THE 25th of May 2005 will be forever etched in the minds of every Liverpool supporter who witnessed the greatest ever European Cup final.
The memories will stick with me for ever more, they are still as vivid now as they were almost a year ago, as I watched Steven Gerrard lift the greatest European prize. Forget the World Cup, where a fancied team can be humiliated by a rank outsider. To win the Champions League, you have to be at the pinnacle of your game.
I recall the shear tension and electrifying atmosphere of the semi-final against Chelsea. I was in the paddock that night as I had been for most of the European adventure that year, in frenzied anguish as I willed the referee to blow his whistle. Surely the final would not be so dramatic? How wrong could I be.
My elation that night was tempered over the coming weeks, with the realisation I would not be going.
A combination of work and exorbitant prices for flights meant I had to make a decision, one which I regret still today. I gave up my ticket and decided I would watch it in a pub down the road from Anfield.
I was not alone. My friend too, had made a decision not to go due to commitments. His brother and our friends were now happily ensconced in Istanbul.
We took our position, standing with the throng in anticipation. I didn't feel too nervous, until I saw the teams walk out. I had the 1960s badge my dad had given me in my hand and I touched it for comfort and prayed we would be all right.
What can you say about that first half ? Abject horror and disbelief. The pub was a mixture of anger and despair. I tried to tell myself we had done well to get there, but that wasn't good enough for a team built on European glory. The inquest began as I walked outside and rang fellow reds for some crumbs of comfort.
We couldn't lose by any more, as Milan would just sit on this lead. We were surely down and out.
