Dear Alan,

It was in the National Stadium on a sweaty night in July 1996, amidst a crowd of 40,000 that I saw you in the Black and White for the first time. In the 10 years that have passed, much has transpired. I have grown from a boy to a young man, and you have gone from a striker having to shoulder the burden of being the most expensive footballer in the world at that time to a goal-poacher whose legacy would reign on Tyneside far longer than those ten years.

I have since realised football is a cruel game not because it can bring grown men to tears (or extreme acts of violence), but in its almost painfully accurate allegory of life. You forced yourself to swallow the bitter pill of reality: that many lesser players have achieved bulging medal cabinets simply because they played for the right team at the right time.

Your reticence when asked about your career in hindsight masks the sad truth that what we have achieved, two FA cup and one Premiership runners-up medals, are plainly incommensurate to the effort you have shown each time you put on the jersey with unparalleled pride. One can only imagine what could have been had you not suffered those two career-threatening cruciate ligament injuries. . .

Days after your career came to its undignified end, you claimed you had lived the dream and never had regrets joining your hometown club. But I have got one regret Alan: I never got the chance to watch you play in person. And unlike the Geordie son of a sheet metal worker who harboured dreams to play for his hometown club, I will never have the chance to fulfil my dream.

Thank you Alan, for the goals, for the force wearing the armband, and more significantly, for the memories you have enriched every supporter with during the past ten turbulent years. You have, without a doubt, left behind a legacy that a 12-year-old could scarcely have imagined that humid July night.