The early final whistle in Athens yesterday just gave me a feeling of acceptance of what was happening before my eyes, as much as it was hard and sour to the throat to swallow. But as much as I felt choked with disappointment, the pride deep down of belonging to a family called Liverpool F.C. consolidated by a certain Bill Shankly since the late fifties came to the fore.

The exuberance felt three weeks ago after Dirk Kuyt's succesful penalty, yesterday was twinned by dignity. Liverpool F.C. has always transcended boundaries, hopes and imagination of its faithful and yesterday on football's biggest day got out another emotion off its members.

The build-up to yesterday was tainted by the priority order as seen by Michel Platini and co of how to distribute the tickets and then followed by the same procedure adopted by Rick Parry, where the ordinary fan who creates extraordinary nights was looked down at. As the countdown drew closer though, everybody put his deifferences to a side and commited himself to support the cause. I myself had so many different feelings knowing that we will be facing AC Milan, just two years after that epic final. I felt that revenge would spur their lads too much and we would be like the proverbial lambs going to the slaughter. The knowledge of having ousted Barcelona and Chelsea on the way eased my fears and convinced myself that the sixth one is really there for the taking.

Still, for the first forty minutes or so yesterday I was pleasantly surprised by the display the Reds were given. I wouldn't go as far as saying the lads just bossed the match but I have got no hesitation to say that Liverpool were defenitely the better side, created chances and the enormity of the occassion did not put any shackles on the lads' legs. In the midfield, Javier Mascherano was absolutely brilliant shackling Kaka, Xabi Alonso had his moments - a very decent shot at Dida's goal, the usual infiltrating passes and was getting the ball out of defence with elegance and class. Jermaine Pennant looked lively, very willing to take on players and intercepting loose passes, had Liverpool's first shot at goal and with a bigger target upfront his crosses would not have been wasted. Bolo Zenden, whilst being at the thick of the action never proved inspirational and was below his Chelsea performance. Steven Gerrard whilst not controlling the midfield as much as he liked mostly due to the position he was assigned was always there, being the captain and thrusting forward to hurt them.

Their first goal gave a true meaning of a sucker punch, whilst its lucky execution taking the form of a punch below the belt. In the second half, Liverpool had their chances but Dida was never asked to be heroic. Rafael Benitez, then gambled by taking Javier Mascherano off for Peter Crouch. Whilst taking Javier Mascherano, Kaka's shackles were removed in the process too and one pass to Filippo Inzaghi gave Liverpool a mountain to climb in less than ten minutes. Liverpool made some distance in those ten minutes but eventually the summit proved out of reach.

AC Milan got their revenge but the memories of Istanbul never got tainted. Whilst feeling dejected, our dignity at a dashed dream shines on and makes us look forward for what should be a busy Summer. The contract extensions to Steven Gerrard and Jamie Carragher without any circus surrounding them will be the best possible start to this Summer.

Just two days before a European Cup Final, where do I start from?

Being born in 1980, and getting well into football in the late eighties, I remember European football being awash with Italian teams, sweeping everyone infront of them, particularly AC Milan, with my class being full of their fans. I felt pain, I felt jealousy that they could watch their team gliding all over Europe. We won it four times but never had the first hand experience and not even a video to remind me the greatness of my club. It was alright seeing in print on Sunday's paper Liverpool winning match after match in the local league, but Europe was something else. It was like hearing a mate recounts the great time he had in Disneyland last Summer, when the furthest you've been was the local beach.

The nineties were not much different. Well, even success in the local league got economical now. Late in the nineties though, special European nights were being witnessed again. As Roy Evans once said, 'Anfield without European football is like a banquet without red wine'. The red wine got tasted, it felt good but ultimately always came short in the final hurdles. Gerard Houllier's first full season was without the red wine but his team harvested enough grapes for the following season. One match after another, the Reds slowly starting make their mark and the big test arrived in February when the draws pitted Liverpool against AS Roma who were leading the Serie A, and eventually won lo scudetto. Cafu, Battistuta and Totti and l'Olimpico awaits. I still vividly remember the butterflies in my stomach. This was the biggest European test since Paris St Germain a good four years before. The Romans initially pegged us, and the ref's half-time whistle couldn't come quickly enough. Second half started, and the still young prodigy under the name of Michael Owen intercepts a loose back pass and cooly deposits into the net. Delirium ensues. It wasn't enough, beyond everyone's wildest dreams Michael Owen deposits into the net again to travel back to Anfield with a 2-0 advantage. Anfield awaited its biggest European match for years, whilst having a League Cup Final to look forward to the following Sunday. The good times were being felt again and the then boss was being lauded from the rooftops. The return did not go exactly to plan as Roma put one back but ultimately was not enough to deny Liverpool from travelling to Porto.

Porto conquered and so were Barcelona in the semi's. The modest Basque side of Alaves awaited in Dortmund. Liverpool were in their first European final since the maligned one in 1985. And the pattern of creating the biggest and most talked finals in the corresponding competitions Liverpool are in started there. Going into the dressing rooms with a 3-1 lead, the UEFA Cup looked almost in the bag. But two goals in a couple of minutes as the the second half got on, twisted the tale. Robbie Fowler came in, and duly he scored a peach of a goal. At 4-3 it was surely it, and whilst the clock ticked on the ninetieth minute the lads just had to use their possession wisely to run off the clock. Cruyff's son thought different and headed past Sander Westerveld to take us into extra-time. Liverpool went missing out of European finals for sixteen long years, but once there in their own backyard, the gods contrived to give them what's their due as a Gary McAllister free-kick was helped into the net by a lad called Delfi, and yes he was in Alaves colours!

Liverpool were back again in Europe and it felt good, very good in fact. Like a glass of red vintage wine after being denied off it for a long time as in sixteen years.

The following years, Liverpool never missed out on European football, but the campaigns were far lacking from the greatness the Bob Paisley sides achieved. Europe felt more like a bridge too far than an exotic backyard we all just simply loved.

Then a certain Spaniard Rafael Benitez took over and what better way to carve his name into every red's heart? Rafa took Europe by storm, and the adventures were not just tales of flying in and flying out on a low-cost air-carrier. Benitez simply transcended the previous four years' shortcomings, match after match he displayed his tactical nous, made Anfield believe and provoked Anfield to emulate Inter Milan in 1965 and St Etienne in 1977. That was how far Benitez got into his first season.

But that was only a drop in an ocean compared to the history he, his players and the fans created at the Ataturk on the 25th of May, 2005. It has all been written before and frankly I cannot bring myself to put justice on what happened on that night. One thing I am sure of is though, like his predecessor he made people happy, and brought out all sort of emotions off any red I know.

Special is too common a word to describe that night and its emotions.

And two years later, here we are again. PSV, Bordeaux and Galatasarray were swept aside in the group stage. The European Champions, Barcelona containing Ronaldinho and Messi were dispatched, PSV were made looking ordinary and for the third consecutive time Jose Mourinho's side were left feeling sorry for their bruises.

In some of Houllier's years, I used to believe that number nineteen is only round the corner. But the Champions League felt like the holy grail which is beyond our reach. It was too big to ask for and dream about. And now, we are just waiting for a second final in three years with a gorgeous and shiny European Cup already at Anfield for keeps.

Sometimes you do not appreciate what you've got, but thinking about it we only lived and are waiting for something on the extraordinary side of things.

Chelsea's semi-final was sandwiched between Wigan at home and Portsmouth at Fratton Park. The former was seen as a nice stroll in the park under the sunshine where Jermaine Pennant proved again his worth and Dirk Kuyt notched two goals in a personal great performance which must have done his confidence no harm. Some of the chosen eleven for the latter though must have had a strange sensation. With the exception of Xabi Alonso most of the chosen eleven must have taken it as a message that they have been over looked for the big, big match on the following Tuesday at Anfield against Chelsea, just one step away from Athens. For others it was the chance to don the Liverpool shirt in an official match for the first time. The first half just struttered on and Liverpool went two goals down. No surprise there and no time for shaking heads either. Everyone's mind was somewhere else. A weird and nauseating feeling.

The second half started in the same manner and it had to be Jerzy Dudek that kept Liverpool in the game with a superb block. Sami Hyypia then reminded us of his better days with a great header from a corner. This best signing by Gerard Houllier has been instrumental through the years, made defending look easy, had some of the best positional sense ever witnessed and could chip in his fair share of goals too. This year has been his nadir though, at thirty-three his legs started to wobble and the Danish Daniel Agger gradually took his place alongside Jamie Carragher.

Chelsea away, what did I make of it? It seems Rafael Benitez was extremely disappointed with the lads' performance and resulted in an unfamiliar big rant in the dressing-room. The result was disappointing and let's face it if it was the other way round I would have been made up with a one-nil victory at Anfield. Still today on May Day and just hours before kick-off I am far from disheartened and I just can't wait for it even though let's face it with a sense of trepidation. It goes with the territory, there is so much at stake and the opponents aren't from foreign shores which we usually admire from afar. They come from London, got players who you would joyfully kick and poke all day and a manager who loves the sound of his voice and in a way conducts himself like your typical Cockney car dealer which he manages well considering his dark looks.

The below par performance has been used by Rafael Benitez as a stick to beat his Iberian enemy with. We played badly and they could only score one goal, or something in that vein. There is no need for paper cuttings on the dressing-room wall, I am sure The Kop will be shaking the dressing room walls from hours before. That alone, never mind the lure of a place at Athens and the Shiny Big Ears is much, much more than enough. If any player needs more motivation from that he is not of the flesh and blood variety.

Being May Day, how sweeter and poignant it would be for our club founded on Bill Shankly's Socialist ethics to beat the bourgeoisie funded by Abrahmovic's millions.

Make us dream indeed.