Coventry versus Burnley, and unpleasant childhood memories come flooding back. I was nearing my twelfth birthday in 1969 and my present was to take to the game friends I'd been trying to convert to the Burnley cause since moving to Leicester from Keighley a few months earlier. As Burnley had already done the double over City (2-0 away, 2-1 at home) and already beaten Manchester United, Newcastle and Chelsea, and positively marmalised Leeds 5-1 (not to mention getting to the League Cup semi-final), these Leicester fans were ripe for recruitment. Like so many of my Burnley experiences, it ended in massive disappointment. A 4-1 thrashing and brutal mickey-taking all the way home.

We suffered the same scoreline, and I the same humiliation, on the sole occasion I persuaded Tony Blair to watch Burnley, away at Hartlepool, the humiliation deepened by the sight of Peter Mandelson, 'well-known Hartlepool fan', boasting afterwards that 'we' beat 'you'. Yesterday's 3-0 defeat was by no means a humiliation. Indeed for 20 minutes in the second half I thought we might equalise, but then a second defensive error led to the second goal, the third came not long after and that was that.

Looking back, there's no point denying the disappointments outweigh the moments of magic. When I was three, Burnley were League Champions. The year I first saw them, aged five, we were two games away from winning the Double. I followed them from the very top to the very bottom. By the time I was 29, in 1987, we had to win 'The Orient Game' to stay in the League - a spectacular fall. Victory that day was as momentous in its way as those that had given us our two League championships and our 1914 F.A. Cup triumph. Having survived, every Burnley fan is convinced that though it's now a quarter of a century since we left the top flight, one day we'll be back.

Go to Burnley on match days, and you know there's a game on. We get bigger crowds per head of local population than any club in the country, possibly the world (Manchester United would need about 300,000 a game to get near us, or so we tell each other). And go to parks and playgrounds in the town. If kids are wearing strips, they're Burnley strips, not Man U. There is a passion for the club that few can match. Ask all the former players who've settled there and go back every week. And I believe it's a passion reborn by the 'The Orient Game', when a whole community woke up to the significance of what it was they almost lost.

Visitors to my office sometimes seem perplexed to see prominent on the wall a picture of David Eyres and Gary Parkinson, not exactly Burnley's most famous names, but our scorers when we beat nine-man Stockport at Wembley in 1994 to win promotion to Division One (from which, incidentally, we dropped a year later). It was magical purely by comparison with the ghastliness of years spent traipsing around uncovered away ends being patronised in programme notes. 'Great tradition but you're crap' was the general message.

Or I think back to 1983, another relegation year (to Division Three) when we nonetheless got to the sixth round of the F.A. Cup and in the League Cup beat Bury, Middlesbrough, First Division Coventry and Birmingham before, on the day manager Brian Miller was sacked, thumping Spurs 4-1 at White Hart Lane. That feels a whole lot better when you've recently lost five on the trot, including a home defeat to loathed, despised, reviled Blackburn Rovers. And though we lost 3-0 in the semi-final first leg at Liverpool, we beat them 1-0 in the second leg, so that was magical too, even if we missed the last train home.

It's been such a topsy-turvy time that there is a select band of people who are not only members of the 92 Club (93 including Wycombe) but who have seen Burnley play at all 93 and who long for a Cup tie with Cheltenham to make in 94. It's why we are able to boast, along with Wolves, of being one of just two clubs who have won all four divisional titles. Which reminds me of another magical moment, when second-time-around manager Brian Miller led out Burnley against Wolves in the 1988 Sherpa Van Trophy Final. Laugh you might, but here's one for your quiz nights - when was the last time the Wembley crowd topped 80,000? Answer, the '88 Sherpa Van final... and, yes, we lost, which is why the magical moment came when the team emerged from the tunnel, hotly followed by disappointment.

So when The Observer asks for my all-time 11, I'm afraid none of our recent players make it. The only two who come close are goalkeeper Marlon Beresford, now not playing for Middlesbrough, but who helped us from fourth to first in two years; and Steve Davis, part of the same side, who left for Luton and is now back for another spell. Nor is the team I've chosen an all-time 11 of the best players I saw, but those I remember. I was apparently at the final games of Jimmy McIlroy, reckoned to be the greatest player who ever wore claret-and-blue and who recently opened the fantastic new stand named in his honour, and Jimmy Adamson, still one of just two uncapped Footballers of the Year (the other is Tony Book).

Older fans say that hearing McIlroy was going to Stoke was one of those 'where were you when...' moments, on a par with moon landings and presidential assassinations, so it is a cause of shame as well as regret that I have no recollection of him playing. Likewise with Adamson, on sleepless nights I urge my memory to throw up just a flash of him running with the ball at his feet, but to no avail.

So it's Alan Stevenson in goal (what a pleasant surprise to see him at Coventry yesterday), Peter Noble, Colin Waldron, Brian Miller and Keith Newton in defence; a midfield trio of Trevor Steven, Martin Dobson and Ralph Coates and, up front, Andy Lochhead flanked by wingers Willie Morgan and Leighton James. If we were talking squads I could throw in Ray Pointer, Willie Irvine, John Connelly, Alex Elder, Frank Casper, Steve Kindon, Dave Thomas, Billy Hamilton, Brian Flynn, Adrian Heath and for sentiment's sake Neil Grewcock and Ian Britton who, as scorers of the goals that won 'The Orient Game' are photographically prominent in my home rather than merely my office.

Given our history, on train journeys back it's fair to say we spend as much time on all-time worst teams as all-time best. Mine tend to come from the 'era' I stopped going, after John Bond became manager from 1983-84. He was a disaster, bringing his ways and his players from Manchester City, getting rid of Trevor Steven, Brian Laws and Lee Dixon and stripping Martin Dobson of the captaincy. Bond is as reviled in Burnley as Dobson was loved, so much so that when he went on to become Shrewsbury manager, and they played Burnley in the Cup, he didn't turn up, claiming his life was threatened. We drew 1-1. Bond reportedly went to the replay disguised as a steward and we won in the last minute. Another of those magical moments.

Leighton James was - is - my favourite player of all time. A couple of years back I ran into him, and was reduced to groupie meeting pop star babble before telling my sons they'd just met the greatest footballer of all time, to which one of them said George Best looked a lot different on the telly. But I look at today's kids, millions of them who 'support' Man United, and pity them. The vast majority never get to see them play. And as their team has just won everything, including the Champions League, in the most breathtaking manner imaginable, all they've got ahead is disappointment. Those of us reared on disappointment will have far more truly magical moments in sport than those raised to expect that every game, and every trophy, is a piece of cake. For young United fans, the only way is down and, believe me, it's a hellish journey to make.

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