THERE was a clatter and splash of flying crockery, quickly followed by a hiss of anger from my mother. Try as I might, I couldn’t recreate what I’d seen the previous night.
Old Hampden, 1984: like a Victorian alleyway in gaslight, the pitch is rescued from its gloomy environs; the stands are dark recesses of humanity.
Kenny Dalglish tames the ball on the right-hand corner of the box. He shifts his weight and coaxes the ball inside. There is no pause before his next devastating movement: the instep of his left foot strikes with piston-like fluidity. The ball hurtles, its trajectory never deviating. Arconada, the Spanish goalkeeper, flings his body in a graceful but futile grasp at thin air. The ball skims inside the junction of post. It slithers down the old-style net draped deep behind the posts and is enveloped, as if by a parent reunited with a lost child. Dalglish, beaming with delight and incredulity, wheels and raises both arms in unselfconscious triumph.
The next day I took out my Adidas Tango in an attempt to recreate the perfect goal. I succeeded only in shattering a quiet afternoon of tea and biscuits in the back garden.