I've never won the Lotto but I like to consider myself one of the lucky ones.
How so? Let me explain. I've been to just one Champions League match in my entire life. And that game happens to be the one in which Zinedine Zidane scored the most celebrated goal in the competition's history.
Famous for all the right reasons. For its technical perfection. For its aesthetic beauty. For its significance - this was, after all, the 2002 final between Real Madrid and Bayer Leverkusen and this was the celestial match-winner.
But there are myriad more reasons to cherish that frozen-in-time moment. It was the type of volley that every kid used to dream of scoring while playing kickabout in the back field with his mates and two jumpers for goalposts and his own running match commentary in his head.
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It was the type of net-bursting execution made for Marty Morrissey. You can almost hear Marty's soaring decibels as he enunciates, "TAKE IT OUT!" In Banner-French, obvieusement.
Truth is, there was nothing particularly memorable about the game that Zidane's masterpiece adorned.
It was 1-1 when he struck, on the cusp of half-time, but only via Google recall can I locate the provenance of either the first goal (Raúl the ace poacher from a bullet long-throw by Roberto Carlos, aided by a dodgy 'keeper) or the prosaic equaliser (headed home by Lúcio).
Even the preamble was relatively unremarkable: a flighted pass up the left flank by Santiago Solari into the path of the sprinting Carlos, who looped a high cross towards the edge of the box.
A hopeful assist? Without question. And pedantic coaches, you can be sure, would rail at the criminal lack of marking, reserving their loudest bollocking for the ambling Michael Ballack.
Never mind the caveats: savour the moment. Several photographs brilliantly capture the study of concentration that is Zidane's face as he awaits the dropping ball. Others highlight the flawlessness of his technique: the swivelling body position, the head never lifting, even after he pulls the trigger.
But, really, you've got to watch the moving pictures to fully appreciate this poetry in motion. Our YouTube reminder came against a musical backdrop: Nessun Dorma. The perfect fit for a player who was pure opera.
It was scored, better still, with his left foot. And, unlike Messi or Chippy Brady or Ciaran Mac, Zizou was no citeóg. When it happened, in real time, it literally took my breath away.
The only down side is that I was stationed in the far corner of Hampden Park; I could scarcely have been further away as Zidane pirouetted into position just inside the distant penalty box.
But you didn't need binoculars to recognise genius. Better still, I was sitting right beside a human wall of Madridistas, all camped behind the far goal. You can picture the delirium: their number one Galactico has just repaid the first giant instalment on his world record fee.
After that, the second half was eminently forgettable. After the lord mayor's show, and all that.
In fact, only two abiding memories of that night stand out: the first, pre-match, was seeing the stage equivalent of a giant Terry's Chocolate Orange open out into segments to reveal The Proclaimers inside.
As the flame-haired twins warbled about walking 500 miles just to fall down at some bonnie lass's door, the revamped home of Scottish football was rocking to its foundations.
A few hours later, taking a long and drenched detour into Glasgow city centre, I concluded that you'd walk several thousand miles just to witness a goal like that.
I would see Zidane once more in the flesh, three years later in the old Lansdowne Road. Again, another pretty forgettable match, against Brian Kerr's Republic of Ireland, won by a Thierry Henry goal (before his descent into infamy in these parts).
But I was constantly drawn to the veteran conductor, by his beguiling ability to create a forcefield of space around him. Here was a player, guaranteed to be man-marked, who always seemed to have limitless time to play the game at his own unruffled pace.
How did he do it? Several reasons rolled into one: poise under pressure, unshakable confidence, and a first touch that seemed magnetic.
He was also an occasional nutter - as his 2006 World Cup swansong would sadly confirm. Prone to dispensing a 'Glasgow kiss' to mortals who volleyed abuse at him.
We prefer to remember the other Glaswegian Zizou: the man who gave us the best volley ever.