the Gwladys Street net. Just magic.

The thought of walking out for the final time, regardless of the score against Southampton, feels almost impossible to comprehend. How can we be leaving the only home I've ever known?

Getty Images SportThere are places I remember

I will miss everything about Goodison. Walking up from County Road and spotting the giant Main Stand for the first time, chips and curry sauce – the type which stains your clothes and your insides – from the Blue Dragon takeaway across the road and pints in the tightly-packed Winslow Hotel and The Brick.

Wandering the top floor of St Luke's church as my dad haggles over more football cards to add to his collection, chatting with friends underneath the Holy Trinity statue and popping into the club shop just to moan about how expensive shirts are these days.

Looking out for legends from days gone by strolling down Goodison Road, those incredible coach welcomes – which left you covered in blue smoke but undoubtedly helped Everton survive in recent years – and the click-clack of the turnstiles on the Gwladys Street.

The walk up the stairs from the concourse and that first glimpse of sprinklers covering the pitch, smiles, handshakes and predictions with those we've sat by for a decade, the roar when Z Cars hits and the even bigger one when the boys in the royal blue jersey emerge from the tunnel.

The unmistakable criss-cross pattern on the Bullens Road, the unhinged response from all four stands when a 50-50 decision goes against us and the celebrations – played out to and – when we get a good result. I will miss it all.