The 1992/93 Champions League season. The first of its kind. A brand new chapter in European competition, though the script was still rough, the cast not yet fully rehearsed.
It wasn’t quite the polished spectacle we know today. In fact, it barely resembled it. The name "Champions League" was something of a costume - it only appeared during the group phase, before the tournament sheepishly returned to its roots as the European Cup. Back then, it was a purist’s playground: only one side per nation, a couple of knockout rounds before the groups, then straight into a final. No semi-final drama under the lights. No dead-rubbers.
It was an old-school format but one very much in transition too. The tournament threw up both thrashings and trench warfare. There were shocks, certainly. But there was also a nagging sense that the tournaement hadn't found the rhythm we became accustomed to. Marseille's 8-0 dismantling of Glentoran felt more cruel than compellin -—a scoreline fit for the early rounds of a domestic cup, not Europe’s elite competition. Meanwhile, the "Battle of Britain" - Leeds vs. Rangers - was a headline writer's dream but a purist's nightmare. Two robust teams, not afraid to leave something in the tackle and on the opponent, put on a show of blunt-force football. It was bruising, not beautiful. Like much of the competition, in truth.
Showboat moments? You had to squint to find them. This wasn’t samba under the floodlights. Nostalgia can put a sepia tint on the ugly, but even the most romantic supporter struggles to remember a classic from that year’s tournament. The quality gap between nations was yawning. Teams from smaller leagues often looked like they were gatecrashing a party without the right invitation. The football was labored, the rhythm staccato. Tactical sophistication lagged behind desire.
Yet it mattered. For all its awkwardness, for all its growing pains, that tournament carved out its place in history. It was the stepping stone to something larger, slicker, global. And yet it remains deeply personal for those who were there, either on the pitch or in front of flickering CRT screens. It carried an edge - the kind you only get when nothing’s guaranteed.
Marseille would go on to lift the trophy, but not without caveats. That triumph, later stained by domestic scandal, came at a price. They were stripped of their Ligue 1 title due to match-fixing, relegated in disgrace, and barred from defending their continental crown the following year. It left a sour aftertaste. A champion, yes - but one that couldn't look you straight in the eye. The kind of UEFA learned to expertly brush under the carpet in later years.
Some names from that campaign resonate still. Some flickered and faded. Romário, carrying a bit more heft than his heyday would allow, still had touches of divinity at PSV. Barthez, sporting what looked suspiciously like hair in Marseille, began the journey that would end with a World Cup. A youthful Vítor Baía guarded Porto’s net like a man twice his age - he might still be there now, in spirit if not in body. Ally McCoist, years before becoming a television darling, wore heartbreak like a second skin. Alen Bokšić, long before Teesside knew his name, was quicker than we'd ever see him again. And a young Eric Cantona, flanked by the late, great Gary Speed, gave Leeds a European sheen that was both brief and beguiling.
They were trailblazers, every one of them. Men playing in a competition still learning what it wanted to be. Before anthem music became sacred. Before branding deals and tunnel cams. Before group stages bloated into double digits and knockout rounds took four months to complete. Back then, you watched because it felt big, not because it was marketed that way. You listened to the crowd, not a soundtrack.
This was the bridge between eras - between the rugged past and the polished future. It wasn’t perfect, and it didn’t pretend to be. But in its own scrappy, imperfect way, it laid the first stones on the path to the scintilating football we've seen since. Modern glory has its roots in moments like these. Not always pretty. Rarely easy. But earned all the same.
Words by Lee Kelleher
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