EVERYTHING about it was perfect. It was absolutely and utterly perfect. I can't think of anything else that comes close to it.
The thud of the ball, Rosa contorting her body as she watched her shot finish in the bottom right-hand corner of the net.
She'd just scored the winning penalty in a cup final.
Well, it was actually the plate final. But, for this group of nine and 10-year-old girls, it might as well have been the World Cup final.
Just like Andres Iniesta in Soccer City for Spain in 2010.
Few World Cup heroes have been able to describe the moment better than him.
"It's hard to hear silence," said the former Spanish international, "but at that moment I heard the silence, and I knew that ball was going in."
Nobody lived the moment better than Marco Tardelli in '82 when he embarked on a goal celebration that none of us will ever forget.
Rosa spun and ran back into the arms of her team-mates up in Crumlin that day, only a month ago.
This was the kids' Tardelli moment and they lived it to the fullest.
I'm glad I held up the camera on my mobile phone just at that precise moment because it meant I could re-live it a thousand times over.
Lord knows, I've watched it back more times than that, studying each child's reaction at the moment they became champions.
And I'll show it to anybody who expresses a remote interest.
What's striking about the 10-second video is not only the speed of my daughter running away, but the screams of the children. In each scream is pure joy.
A scream is a scream, you might say, but these screams were so different.
I've never heard anything like it from these kids before.
It was the most wonderful, exhilarating, hypnotic sound, the kind of which that creates an immediate after-glow in me every time I think back to that perfect Saturday afternoon.
Knowing these kids as I do, as I've been coaching them for over three years now, I was still taken aback by those few seconds of pure abandon they displayed after Rosa's winning penalty.
Their celebrations were the most beautiful thing on God's earth.
It wasn't even the winning of the match; it was something loftier. It was this unbelievable sense of achievement by the girls.
Sometimes you wonder how you got here. It's an unremarkable road, really, but an enjoyable one, nonetheless.
You play football from your knee high because that's what you do.
As you get older, your body begins to hurt too much, and injuries erode some of the fun.
So you retire.
You start coaching, not because you have an overwhelming desire to coach, but you want to stay involved.
You play five-a-sides for as long as your dodgy hip allows you. And then you eventually surrender your youth.
You have kids and when they're old enough, you take them to their various sports.
At their training, you run after a few errant footballs and put them into the bag at the end of the session and you maybe lift a few cones, just to help out.
Then you get sucked into it.
When you sign up to becoming a youth coach, there is no contract, but you can never leave. Your daughter would never let you.
Last Christmas, I decided to quit the role. Rosa cried one morning as I tied her shoelaces, pleading with me not to quit.
So, I'm still head coach of St Malachy's 2013s and 14s. Head 'Gofor' more like.
For the last few years, football has been our shared passion. Father and daughter. Joined at the hip. Every training session. Every road trip we're together.
If I'm honest, I can't think of a better journey.
It's a strange thing - and I could be wrong on this – but if I stopped coaching tomorrow, which I easily could, there's a good chance Rosa would drift away from football.
Although she’s too young to articulate it, I'd like to think the passion we share is simply about being together.
It just happens to be on a football pitch three times per week.
I genuinely don’t know if I’m a good or bad coach, or an average one because I think good coaches are always building for the future, preparing for the next challenge or the next game, all the while trying to mould a bunch of players into being better individually and collectively.
For me, it’s not about the future; it's about the present, trying to savour the little things, enjoying every training session, every game, and not wanting any of the 25 kids we coach to grow up too fast.
Because, when they grow up, there’s a good chance a sizeable number of them will not be playing team sport by the time they reach their early-to-mid-teens as the drop-off rates around that age are off the scale.
I don’t know where our wee teams will be in three or four years’ time.
Girls’ football is a strange phenomenon.
I’m still trying to work out how many of the kids who turn up religiously for their training sessions every Tuesday and Thursday and weekend matches do so because they love the game or love being part of the group.
Team sport, after all, can give so much to a child. Identity. Self-worth and confidence. A strong sense of belonging. The life lessons of being part of something bigger than themselves.
At this stage of their young lives should it matter if they don’t love the finer aspects of the game?
But one thing I am absolutely certain of is that these are the best years of our lives.
They'll disappear in a blink of an eye - so we should seize what's in front of us and do so with gusto.
I'll never forget the hazy sunshine of Crumlin one summer's day in June. Rosa shooting for the stars, twisting her small frame as she struck for goal, forever 10-years-old, spinning and running as fast as she could back to her team-mates.
Back to Lara, Jasmine, Amelia, Emma, Eve, Erin, Mya and Jess.
I’ll never forget their piercing screams and how our hearts danced with joy for them.
They might never win again or go on to bigger things – but, for as long as I coach these kids, nothing will touch the emotion, innocence, imagery or wonderful sounds of that June day.
