Champions League Final
Once upon a time, I had a dream… to see Liverpool win the European Cup. This is the story of the realisation of a dream:
It had finally happened, the day I had been waiting, hoping, praying for since I was four. The dream stretching from boyhood to manhood had at last been converted from farfetched fantasy to firm reality. At last, I was going to see my local team play in the biggest game in world football. And yes, I am familiar with that bit of metal named after Jules someone or other that everyone raves about; the prize for that competition that sees hoards of people around the globe attempt to recapture a lost sense of identity by attaching themselves to whatever increasingly disunited state they claim to belong to – World Cup my arse.
You ask any fan worth their salt, and they’ll tell you. Call it what you like, sponsor how you want, it’s the annually contested cup with the big ears that every fan wants to see his side get their hands on. The league title of course is your bread and butter – you’re desperate to win that every year. The European Cup however is something different. It’s one of the things that separates Liverpool from the likes of London. They’ve got their Palaces, Abbeys, Royalty, 24-hour art galleries… and as far as I’m concerned, they’re welcome to them. Why? Because for the fifth time, ‘Liverpool are Champions, Champions of Europe’.
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