ON May 29, 1985, at the age of 17, I travelled to my first European Cup Final dreaming of a fifth Liverpool victory that would see the giant trophy reside forever at Anfield. The tragedy which occurred before that match robbed me of a dream but more importantly left pain and suffering with the families of 39 football supporters. Twenty years on, Liverpool were in the final again, this time to face mighty AC Milan in Istanbul. Along with 40,000 others I had to be there. The Ataturk Stadium is in the middle of nowhere. A huge, soulless hulk of concrete, 15 miles north of the Turkish capital. All along it felt like our destiny to win this tournament, although by half-time we appeared beaten - a dream ripped apart by Italian opponents giving us a footballing lesson. I fought back a few tears, watched other people around me openly crying and said to my dad: "They're just better than us." What happened next is a bit of a blur - three goals in five minutes, one hysterical celebration after another and then a return to total anxiety once we had drawn level. When Dudek made that save with a minute on the clock I just knew it was our night. From my seat high up in the stands I saw Shevchenko clutch his face in disbelief and realised that fate was on our side. So it proved in the penalty shootout. The piercing whistles of every Liverpool fan and the antics of Dudek on the line saw the Italians crumple under pressure. People in my row screamed at each other: 'We've won, We've won!' The scenes are hard to describe. Smoke filled the air as flares lit up the Liverpool end and blurred red figures converged on the heroic Dudek. The sight of Steven Gerrard lifting the cup and a fantastic rendition of 'You'll Never Walk Alone' caused tears of a different kind to well up in my eyes. When I was a kid my favourite comic was 'Roy Of The Rovers', but nothing I ever read was quite as far-fetched as this real life tale of football fantasy. | 
