Spurs, under the management of the redoubtable Harry Redknapp, had qualified to play in Europe. Incredibly, they won a few games. And made it to the quarter-finals of the world's premier club competition, the Champions League.
The chance of glory was so over-riding that one Spurs fans, an Auckland banking type with not inconsiderable resource, rushed off and bought a ticket to the final. At NZ$500, it seemed a massive punt when they still had to play four matches to get there.
And so it turned out. Spurs were pumped 5-0 over two legs by the pretty boys from Real Madrid and our disconsolate supporter was simply relieved to find someone to buy the ticket off him for what he paid.
That was me. And back in May, I was in the new Wembley Stadium having my faith restored in a game I've played since I was 6 (and that's creeping ever closer to 40 years ago). The scoreline is history, Barcelona triumphing 3-1 over Manchester United. What will stick in the memory more for those with the privilege of being there was that this was one of the games of our lifetimes.
Wayne Rooney almost single-handedly taking on the Catalan giants of Messi, Xavi and Iniesta. So good were the Spaniards, the Red Devils barely got a touch.
And most significantly it was not marred by any of the cynical play that has threatened my love of the game. No 'simulation', that term specially invented for the divers of football.
Of course, some will say that was simply because United couldn't get close enough to the Barca players. Possibly true, but it should still allow fans to dream that their sport can be cleaned up.
It's my main desire a week out from a new season, which the Manchesters, United and City, open in the Community Shield next weekend.
Forget whether City can become the third English side wearing blue to buy the Premier League title (though with the purchase of Diego Maradona's son-in-law Sergio Aguero this week, they have even more reason to think they can); whether United can find a player who can boss the midfield (Sir Alex's pursuit of Wesley Sneijder is not over); or whether the rest of the country will get a look in.
The big question is: can our game be saved?
The horrendous spectacle that was the Barca-Real Madrid Champions League semifinal is all too typical these days. Players hitting the deck and rolling around more often than a skittled bowling tenpin; more ham acting than a Shortland Street episode; and referees with less control than your average father-of-one.
It pervades all levels of the game.
I managed to get my partner to her first New Zealand match in April when Waitakere United hosted Auckland City at Trusts Stadium in the national league final. The first player hit the ground like a sack of spuds inside five minutes. My girl's hands flew to her face in horror as he rolled around like he'd suffered an amputation. "He's not hurt," I said. "If they're hurt, they don't move." Seconds later, the Sore One bounced up and started chasing his rival. And so it went on.
Generally it was the Auckland City players falling like war victims. A succession of players with European-sounding names - Exposito, Berlanga, Reira and Corrales - writhed around on the ground hoping to trick the referee. One idiot, Manuel Exposito, even missed a penalty that cost City the game, yet had the indecency to attempt to chase the referee around after the match because he hadn't been awarded more.
He was a cheat who didn't prosper that day, but they persist because they get away with it.
Think I'll have my lady back at a game this season? No way, too embarrassing to contemplate, particularly in a country that prides itself on its manliness and sense of fair play.
It won't change. Not until referees get more teeth, till highly-paid coaches insist their players worry more about the ball - not how they react when they lose it, and until lifelong followers like me start walking from the sport.
Days like Man United-Barcelona give you hope it can happen, that the beautiful game is indeed just that. But the realist says it's improbable ... about as unlikely as Spurs ever making the final.
* Bryce Johns is the Herald on Sunday's editor, a former New Zealand Soccer Writer of the Year, and a player with more than 100 games in Northern League football.
* Those three blue teams? Blackburn Rovers, Chelsea and Man City.
