I couldn't see us outplaying Milan but felt we could sneak the game on penalties. "My head says 2-0 to Milan," was my first response. "And what about the rest of you?" my Villa mate asked. "We win on penalties," I smiled. Of course everyone knows how the first half went. My mate was laughing before he started feeling embarrassed for us. While I'm not sure our American friend realised the gravity of the 3-0 deficit. One of the locals had screamed each time the ball hit the back of Jerzy's net and was in tears at half-time. I wasn't far behind him. I had to get out of the bar and made a quick trip to the outside bog where I tried to convince myself that we could turn it around. We'd been two down at Fulham and came back to win. But that was against Moritz Volz not Maldini, Cafu and Stam. I could see our nearby beach hut. If I sneaked back I could just go to bed and read the horrible match reports tomorrow. I still don't know why but I decided against that and went back to watch our pain continue. "Crespo will get a hat-trick," were the first words from my Villa mate. "If we can get a consolation I'll be happy," I replied. Three consolations later and we are into extra time. I've already been jumping around celebrating each goal. Our American friend is looking at me like I'm an escaped mental patient. I'm biting my nails as we hang on. As the ball comes back off Jerzy and Shevchenko moves in for the kill I turn away. Unbelievably the big Pole somehow keeps it out. So we're into penalties. Then the singing stops. The TV has gone dead. People shout at the barman. He glances at the screen and then produces the biggest remote control I've ever seen and points it at it. Nothing happens. I can imagine Rafa has decided the penalty-takers by now. Surely Carragher will be taking one after the way he buried his in the shoot-out against Birmingham. Cisse is probably a good bet too. After that I'm not too confident. Xabi has already missed one tonight while Stevie has never been the best from the spot. The barman starts moving the satellite dish. Still no effect. Out of nowhere one of the locals produces a mobile phone. He listens intently to the person on the other end of the line. "Miss two, miss two penalties," he shouts. "Who? Who's missed two?" we shout back. But he still doesn't give us an answer. I've got my head in my hands as I imagine Dida denying Stevie and Jamie. Then there is a flicker on the screen. A red shirt runs up to the ball and coolly slots it past Dida. It's Djibril. He's scored. 2-0 to us. I'm up and down like a jack in the box as Smicer, Kaka, and Tomasson score. Unbelievably Riise misses by trying to place the ball. Up steps Schevchenko. The best striker in Europe, if not the world. But he looks nervous as he glances at the ref and runs up. Jerzy, all is forgiven. The howlers against United, your flapping at crosses is all forgotten in an instant. I'm running around the pub screaming. I share high fives and hugs with my new Tanzanian friends. When I got back home my brother summed it up best by saying: "You've spent three years living in Liverpool and on their greatest night ever you were on a beach in Africa!" | 
