You never forget your first World Cup. At least I never have. I can picture it now. A fresh-faced and twinkle-toed Michael Owen, dancing around a pack of Argentine defenders as if they were little more than stationary training cones, before lashing the ball into the roof of the net. Watching Owen light up the greatest tournament of them all through a thick fog of smoke in an old east London pub at the age of seven (my Mum might not be happy with my public retelling of this story) is one of the enduring memories of my childhood. Looking back now, it was at that precise moment that I fell in love with the beautiful game.