While growing up, my father who was not entirely a sports person always fed me with a too-good-to-be true tales of the legendary Pele and his side-kick Maradona.
What those incredible duo did was so astounding and remarkable that decades after hanging their boots, their names still loom large over every footballer's head.
They were the greatest ever.
Looking at the video clips of those times, I used to wish I had seen Maradona at his prime. I envied those who did.
Great guys didn't just exist in football, though.
Carl Lewis and Ben Johnson were the finest sprinters of their generation but they were spent before I knocked out my last milk teeth.
I missed Michael Johnson and his amazing basketball skills and I wasn't even born when Mohammed Ali won his last heavyweight boxing title.
At a point it seemed my generation had missed it all.
Then we turned a corner.
At first, it was a supremely gifted Michael Jordan who took a narrow game of Basketball and turned it into a global phenomenon.
Then a young and fearless Mike Tyson revealed that exciting boxing had not retired with Ali. And by the time Floyd Mayweather called it quit with the gloves trade, I was given a name I can throw up as the best ever.
Those who thought Ben J was fast, fainted when Asafa Powell blasted past. By the time Usain Bolt came bearing down the finish line, everyone knew they'd just seen a great the likes of whom has never been and may never again be!
I make bold to say therefore that my generation has been the most favoured of all.
I've watched Maria Mutola achieved the impossible.
I've been blown away literally by the feats of Micheal Johnson on the tracks.
And I've watched Michael Phelps outswim sharks in the waters.
I will most certainly tell my kids the story of Serena Williams and her incredible feat and I'll try not to be mad at them if they don't believe me.
I'm still deciding whether to tell my grand-kids of Pete Sampras or Roger Federer but I'd probably go for it and tell them of both tennis greats risking that they might think of me as an old liar.
But in the moonlight and on rooftops, when my bones are dry, rickety and struggling to support my weight, I will wax lyrical of Austin Okocha and Zinedine Zidane.
I will sing of Alex Ferguson and of Pep Guardiola's Barcelona.
The greatest I will reserve till the very last.
Of Cristiano Ronaldo I will conjure a sweet-smelling tale worthy of his great exploits.
But of Lionel Messi, the greatest wizard to ever produce magic from an ordinary piece of round leather, no one will compare!
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