"Steve Bull, Steve bloody Bull!"
It was a big moment and not only because I'd just said a swear word in front of my mum for the first time.
"No, it was David Platt, David Platt!"
That put a slight dampener on things, Platt played for my brother's team Aston Villa and he would be gloating for months. But it didn't really matter, England had beaten Belgium at Italia 90 and from then on I was obsessed with international sport.
It wasn't only football. Before the 100 metres final at the Barcelona Olympics two years later I was so nervous that I locked myself in the toilet and prayed that Linford Christie would win. He still hasn't thanked me.
In 1995 Rob Andrew's last minute drop goal to beat the Aussies at the rugby World Cup turned a shy 15 year old into a street dancer and Jack Russell's hero status got bigger in my eyes with every amazing catch that he took for England.
Of course my dream was to follow in the footsteps of Linford, Jack and ...eerr... Bully but it wasn't to be. I came fifth in the 200 metres at sports day (I thought it was fourth but then realised that the guy who won was so far in front that I hadn't seen him finish), I got into the football team at school but the teacher once told me his granny could play better (to be fair she may have had a great left peg) and although I was a decent wicketkeeper my highest cricket score was 17 (not out, I hasten to add).
Probably my best sporting moment was scoring two tries against our arch rivals Hardenuish school when I was 15 but I realised that rugby wasn't for me when I was chasing a huge prop. I out paced him easily but as he turned around and pushed his fat hand into my face I realised that rather than attempting to make the tackle it would be less painful to just fall over. And like the brave warrior that I am, I tumbled to the floor in dramatic style. Didier Drogba would've been proud.
As the years have gone by though I've regretted not being more committed to playing competitive sport in my youth. Maybe with a little more effort and more confidence to join some clubs I could've been better. After all I'm better than average. A jack of all trades and a master of none.
But surely when you approach 30 the dream of one day representing your country finally dies. Or does it? England can do without me but can another country? A country that was home to my inspirational Grandmother. She once refused to give me pancakes because I wouldn't eat my beetroot but she was a great woman. I still hate beetroot. But I could grow to love Luxembourg...
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