What the 1999 Champions League Final Meant to One 8 Year Old

“Can Man United score? They always score.”

The prophet foresaw the inevitable as fate contrived to give my 8-year-old self an insight into the unbridled joy of sporting perfection.

The occasion, looking back, has assumed almost mythical status. I remember it as much for the fact that it was the first "late" game I was allowed to stay up for as the result itself.

The irony is, I only remember the last few minutes.

I vaguely recall something about a Bayern goal and a half-time break, but little else.

In hindsight, I have little recollection of the feeling of futility I assume one would experience at seemingly inevitable defeat.

I only remember the bleary-eyed, youthful optimism that my beloved United would win.

In those last few minutes, all vestiges of the tiredness I almost allowed myself to succumb to were gone.

For the first time, I understood what sport and fandom really meant.

To this day, I cannot watch a video of that night in Camp Nou without the hairs standing up on the back of my neck.

I have long since adjusted to the result—United have won another Champions League since then—but it is '99 that still holds that mythical fantasy in my heart.

The idea that one can be pushed to the brink, squarely eyeballing defeat, before being catapulted to the unbridled joy of victory, will never get old.

Outside of the sporting parameters, this roller coaster of emotions rarely, if ever, exists. In sport, the shared bond of individuals from all walks of life bound together by simple patronage is integral. That’s really what it’s all about.