Leeds United 1 – Barcelona 1

Nearly. So very nearly.

For most of that night, I thought I was going to see the mighty Leeds United beat Barcelona. At our place. Under the lights. Fifteen-year-old me was hardly equipped to deal with that sensibly.

Gary Kelly wearing the armband. Lee Bowyer in the sort of form where you wondered whether there was anything he couldn’t do. Elland Road absolutely crackling.

Then, five minutes in, Bowyer sends a free-kick towards goal.

From the front of the Family Stand, that ball seemed to hang in the air for an eternity. Long enough to hope, doubt yourself, then hope again.

In it went.

1-0. Against Barcelona.

The place erupted. A roar so loud you’d swear it could warm the October night. Complete strangers suddenly becoming close family. Somewhere in the chaos, I was trying to understand how a football ground could possibly get any louder.

Half-time came and went. We were still ahead.

We could actually do this.

Then you looked at the benches. Hay, Burns, Evans and Tony Hackworth against the likes of Frank de Boer and Iván de la Peña. Slight difference in available resources. They were browsing the luxury showroom; we were checking what we had left in the garage.

But the seconds kept ticking.

Paul Robinson was a wall. Every save brought another roar, another glance at the clock and another increasingly unreasonable demand for the referee to get on with blowing his whistle.

We’re going to do it, you know.

Then the ball fell to him.

Rivaldo.

A low finish. Robinson finally beaten. All that noise, all that belief, suddenly replaced by the horrible sight of Barcelona celebrating.

I slumped forward, head towards my knees, and sobbed.

Fifteen years old and absolutely heartbroken. His smug little face has occupied a thoroughly unwelcome corner of my memory ever since.

But when the whistle finally went, the crowd stayed.

We stood and saluted them. “Bowyer for England” rang around Elland Road. Through the disappointment, there was pride. Those lads had given everything, gone toe to toe with a European giant and left them knowing they’d had a hell of a game.

At fifteen, all I could think about was how close we’d come.

Little did I know how much more that European journey had waiting for us.

Some draws you forget before you’ve reached the car.

That one’s stayed with me ever since.

MOT.