It was a beautiful summer’s evening in Hildenborough, Kent. My friends and girlfriend were ordering takeaway in preparation to watch the 2003 Champions League final at Old Trafford.
As a born-and-bred Milanese living away from home, I had a dry mouth, no appetite the whole day and was waiting impatiently for the game to kick off.
90 minutes went by and there was no goal. 120 minutes passed by and still no goal. I was cursing a wonderful Buffon save from a Pippo Inzaghi header in the first half.
Juventus, the undoubted best team in italy, were up against my boys; my beloved Milan. Oh, how I will never forget the moment Shevchenka tucked away that penalty.
Wearing my black shorts and 1996 Milan home shirt, I took the shirt off, ran out of the door barefoot and started running down the street like a madman.
Eventually, I sat down to eat some home-made risotto at 3am. Milan I love you.
Siamo campioni d’europa.