I came of age in the mid-70s when Gladbach had one of the best teams in the world. We had a side of young players called Die Fohlen [The Foals] who went out and attacked as wildly as they could. For German youngsters there was no in between: you were either Bayern München and wanted success – and wore red and adidas – or Gladbach with long hair and Puma.

Kyiv was the night we’d waited for. In the previous season’s quarter-final, the referee disallowed two Gladbach goals at Real Madrid, and we lost on away goals. Five years earlier we’d demolished Inter 7-1 at home but because Roberto Boninsegna was hit by an empty drink can, the result didn’t stand. The Kyiv match was played at the Rheinstadion in Düsseldforf, which held twice as many people as our Bökelbergstadion and was now filled with 72,000 fans. I was wearing the long black, white and green scarf that my grandmother had knitted. It was three times longer than the ones sold today, so when you went to the loo you had to be careful…

Gladbach were 1-0 down from the first leg but after Rainer Bonhof’s first-half penalty, Hans-Jürgen Wittkamp headed an 82nd-minute winner and the place went berserk. I remember the tram shaking on the journey home and the train station in Düsseldorf filled with fans singing and clapping their hands to the disco song Car Wash. The next day I went to a travel agency and booked my flight to the final in Rome.