Where were you when Maldini scored the first? Were you on the floor with your head in your hands? Slack jawed, unable to move? How about when Crespo made it 2? Did you change the channel? Leave the stadium? Curse Dudek to unholy Hell? 3 unanswered goals and you were doing shots by this point, weren’t you? Forget the good stuff, it could have been turpentine for all you cared.
What about halftime? Were you singing You’ll Never Walk Alone? Hands held high. Hoping, praying. Promising your first born, your wife, your savings account and Mans Best Friend just to make a match out of it. Deflect some of the shame. The agony. The anger.
Where were you when Stevie scored the first? Were you screaming at the top of your lungs? Scaring the cat and dropping your drink? How about when Smicer made it 2? Did you hug the person beside you? Pump your first in the air? Sing his name to heaven? 3 unanswered goals when Alonso drew level and your faith was restored. Forget the turpentine, in a span of 6 minutes we’ve got a chance.
What about extra time? We’re you singing We Shall Not be Moved? Hands pulling hair. Hoping, praying. Promising your house, your car, your 401k and anything else within reach to see us lift the cup.
Where were you when Dudek saved from Shevchenko? Was it unabashed joy? Unbridled, uncontained ecstasy? How about when Stevie hoisted the Cup? Did you fall to your knees? Did you run around the kitchen table? Shout his name out the window? 5 European Cups and you were doing shots at this point, weren’t you? A hoarse voice and a smile that wouldn’t go away for weeks.
I was there ((Metaphorically speaking, of course.)).