The last time Villa won a trophy I was 24 and, like two years previously, I was at Wembley which was somewhere I had never been before the game against Manchester United in 1994. After the surprising stroll against Leeds in 1996 whenever we returned and won it was only to be semi-finals, and only two of those in 2000 and 2015. Then there were the finals which followed them and the less said about those
subsequent FA Cup Finals the better.

The exception was that day on 27th May 2019 which saw the true rebirth of Aston Villa as we shook off a decade of malaise and neglect to win the Championship play-off final. A significant step but not a real trophy. Since that day in March 1996 though, Villa have been to Wembley ten times, and won just three. European finals, the unlamented Intertoto Cup notwithstanding, just seemed like a ridiculous pipe dream much like a contaminated patch of land being turned into a mega-stadium. Villa just don’t win finals, or that is how it’s felt for 30 years.

The last time we did win a European trophy I was 10 and at junior school surrounded by gloryhunting Liverpool fans and the odd dismissive nose. Was I in some rural backwater in Devon or the Fens? No! This was the edge of Birmingham, technically in Worcestershire, but still less than ten miles from Villa Park. The record of English clubs in the European Cup at that stage almost suggested we should win; at least to that 10-year old’s mind.

And when we did win – the single highest point in my club’s history – those plastic scousers dismissed it. They had done it three times and I should have expected it. These were kids who had never actually been to a game locally let alone one at Anfield, I suppose many still haven’t. One of them stands out. I have mentioned him before. An apparent Liverpool fan who had Manchester United and Nottingham Forest kits just in case. The last time I saw him around fifteen or 16 years ago, from a bit of a distance, he was balding and was wearing a retro Small Heath penguin shirt stretched across his carefully cultured beer gut. A stereotype of a Brummie Red whether that be Manc or Scouse.

My dad was in Rotterdam that day, driving a coachload of Villa fans to the final. That was the plan anyway, but fate intervened a bit. The coach’s clutch failed and sat on the side of a Dutch motorway waiting for help. The fans were eventually transferred to another coach and made kick-off but my dad had to stay to wait for assistance. A local mechanic was found and the transmission was bodged enough to get to De Kuip where my dad and the mechanic got to the game (how a spare ticket appeared for the Dutch guy has always been a bit unclear to me) 15 minutes late to find an unfamiliar figure in front of them in the Villa goal.

My dad died a few days before Christmas and that story, as well as his oft=told tale of driving Ron Saunders, Sir William Dugdale and Ken McNaught up the M1 from Heathrow while they negotiated the defender’s signing from Everton, were again re-told at his funeral much to the amusement of my family members who had heard them dozens of times.

Unlike the Dutch mechanic no magic ticket appeared for me for Istanbul after I missed out in the ballot despite fulfilling the criteria. I told myself this was probably just as well really as I felt terrible in the few days before the game with some sort of cold or man-flu symptoms. My two mates, who had tickets, sent me pictures before the game telling me it wasn’t the same without me actually made me feel a lot better – thanks to Paul and Katie for that and I’m glad you had the privilege of being there.

So, to the game. A cagey start followed by two wonder goals in the five minutes before half time settle some, but nowhere near all, of the nerves I had. Nerves which had increased almost exponentially when it was obvious Emi Martinez had a problem with his finger. Youri Tielemans and Emi Buendia though gave Chris Nicholl and Savo Milosevic some competition for the best goals Villa have scored in a final. As an aside here, at half-time I got another message from Paul telling me Katie’s muscle memory had meant she had hugged the guy to her right twice as those two remarkable goals hit the net.

Even when Morgan Rogers got the third I didn’t feel comfortable. This is Villa. We don’t do things the easy way and I allowed myself to think of playing Leicester at Villa Park in 1995 or Sunderland just a few weeks ago.

The final whistle, though, hit me like a spade around the back of the head. Forty four years of Ellis penny-pinching, our best players leaving, being ignored by the media, written off by everyone constantly, relegation, ridicule. Hodge, Yorke, Grealish… It had all culminated in a single blast of the referee’s whistle coupled with my dad not being around to see the whole of a European triumph. The tears came and the man-flu symptoms all but disappeared.