It’s hard to overestimate the buzz in Toronto prior to the 1989 Grey Cup. The Skydome had opened in June, only a few months behind schedule. And the stadium was an absolute jewel, an engineering marvel unequalled anywhere else in the world: it had a retractable roof that actually retracted.

That summer saw a close-fought battle for the American League East title, and the Blue Jays didn’t clinch until the second-last day of the season. But even more importantly, the CFL had granted Toronto the 1989 Grey Cup game.

The West division contender was the Saskatchewan Roughriders. They had limped through the season to a 9-9 record and a third-place finish before destroying the Calgary Stampeders and then, unbelievably, the 16-2 Edmonton Eskimos.

Meanwhile, Hamilton had possibly the best squad they had ever fielded. Many of their players had Grey Cup rings from 1986, not to mention experience in the two Grey Cup losses in the the two seasons previous. In 1989, the Ticats had the only winning record in the East division, and they handily took first place. They were easily the favourites for the big game.

After Hamilton’s East final win over Winnipeg, my father suggested that it might be worth trying to get seats at the Grey Cup. So my father, my cousin, and my sixteen-year-old self headed downtown to the Hamilton GO Station, where a special train was laid on to take Hamilton fans to Toronto. We had no chance at a seat, but the mood was boisterous and positive, and the hour-long ride slipped by unnoticed.

My father had not even tried to buy tickets in advance; he was confident that he could find scalper. And sure enough, he found a seller somewhere outside Skydome, and picked up three tickets for what was then a lot of money – $75 each. The game had already begun.

We rushed to our seats; and miracle of miracles, they were on the 40 yard line. Even better, the Cats were in the lead, and the first quarter had almost finished. They were comfortably ahead, 13-1.

But the second quarter was a dizzying affair. The teams traded an incredible five touchdowns, ending the half with Hamilton still holding the advantage, 27-22.

My family had lived in Hamilton for almost a century, and our love for the Ticats runs deep. I hadn’t even been to a game that season in person, but here I was, seeing my heroes in person, in the massive indoor stadium, in Canadian football’s biggest game. We had just seen the highest-scoring half in Grey Cup history.

The second half was even tougher for Ticats fans. Saskatchewan chipped away at the lead until the end of the third quarter, when they took the lead at 34-30. With only two minutes left in the game, Saskatchewan remained in front, leading 40-33.

There were plenty of Saskatchewan fans in the stands – there always are – but being so close, Hamilton fans were clearly the majority. You could feel the air being let out, all through the half. The momentum turned, then was solidly with the Riders, and what had seemed like an easy win for Hamilton now looked like a disappointing failure.

Hamilton quarterback Mike Kerrigan – the architect of their 1986 Grey Cup victory – started what would surely be the Tiger-Cats’ last drive. And down by down, yard by yard, the Hamilton squad pushed their way up the field. The energy in the stadium built again, and when a pass interference penalty was called at Saskatchewan’s 11 yard line, the intensity in the stadium was at fever pitch.

It was destiny.

No one in the stands knew that Hamilton receiver Tony Champion was playing with broken ribs; we only knew that he was the biggest end zone threat in the league, having reeled in 15 touchdowns in the regular season, and another in the first quarter that day.

No one was sitting when the ball was snapped.

No one breathed when Kerrigan sent it through the air towards Champion, behind the two backs defending him.

Time stood still as Champion crawled through the air, twisting back to snag the ball.

And when he landed –

We watch sports, I think, because they distill our human experiences into their purest form. I was a Tiger-Cats fan because I had spent so many hot summer days in the cool basement of our house, watching our team on TV or listening on the little brown transistor radio. I was at my grandparents’ house for the big Grey Cup party in ’84, ’85, and ’86, where my whole family gathered, eating Hamilton’s unique Roma pizza and yelling at the TV together. I was a Ticats fan by birth.

But those pure, beautiful moments are what make us true fans of a sport, of a team. The emotions they evoke come from a deep and primal place, and they last in a way that few other experiences can.

Yes, I remember clearly what happened in the last 44 seconds of the game, as Kent Austin dismantled the Ticats defence and pulled into position for Dave Ridgway’s game-winning field goal as time expired.

I remember how much it hurt, and I remember the sad, silent train ride home.

And I remember full well the next few years in the wilderness, as the Tiger-Cats struggled to earn even a winning record, never mind a chance at the Grey Cup. It was nine years before they made it there again, and another year more before they finally took the trophy.

Those were long years.

Tony Champion’s touchdown reception is often talked about as the greatest play in Grey Cup history, not just because it was such an astounding feat of athleticism, but because it was a play that happened at just the right time, against all expectations. It outshines the end of the game. It was pure and beautiful and true.

The Tiger-Cats lost the game. But all the things that led up to my witnessing that amazing and improbable moment, and all the things that came after it, were crystallized in Tony Champion turning in mid-air and snatching pure elation from despair. I may never feel the elation I felt as a sixteen-year-old kid from Hamilton again.

And that would be a shame. So I’m still there in the stands in Hamilton, or in front of the TV, or at Hamilton’s Prince Edward Tavern, or in Toronto or Moncton or wherever else I can go to watch the Ticats play.

Because that memory will never fade.

And one day, like every true fan, I hope against hope that it might happen again.