I remember being gutted the first time I found out I was going to the Derby d’Italia.

A folded piece of paper had fallen out of a birthday card from my mum and dad. On it was a picture puzzle to help me connect the dots and decipher their gift. An array of Microsoft Paint art was splashed across the page – crescent moons, aeroplanes, pointing fingers.

I had seen two white chess knights and immediately mistaken them for seahorses – the animals that adorn the Newcastle United badge, the team I’d followed from the age of six. The success of the Sir Bobby Robson era was firmly in the rear view mirror and that had allowed my dad some success at picking up tickets around my birthday. This year though, he had decided to push the boat out.

Picking through the puzzle, with a little help from my parents, the picture became clearer. Newcastle wouldn’t be the destination. It would be Milan and a trip to see Inter take on Juventus. The all-important clue had been depicted by a windmill (MIL-) and girl in a jumper with a giant ‘A’, which I was informed stood for ‘Anne’ (-AN). Pictionary was never their thing, to be fair.

Having convinced myself that another trip to St James’ Park had been mapped out, the discovery that we were off to watch a different team in black and white was something of a comedown. Talk about ungrateful.

In defence of my soon-to-be 15-year-old self, this was a present for my dad as much as anything else. I’d never previously given much of a hint that heading to Italy was high on my wishlist, but his own interest had seen Football Italia become a staple of our weekends. James Richardson’s cafe table was the last thing seen on the TV before heading out on Saturday mornings, while Peter Brackley would provide the background noise on Sunday afternoons.

A chance to experience it in person had become an itch that needed scratching. His son’s birthday the perfect excuse. For this tiny sliver of selfishness, I’ll be eternally grateful.

Watching a game at the San Siro is a box to be ticked on the bucket list of every football fan. To do so by attending one of the biggest games in Italy can defy description. There are few words that can do justice to the noise, the atmosphere, the grit of the fixture. It’s an experience that needs to be, well, experienced.

The two-day trip had been filled by sampling what Italy does best – food and fashion. A trip to Trotter in Milan’s Zone 7 had delivered incredible seafood and the biggest mozzarella balls I’d ever laid eyes on. A trip to the shops had seen dad pick up mum’s consolation prize for not making the trip – a white Arsene Wenger-esque coat that she’d never put on once.

But we were there for another reason; Calcio. My dad had managed to snaffle three tickets for the match by emailing the club’s box office and pleading to allow his Inter-mad son to attend for his birthday. Amazingly, this worked – my younger brother the envy of football fans all over after taking the third stub.

No matter what age you are, the sight of the San Siro lit up at night is one to behold. Its sheer size alone means a first inspection can only really be carried out by standing still and taking it in. Not that we had the time to do so. We had to get our tickets first by making our way to a box office which had its entrance heavily guarded by a line of Carabinieri.

Expertly navigated with broken English and a wave of a photocopied passport, we were through the line of defence and had our tickets. It was time to head inside.

If the outside was impressive, the inside was breathtaking. Not every game at San Siro guarantees a sell-out. We were incredibly fortunate to be at one that did. Rammed inside the football monument along with 78,603 others, the buzz before kick-off was more of a roar. Tucked up high in the gods, we were welcomed by those beside us in our row, largely thanks to us raiding a shop for Inter merchandise hours before. Fans were visiting each isle and dishing out toilet paper, with the instructions to launch them towards the pitch as the teams emerged.

The sides that did emerge were just as awe-inspiring as the surroundings. The hosts boasted a starting line-up that included Juan Sebastian Veron, Luis Figo and Adriano. Zlatan Ibrahimovic, Pavel Nedved and Patrick Vieira all lined up for the visitors. Newcastle versus Aston Villa this was not.

This was a Juventus side at the peak of their powers. With their Calciopoli reckoning still a matter of months away, the Bianconeri had a swagger of side that knew they were untouchable. They had lost just one game all season in Serie A – though that defeat had come at San Siro, against Inter’s city rivals Milan.

Roberto Mancini’s Inter were giving chase as best they could in second, but defeat by Fiorentina in Florence just four days earlier had seen them miss the chance to capitalise on their opponent’s draw against Parma.

Inter came out fighting, harnessing the energy of the cauldron. They thought they had the lead in the first half when Adriano struck. We all did. The Brazilian’s inch-perfect free-kick whizzed past Gigi Buffon in the Juventus goal, sparking wild scenes. The only person unmoved was referee Gianluca Paparesta. He had signalled an indirect free-kick and so the direct effort wouldn’t stand.

Fabio Capello’s side capitalised. Ibrahimovic scored after the hour mark against the club he’d join in less than six months’ time. But Inter fought back.

A corner taken with little over 15 minutes remaining found its way to Walter Samuel, the Argentina centre back meeting it with his head to beat Buffon and restore parity. The stands shook with the celebrations, the noise from another world. Justice was served, or so we thought.

In a cruel twist of fate, the game was settled on another free kick, just five minutes before the end. This time Alessandro Del Piero’s effort stood. The Italian icon had come off the bench and planted his effort into the exact same corner Adriano had found in the first half, wrong-footing Julio Cesar in the Inter goal.

It was a goal worthy of winning any game, one that gave Juventus a huge advantage in the Scudetto race.

Off he went, arms wide, tongue outstretched, revelling in his role as the villain of the piece. Aware of the magnitude of his intervention. Unaware of the Scottish lad’s birthday trip he’d just ruined.