“That was a scar forever, you know?” Talking to me about Real Madrid’s relationship with the European Cup in a bright conference room overlooking the Santiago Bernabéu pitch in March 2004, Emílio Butragueño didn’t even attempt to duck the gaping hole in his illustrious career – the failure of the side of his peak, built around the famous quinta del buitre, to capture the longed-for séptima (seventh) for the club.

The former striker and then sporting director actually went on that day to pinpoint the 1987/88 semi-final loss, on away goals to Guus Hiddink’s eventual winners PSV Eindhoven, as the one that really got away. Yet going into the return game in Italy in spring 1989, El Real still harboured real hope of progressing to the Camp Nou final. The Spanish had held the advantage for much of the first leg at the Bernabéu following Hugo Sánchez’s strike just before half-time.

Goalkeeper Paco Buyo’s own goal in the final quarter of an hour, after Marco van Basten’s towering header came back off the woodwork and went in via his back, gave Arrigo Sacchi’s men the advantage ahead of the second leg. It was a horrible sense of déja vu for the legendary Buyo. A veteran of over 300 first-team games for the club, he never really lived down his error which allowed PSV’s Edward Linskens to equalise at the Bernabéu in the semi the year before – the away goal which eventually proved so fatal to madridista hopes.

Rather than focussing on precedent, Leo Beenhakker’s men tried to emphasise the positive en route to Milan, drawing on their sense that they had so “deserved” (as Butragueño put it) the final the year before, and that the séptima was their destiny. This dashing side was about to clinch a fourth of five successive Liga titles, and was not prone to showing signs of weakness.

Sacchi later recalled that the Real Madrid players could be heard raising the roof in their dressing room before kick-off, though his interpretation of this show of spirit was somewhat different. “(Silvio) Berlusconi turned to me and said: “Aren’t we shouting?” I replied: “No. They are shouting because they are afraid.””

Both bosses kept their cards close to their chest ahead of the game, making one change each from the match at the Bernabéu. Sacchi’s switch, of Alessandro Costacurta for Aberigo Evani (facilitating Frank Rijkaard’s move forward into defensive midfield), suggested a degree of circumspection. Meanwhile, Beenhakker’s replacement of Miguel Tendillo with Paco Llorente spoke of a required sense of adventure.

After the game kicked off in the northern drizzle, the spirit of the occasion was perhaps best captured just a minute into the match. Belgian referee Alexis Ponnet blew up for a pre-arranged minute of silence in memory of the victims of the Hillsborough disaster, which had unfolded just four days before. It actually turned into a minute of applause, as spontaneous clapping broke out in the stands, and after ten or twenty seconds, a chorus of “You’ll Never Walk Alone” began to swell up, as the players remained frozen mid-play on the pitch, as if stuck in time. This was our first indication that we were witnessing sport at its absolute greatest, on every level.

What unfolded in play didn’t disappoint. There is a deeply-flawed logic to the belief that an eventual thrashing, such as this, can never be a classic match – that tension comes from a result being in doubt until the closing minutes. In reality, this is an optional, rather than imperative, feature of a ‘classic’. Its constituent parts should be two worthy teams, atmosphere, pride, intrigue and intensity.

All those elements were present, and the will to attack was clear on both sides. The game also showed how much more football is than bare statistics. El Real were no sacrificial lambs – they begun at a gallop, displaying not just a champion’s pride, but also a champion’s genuine belief. Sánchez showed the extent of merengue desire, clattering into the elegant Franco Baresi in the opening exchanges. The Mexican’s melodramatic collapse on his back, as he was given the caution that would keep him out of a potential final, was typical of the grand, but strangely unfussy flourish of this titanic clash. He sprung up again in a flash, shrugging.

This was a true contest. Manolo Sanchis had a presentable chance to give the away side the lead shortly after, but took an air shot at the ball when well-placed, following an uncleared corner. It was the signal for the Rossoneri to mark their territory.

In the 18th minute, Carlo Ancelotti picked up the ball in the centre of the field. In the blink of an eye, he dribbled Bernd Schuster and Martín Vásquez before sending a dipping shot over Buyo from range to give Milan the lead. Ancelotti was constantly referred to as a ‘gladiator’ at the time – not least during this game by legendary commentator Bruno Pizzul – but this shouldn’t overshadow Carletto’s elegance.

Nor should it detract from a real intensity that was present throughout the side. Back in the replayed second round, second leg against Red Star at Belgrade’s Marakana, the home physio had been forced to break Roberto Donadoni’s jaw to facilitate breathing after the midfielder was left stricken and in grave danger, having fallen heavily after a rough challenge from Goran Vasilijevic. Watching the curly-haired, whirling dervish here, it was conceivable to equate him with the figure who came perilously close to death in the former Yugoslavia just months before.

The sheer power of this Milan side is still striking today, from the will with which they pressed to the ruthlessness with which they turned a sniff of opportunity into tangible advantage. The second arrived in the 24th minute. Mauro Tassotti’s cross from the right was met by a firm, downward header by Frank Rijkaard.

Still the Spanish refused to buckle in the face of the onslaught. As the half-hour approached, goalkeeper Giovanni Galli was lucky to get away with a clumsy challenge on Butragueño in front of goal (though El Real’s skipper Ricardo Gallego was later equally fortunate to escape sanction for flattening Ruud Gullit in the box), and Michel scuffed a volley wide from Rafael Gordillo’s delicious cross on 35 minutes when unmarked.

The third goal, on the stroke of half-time, captured the true visceral thrill of Sacchi’s side which – for all its virtues – could be occasionally imprecise in its bluster. Before Gullit buried Donadoni’s cross with a near-post header, he fractured a lovely move involving Donadoni and Ancelotti with a clumsy, over-hit pass - which ironically gave Donadoni the angle to cross. The real precision and composure in Milan emanated from Costacurta and Baresi, who were never hurried and seemed never to give the ball away.

In the face of oblivion, Beenhakker’s side continued to twitch, but Milan were insatiable. Within seconds of the second half starting, Donadoni and Gullit were swarming over Sanchis, forcing him to subsequently concede a free-kick. In the 48th minute the Dutch trio combined. Rijkaard crossed, Gullit headed downwards and Van Basten hit his now-iconic, emphatic left-foot finish into the top corner, his 18th in 27 European Cup matches.

The physical effects of attempting to stay with this dynamic Milan were clear even at a relatively early stage in the second period. As Gullit was treated for a knee injury which he picked up in the first half – he was eventually replaced by Pietro Paolo Virdis - it was the Spanish players who looked shot. Schuster and Sanchis grasped the opportunity to breathe, bowing down, almost spent, with their hands on their knees.

Just before the hour, the manito was complete. With merengue defenders struggling to effectively close down, Donadoni cut in towards the corner of the area, and smashed an angled left-footer inside Buyo’s near post. Yet this was no dead final half-hour. Still Milan pushed. Costacurta and Rijkaard – both nominally defensive players – continued to venture forward into the opposition half, trying to create. Sacchi’s philosophy was insidious, from back to front.
As time ran out, Beenhaaker enjoyed a leisurely cigarette on the bench, relaxed in his seat on the bench, with the laidback air of a condemned man waiting for the firing squad. Mistakes may have been made, but there was no place for reproaching El Real’s indomitable appetite despite an increasingly inevitable failure.

Even as they were ground down by Milan, their proud instinct refused to countenance giving up. Chendo diving full length to block an Ancelotti shot with his head in the closing moments, with the Rossoneri fans waving flags and scarves in a victory lap, is a particularly pertinent moment of the unflinching commitment on display all over the San Siro pitch.

“Real Madrid’s fans remember that period very well,” Butragueño told me seven years ago, “because it was a splendorous period for the club. People were very excited by the team. An extraordinary period. But at the same time, people remember with deep sadness, because we didn’t win the European Cup.” Even if not, and even if this superb Milan went onto cement a deserved place in history with victory in the final, Beenhakker’s Real Madrid merit being remembered with a genuine fondness.