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Dileep Premachandran: In a parallel universe where social distancing was a voluntary escape and not a necessity, I would have spent this week in Istanbul, soaking in the joys of one of the world’s great cities, and preparing to watch a Champions League final. More than anything though, I’d have been there to commemorate one of the great events of my life, the watching of a football match that is now recalled simply as The Miracle of Istanbul.

Of course, those associated with AC Milan may see it very differently. In I Think Therefore I Play, Andrea Pirlo’s superb autobiography, he addressed the meltdown from 3–0 up with remarkable clarity. “There are always lessons to be found in the darkest moments,” he wrote. “It’s a moral obligation to dig deep and find that little glimmer of hope or pearl of wisdom. You might hit upon an elegant phrase that stays with you and makes the journey that little less bitter. I’ve tried with Istanbul and haven’t managed to get beyond these words: for fuck’s sake.”

I recently read what I wrote in the immediate aftermath of the game, and there was so much stuff I had forgotten, so many little details that had faded away. Now, when I close my eyes, it’s emotions as much as details that come to the surface. That feeling of landing at the airport, without a match ticket. I don’t know if I could be as recklessly impulsive now, but I’m glad I was back then.

The sights, sounds and scents of Istanbul, especially the aromas of meat being grilled while endless mugs of Efes Pilsen were dispensed from huge barrels. The feeling of being part of a Red Sea on the streets of Sultanahmet. Finally scrounging a ticket for 300 Euros inside a belly dancing club. The nausea the morning after, as reality kicked in and we prepared for kick-off that night.

The interminable cab ride to the Ataturk Stadium. “It’s in fucking Bulgaria,” the cabbie complained as we crawled in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Sharing the taxi with the Corinthians-supporting Ms da Silva and her boyfriend. Her brief cameo in The Phantom Menace made her the only celebrity in our midst, and it was lovely to talk to someone who understood my obsession with Dr. Socrates, once the darling of Corinthians and Brazil.

The sing-alongs outside the stadium. Pete Wylie and Heart as Big as Liverpool. Nerves so crippling I doubled up in pain a couple of times. The greasiest of greasy burgers. Finding that the ticket I’d bought was in the Milan end, right in the middle of fancy leather jackets and expensive aftershave. Paolo Maldini scoring almost before we’d settled in our seats.

Pirlo and Kaka putting on a midfield masterclass, possibly the best half of football I’ve seen in a European final. You just wished it wasn’t your team that was 3–0 down and getting battered. Blinking back tears on the concourse at half-time, and finding an old man putting his arm around my shoulder. “Chin up. We need an early goal. I think we can still restore some pride, go down fighting.”

I never knew his name, but if he’s survived Covid-19 and the intervening 15 years, I hope he knows that a random stranger thousands of miles away loves him for that gift of hope. The singing started long before the second half began. Having a seat bang in line with the penalty box, a perfect view for all the goals scored. The perfect arc of the John Arne Riise cross, Stevie Wonder’s header.

The Smicer daisycutter that made it 2–3. Gerrard surging through again before being clipped by Rino Gattuso. Alonso tucking away the penalty at the second time of asking. Waves of hysteria giving way to the kind of panic I’ve never know before or since. Milan reestablishing a strangehold. Dudek’s saves from Shevchenko in extra-time, so unreal I couldn’t have imagined them if I was on LSD.

The pride before the penalty shootout. Wishing the Milan fans around me luck as we prepared for the cruelest way to end a sporting contest. Serginho’s miss. Pirlo fluffing his lines. Dudek imitating Grobelaar’s antics from Rome in 1984. Smicer’s last kick as a Liverpool player, almost the perfect penalty. Shevchenko, for so long the ice-cool KGB assassin, suddenly becoming human and fallible. Wave after wave of euphoria washing over me. Consoling those nearby, and exchanging scarves. Running down to the bottom of the stands. Hugging total strangers, and being soaked in their tears. The little boy being held up by his mum so he could see better.

The trophy presentation. The players running towards us to celebrate. The long bus ride back to the city. The pub running out of beer by 5am. The cab driver who took me to the İnönü Stadium, where we sneaked in to sit in the centre circle and chat about football and his love of Besiktas.

Waking up past 2pm, and catching up over black tea with Hakan, the impeccably dressed owner of the nearby café. Finding an email in my inbox from Jesse Fink, my editor at Inside Sport, asking if I wanted to do a fan’s account of a game like no other. Watching most of the fans leave, knowing your paths would probably never cross again. Sailing on the Bosphorus in a daze. Being scrubbed within an inch of my life inside a hammam that Hakan had recommended. The kebabs and buttered rice. Smoking the hookah.

It all seems like such a long time ago. Liverpool Football Club has moved forward, and is unquestionably in a better place now. I’m very different too. But the memories of that night come back often. I told a friend once that it was like staking your life savings on one number at roulette and finding the little ball fall your way.

The late, great, Frank Deford once wrote: “What is Michael Jordan worth? What is a breeze worth on a hot summer’s day? What is a smile worth? Who knows?” I know how much I spent to get to Istanbul and watch that game. But what I couldn’t tell you is how much I got back. It was incalculable. Priceless