There are certain sounds in football that live inside you long before you ever hear them in person.

The first roar of a home crowd when the players emerge from the tunnel. The silence before a decisive penalty. The sharp strike of boot against ball on a cold evening when everything depends on the next touch. Then there is the anthem.

For many years, that music belonged to other people. It belonged to clubs with larger histories, greater resources, stadiums built for these nights, names spoken naturally alongside Europe’s elite. It belonged to places you admired from afar. As a young coach, and even as a boy in Zarautz, you hear it through television speakers and imagine what it must feel like to stand in the middle of the pitch while it surrounds you.

Last week, our club heard it for the first time and that is something nobody can take away from us.

We arrived in this tie against Anderlecht knowing exactly what the world believed. They were experienced, established, comfortable in these surroundings. We were newcomers from Switzerland, a club still building its place among the strongest sides in our own country, let alone on the continent. We accepted that reality. There is dignity in understanding where you stand, and courage in trying to move beyond it.

Our plan in Brussels was simple in words, difficult in execution. Remain calm. Control emotion. Defend spaces rather than shadows. Keep the tie alive. Return home with the contest breathing. At Lotto Park, the match became tight and heavy, the kind of European evening where every pass feels judged. They had more of the ball, and they asked many questions, but my players answered with discipline and maturity. We protected dangerous areas, competed for every second ball, and never allowed the occasion to become larger than the football itself. A scoreless draw can be described as dull by those who only read numbers. I saw bravery in it. I saw concentration. I saw a group of players refusing to be intimidated by status or surroundings. We returned to Switzerland with possibility in our hands.

Then came the second night.

Without the ability to play at home, we settled for as close to nearby as we could. The St Gallen Community Arena was alive long before kick-off. Scarves, noise, anticipation, that beautiful nervous energy that only football can create. As the anthem began again, I looked around and felt gratitude more than anything else. Gratitude for the supporters who have travelled this road with us. Gratitude for the staff who work in shadows and receive none of the applause. Gratitude for the players who transformed ambition into reality. And yes, I thought of my family. I thought of home. Of the people who knew me before titles, before stadium lights, before anyone outside our circle knew my name. In moments like that, football becomes very small and very large at the same time.

The match itself was painful because it was honest. We did many things well. We found spaces between lines, moved bodies intelligently, created overloads in areas we had targeted, and arrived in promising zones with consistency. We generated enough chances to win the game. When Iriondo equalised for us, the stadium shook. For a few moments, the dream felt close enough to touch. You could feel belief moving through the stands and into the players. These are the moments supporters remember forever – when hope becomes physical, when thousands of strangers breathe as one. But football also rewards precision and punishes hesitation; Anderlecht were excellent in the moments that mattered most. They understood transition, recognised our risks, and struck with speed when the game opened. Their winning goal in the 68th minute was cruel to accept, but it was also a reminder of the level. In these matches, one loose structure, one delayed recovery run, one mistimed press, and the ball is in your net.

After the final whistle, there is always noise at first. Then eventually there is quiet. I remained in the stadium for some time after everyone had gone. Coaches do that. We replay every decision, every substitution, every movement that might have changed the story. We search for answers that rarely arrive immediately.

But sitting there, I felt something stronger than regret: pride.

Pride that this club stood on a Champions League stage and belonged there. Pride that our players were not tourists in the competition, but competitors. Pride that supporters from Chur could hear that anthem and know it was their team carrying their colours into Europe. Of course it hurts. When you come so close, disappointment has a sharper edge. If the dream is distant, you can speak calmly about patience. When it is in your hands for a moment, losing it leaves bitterness. That feeling is natural. We should not run from it. But pain can be useful if you know how to hold it.

Now the Europa League awaits. Some will call it a consolation. I do not. I see Newcastle away. Sporting at home. Historic clubs, difficult grounds, demanding atmospheres, opponents who will ask new questions of us. I see another chance for growth, another chance to measure ourselves, another chance to carry our badge beyond our borders.

Dreams do not always end when a door closes. Sometimes they change corridors. We wanted the Champions League. We were close enough to taste it. But this club has already learned the most important lesson of ambition: once you have stood near the summit, the climb no longer frightens you.

We will hurt. We will learn. We will return.

And next time, when the anthem plays, we will listen with even greater hunger.