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Everton v Arsenal, 19 October, the last game before my 17th birthday.

The match was at Goodison. I was a sub that day. Freddie Ljungberg scored for them just seven minutes into the game; our striker, Tomasz Radzinski, equalised for us 15 minutes later. I was desperate to get on. I was watching the Arsenal back four from the bench and I noticed that whenever any of our players got the ball in behind their midfield, their centre-halves would drop off a lot.

If I can get into that space I’ll have a go at goal.

Then, in the second half, the boss gave me a nod. ‘Get warmed up, Wayne,’ he said. ‘You’re going on.’

I looked up at the clock. There was only 10 minutes to go, but I was delighted to be getting a run-out because Arsenal were a quality side. They were top of the table and unbeaten for 30 league games. I wanted to try myself out against the best.

Then, in the 90th minute, I scored the winning goal.

The ball was played up and Thomas Gravesen got a touch. The pass bounced over to me and I brought it down. Suddenly I was in that space I’d noticed between Arsenal’s defence and midfield, and I stuck to my promise.

Sol Campbell has backed off, I’m having this.

I took a touch and whipped the ball as hard as I could, curling it towards the near post. It left my toes and whizzed past Seaman, who was standing on his line. The ball smashed the underside of the bar and bounced down behind him, over the line. There was nothing he could have done to stop that one.

I’ve scored!

I went mad and ran to the fans; it felt amazing, incredible. When the game ended and I sat in the dressing room, 20 minutes after the final whistle had blown, I could still hear the crowd singing my name in the streets outside Goodison Park.