More than an historic moment in Enlgish football, this victory in the second round of Italia 90, over much fancied Belgium, began a series of fixtures that defined my love for the sport of football. Young enough to harbour very possible dreams and ambitions of one day emulating Platt's sublime twist volley in the dying embers of this encounter, from a devilishly perfect weighted lofted pass from Paul Gascoigne, this result meant so much, for so many reasons.

Had England lost that tie, had David Platt not swivelled ans swung, the very fabric of my interest in football may never hav woven itself so tightly into my life. 

The family home featured a garage, separated from the house by a lawn, at the end of the back garden. As young teenagers my brother and I adopted and adapted this facility for our recreational purposes during the latter years of the 1980s. It was the perfect location to watch Italia 90 from, apart from being in Italy itself. As the summer of 1990 drew near, the tournament was hugely anticipated. For England, a stewing, scorched, bruised pride bubbled angrily on the surface follwing an appalling piece of South American gamesmanship had robbed England of a plae in the semi finals of the Mexico 86 tournament. Bobby Robson, England's coach in '86 and again in '90, was on the end of the usual slaughtering from the English sports media throughout the qualification stage. He resisted, somehow, the huge pressure they exerted upon him. Robson knew he had put together a fine squad who were on the precipice of greatness. As Italia 90 began, the BBC launched a masterpiece of an introduction to their coverage. Pavarotti's nessun dorma played in each broadcast. A piece of music which, for anyone who was listening at the time, will never fail to produce goose bumps and shivers up the spine, even now. If ever a piece of music ever matched so perfectly an experience of a football tournament, it is nessun dorma. Its imprinted on my mind, alongside images of Pearce's tears, Gazza's tears. Oh dear. For now, I want to recall the happier bits. Snacks and drinks prepared, into the garage sports bar. Six of us gathered around to suffer the drama. 

Superstitiously pessimistic, we knew England's talented squad were a match for any team. When they gelled together, this sqaud had the experience and the skill to challenge all opponents. Bobby robson had selected Paul Gascoigne into the squad shortly before the tournament. Gazza shone out, particularly in the pre tournament friendlies at Wembley. Gazza booked his seat on the plane as a result. He was a raw, enthusiastic, happy, sad, excitable young man and always stunningly magnificent at football. Gazza was, and remains, the best player, since Bobby Charlton, to have worn an England shirt. No player since Gazza has made the international game seem so like a playground kic around than Gazza did. He had evry attribute in buckets. Speed, strength, skill, agility and abounding energy and determination. He was univerally popular who forced everybody for and against him to chuckle. His story would unravel itself like a greek tragedy, as the tournament progressed, but his contribution was immense and integral to both team morale and on pitch performances when it mattered most.

Platt started the match ont he bench. Robson tweaked his defence, adding fortification and composure at the back, replacing Des Walker with Mark Wright. Wright was a calm, collected, stroller of a defender with superb positional awareness.

The inclusion of Gascoigne - no hungrier footballer you will ever see. Hungry for victory, hungry for the ball, hungry hungry hungry. He never switched off. He was so wired up you expected his head to blow off his shoulders - added a level of flair to England that has never yet been replaced. A unique talent. A unique man. Bless him.

Waddle and Barnes were two fo the classiest palyers at Italias 90, although Barnes hada reputation of failing to deliver his vclub form with the all conquering Liverpool, on the world stage.Waddle was a magician eith the ball at his feet. A dribbler, a passer, a wide man. Impossible to get the ball off and, for me, the player of Italia 90, alongside Baggio and Giannini of Italy. Lineker was as direct as they come, a man who simply loved scoring goals more than anyone.

Belgium had reached the semi finals of Mexcio '86. At italia 90 they combined that legacy with new talent in the form of Enzo Scifo. They were well organised and disciplined, with a decent turbo charge where needed.

We'll skip the details and move onto the end of the play.

Victory Sprint

t was a warm evening. The lads punctuated the half time intervals by football against the garage door. The TV blaring. The final minutes of extra time. We prepared our minds for penalties. Who will take the first kick? We're perched, ready for the final play. Free kick to England. Inside the Begian half. Gascoigne chips at an angle, into the penalty area, to the right of goal.The ball floats upwards, en route to destiny, to the corner of the six yard box. Time slows. Time stops. We're looking ahead of the ball. Whos on the end of it? The Belgians fail to react. No heads go up. A misunderstanding born out of Gascoigne's teasing delivery. Too good a cross for the keeper to come and punch. Defenders confused. David Paltt has two eyes focused on the ball like a prone eagle. Platt is positioned in an impossible orientation in relation to the approaching ball. Hisbody is facing the corner flag, his head is jack knifed looking back at the ball.The ball begins its descent, arcing towards Platt, still twisted for position. He can't know where the goal is from that position, as he contorts his neck and bosy into a more promising shape. The ball travels over and past Platt's shoulder. He twists, sticks out a right boot, and connects. First time, on the volley. The perfect piece of one touch control. The ball pings off his boot, looping past the burgeoning mullet perm (so popular with the whole of Europe in those days and, some would argue, still now) of statuesque Preud'homme, to take the lead, seal victory in one sublime moment of football dreamland.

Often I hear men describe the birth of their children as their happiest moment. Well, 'm afraid, they must have missed Platt's winner against Belgium, because I have never beeen happier than I was at that moment. within seconds I wssd through the garage door, onto the street, running with my arms in the air. Two minutes later, untterly exhasuted, I was half a mle from home, still running.

Exhausted I turned round, in my moment of personal ecstasy, shared with people I couldn't see the nation wide, and walked home, my beating heart pumping almost through my ribs, and my legs turned to jelly. That moment was so beautifl that it suffices to say it cemented my love for football forever. 

Italia 90, and the matches that followed for England, have never been matched. Germany 2006 was close to being equal, but for me, Italia 90 was the end of an era in domestic football. In the years that followed, the soul would be torn from the game. At least I can say I was part of the game at its most passionate.