The amount of times I’ve walked to the Estadio da Luz from my grandmother's apartment to watch a Benfica match is countless. The trip with my father and brother is always the same: a repetitive route with Benfica scarves wrapped around our neck all, where all we’d talk about was our club. At that time the heroes were Nuno Gomes, Karel Poborksy and Joao Pinto. It had been years since we’d won the league, and European glory was only sensed in black and white photos published in dusty books. I had no idea how great Benfica was. None at all.