I remember the hug most of all. It happened only five minutes after the final whistle on the rain-sodden Gothenburg pitch itself.
The man I knew simply as Fergie then, advanced towards me with the kind of beaming gladiatorial smile that denoted a lion had been slain. Real Madrid had been taken care of. Indeed, their white shirts that normally exuded iconic supremacy looked at the end merely like items that were tarnished beyond repair not just by the muddy pitch but by Aberdeen’s unbreakable self-belief that had been generated by the most exciting managerial talent of that generation.
Fergie’s joy unbounded, we embraced on the field to such an extent I found myself lifting him off his feet in a celebration that is as irreparably embedded in my memory as much as our spectacular fall-out some years later. I was lucky to be there. I regretted that ITV had exclusive rights to the commentary but rather than being left out in the cold, BBC Breakfast Time collared me to travel to the Final to report as widely as I could and above all to nab Fergie for interview if they were to win.
