From Der Bomber, a devastating mortar shell.
For most of his career, Gerd Müller’s nickname felt like a well-intentioned misnomer. Evocative, sure, but inaccurate. Bayern München’s all-time record scorer was far more lethal at close quarters, providing the decisive blow with the equivalent of a bayonet – a flick, a slide, a header, often within touching distance of the goal itself.
However, his second effort in the replay of the 1974 European Cup final was deadly ordnance, lobbed from range with precision. Forget Müller’s image as a football commando causing mayhem behind enemy lines. Here was the real thing, a looping projectile that could have been plotted out on a ballistics chart. But it also very nearly never happened.
Two days earlier, on the same Heysel Stadium pitch, Müller had endured a quiet night, suffering from training-ground knocks as Bayern faced Atlético de Madrid in their first attempt to settle the outcome. The Bundesliga champions had appeared fazed in Brussels, no German side having ever lifted the European Cup. That long wait was starting to irk back home, where Kicker magazine had growled: “It’s now or never!”
Defeat was not going to cut it. But it looked inevitable after Atlético made the breakthrough deep into extra time, Luis Aragonés burying a free-kick on 114 minutes. Just as well, then, for unlikely escape artist Hans-Georg Schwarzenbeck, the centre-back ambling forward and letting loose from distance in the closing seconds. Miguel Reina, the father of former Spain goalkeeper Pepe, could only flail at the ball – distracted, his coach Juan Carlos Lorenzo would later allege, by giving his gloves to a photographer, believing the game already won. Either way, Bayern would fight again.
And so to the only replay in European Cup final history, a far more one-sided affair. This time, Udo Lattek’s key performers found their mojo. Several had conquered Europe with West Germany in 1972, and it was two members of that side who shared out Bayern’s four unanswered goals – starting with Uli Hoeness just before the half-hour. Then came Müller’s opening salvo, a superb rifled effort from a tight angle on 56 minutes, his touch to tame Jupp Kapellmann’s cross as crisp and polished as the finish that followed.
From Der Bomber, a devastating mortar shell.
For most of his career, Gerd Müller’s nickname felt like a well-intentioned misnomer. Evocative, sure, but inaccurate. Bayern München’s all-time record scorer was far more lethal at close quarters, providing the decisive blow with the equivalent of a bayonet – a flick, a slide, a header, often within touching distance of the goal itself.
However, his second effort in the replay of the 1974 European Cup final was deadly ordnance, lobbed from range with precision. Forget Müller’s image as a football commando causing mayhem behind enemy lines. Here was the real thing, a looping projectile that could have been plotted out on a ballistics chart. But it also very nearly never happened.
Two days earlier, on the same Heysel Stadium pitch, Müller had endured a quiet night, suffering from training-ground knocks as Bayern faced Atlético de Madrid in their first attempt to settle the outcome. The Bundesliga champions had appeared fazed in Brussels, no German side having ever lifted the European Cup. That long wait was starting to irk back home, where Kicker magazine had growled: “It’s now or never!”
Defeat was not going to cut it. But it looked inevitable after Atlético made the breakthrough deep into extra time, Luis Aragonés burying a free-kick on 114 minutes. Just as well, then, for unlikely escape artist Hans-Georg Schwarzenbeck, the centre-back ambling forward and letting loose from distance in the closing seconds. Miguel Reina, the father of former Spain goalkeeper Pepe, could only flail at the ball – distracted, his coach Juan Carlos Lorenzo would later allege, by giving his gloves to a photographer, believing the game already won. Either way, Bayern would fight again.
And so to the only replay in European Cup final history, a far more one-sided affair. This time, Udo Lattek’s key performers found their mojo. Several had conquered Europe with West Germany in 1972, and it was two members of that side who shared out Bayern’s four unanswered goals – starting with Uli Hoeness just before the half-hour. Then came Müller’s opening salvo, a superb rifled effort from a tight angle on 56 minutes, his touch to tame Jupp Kapellmann’s cross as crisp and polished as the finish that followed.
That, too, was a strike which defied his reputation as “a man of small goals”, in the words of his then West Germany coach Helmut Schön. Müller’s second, however, was on a higher plane yet. Squat, balanced and nimble, the Bayern No9 hoovered up 565 goals in his 15 years with the club, including 34 in 35 European Cup games, but this one deserved a trophy cabinet of its own. Call it peak Müller, the ball hustled into the net with all his usual instinct, control and audacity but with the dials cranked up to 11. For Reina, in contrast, it was the fuel of nightmares. Pure, slow-motion torment.
This was the night that kicked off Bayern’s three-year reign as continental champions, and like many of their most ominous moves during the 1970s, this goal begins with Franz Beckenbauer. The captain shuffles the ball forward to Kapellmann, who pushes it further upfield. Hoeness gets muscled out of possession but jogs back to mop up, before laying the ball off to Rainer Zobel. The tempo is languid, breezy, deceptive.
All this time, Müller has been lurking in front of the defence, waiting for his moment. Zobel provides it with a wonderful chipped pass. And there, on the edge of the area, Müller sprints to meet the ball, letting it bounce at his side. The spin from Zobel’s pass holds it up awkwardly, but Müller adjusts. He hasn’t once glanced at goal or Reina’s position, slightly off his line. He doesn’t need to. He knows. And with a swivel of the hips, he dinks the ball skyward.
Everything inside the stadium seems to fall still. Except for the ball – its arc high and graceful. And Reina, stumbling backwards, leaping. Time slows as everyone else can only stand and watch, enough perhaps for Müller to recall his introduction to then Bayern coach Zlatko Čajkovski ten years earlier. “I am not putting that little elephant in among my string of thoroughbreds,” vowed the Croatian, who also coined the striker’s other famous nickname: “Kleines dickes Müller” (Short, fat Müller).
But Gerd Müller was neither. He was Der Bomber – and never more so than when his perfect lob, all vision and application, dropped under Miguel Reina’s bar, landed behind the goal line, and detonated.
From Der Bomber, a devastating mortar shell.
For most of his career, Gerd Müller’s nickname felt like a well-intentioned misnomer. Evocative, sure, but inaccurate. Bayern München’s all-time record scorer was far more lethal at close quarters, providing the decisive blow with the equivalent of a bayonet – a flick, a slide, a header, often within touching distance of the goal itself.
However, his second effort in the replay of the 1974 European Cup final was deadly ordnance, lobbed from range with precision. Forget Müller’s image as a football commando causing mayhem behind enemy lines. Here was the real thing, a looping projectile that could have been plotted out on a ballistics chart. But it also very nearly never happened.
Two days earlier, on the same Heysel Stadium pitch, Müller had endured a quiet night, suffering from training-ground knocks as Bayern faced Atlético de Madrid in their first attempt to settle the outcome. The Bundesliga champions had appeared fazed in Brussels, no German side having ever lifted the European Cup. That long wait was starting to irk back home, where Kicker magazine had growled: “It’s now or never!”
Defeat was not going to cut it. But it looked inevitable after Atlético made the breakthrough deep into extra time, Luis Aragonés burying a free-kick on 114 minutes. Just as well, then, for unlikely escape artist Hans-Georg Schwarzenbeck, the centre-back ambling forward and letting loose from distance in the closing seconds. Miguel Reina, the father of former Spain goalkeeper Pepe, could only flail at the ball – distracted, his coach Juan Carlos Lorenzo would later allege, by giving his gloves to a photographer, believing the game already won. Either way, Bayern would fight again.
And so to the only replay in European Cup final history, a far more one-sided affair. This time, Udo Lattek’s key performers found their mojo. Several had conquered Europe with West Germany in 1972, and it was two members of that side who shared out Bayern’s four unanswered goals – starting with Uli Hoeness just before the half-hour. Then came Müller’s opening salvo, a superb rifled effort from a tight angle on 56 minutes, his touch to tame Jupp Kapellmann’s cross as crisp and polished as the finish that followed.
From Der Bomber, a devastating mortar shell.
For most of his career, Gerd Müller’s nickname felt like a well-intentioned misnomer. Evocative, sure, but inaccurate. Bayern München’s all-time record scorer was far more lethal at close quarters, providing the decisive blow with the equivalent of a bayonet – a flick, a slide, a header, often within touching distance of the goal itself.
However, his second effort in the replay of the 1974 European Cup final was deadly ordnance, lobbed from range with precision. Forget Müller’s image as a football commando causing mayhem behind enemy lines. Here was the real thing, a looping projectile that could have been plotted out on a ballistics chart. But it also very nearly never happened.
Two days earlier, on the same Heysel Stadium pitch, Müller had endured a quiet night, suffering from training-ground knocks as Bayern faced Atlético de Madrid in their first attempt to settle the outcome. The Bundesliga champions had appeared fazed in Brussels, no German side having ever lifted the European Cup. That long wait was starting to irk back home, where Kicker magazine had growled: “It’s now or never!”
Defeat was not going to cut it. But it looked inevitable after Atlético made the breakthrough deep into extra time, Luis Aragonés burying a free-kick on 114 minutes. Just as well, then, for unlikely escape artist Hans-Georg Schwarzenbeck, the centre-back ambling forward and letting loose from distance in the closing seconds. Miguel Reina, the father of former Spain goalkeeper Pepe, could only flail at the ball – distracted, his coach Juan Carlos Lorenzo would later allege, by giving his gloves to a photographer, believing the game already won. Either way, Bayern would fight again.
And so to the only replay in European Cup final history, a far more one-sided affair. This time, Udo Lattek’s key performers found their mojo. Several had conquered Europe with West Germany in 1972, and it was two members of that side who shared out Bayern’s four unanswered goals – starting with Uli Hoeness just before the half-hour. Then came Müller’s opening salvo, a superb rifled effort from a tight angle on 56 minutes, his touch to tame Jupp Kapellmann’s cross as crisp and polished as the finish that followed.
From Der Bomber, a devastating mortar shell.
For most of his career, Gerd Müller’s nickname felt like a well-intentioned misnomer. Evocative, sure, but inaccurate. Bayern München’s all-time record scorer was far more lethal at close quarters, providing the decisive blow with the equivalent of a bayonet – a flick, a slide, a header, often within touching distance of the goal itself.
However, his second effort in the replay of the 1974 European Cup final was deadly ordnance, lobbed from range with precision. Forget Müller’s image as a football commando causing mayhem behind enemy lines. Here was the real thing, a looping projectile that could have been plotted out on a ballistics chart. But it also very nearly never happened.
Two days earlier, on the same Heysel Stadium pitch, Müller had endured a quiet night, suffering from training-ground knocks as Bayern faced Atlético de Madrid in their first attempt to settle the outcome. The Bundesliga champions had appeared fazed in Brussels, no German side having ever lifted the European Cup. That long wait was starting to irk back home, where Kicker magazine had growled: “It’s now or never!”
Defeat was not going to cut it. But it looked inevitable after Atlético made the breakthrough deep into extra time, Luis Aragonés burying a free-kick on 114 minutes. Just as well, then, for unlikely escape artist Hans-Georg Schwarzenbeck, the centre-back ambling forward and letting loose from distance in the closing seconds. Miguel Reina, the father of former Spain goalkeeper Pepe, could only flail at the ball – distracted, his coach Juan Carlos Lorenzo would later allege, by giving his gloves to a photographer, believing the game already won. Either way, Bayern would fight again.
And so to the only replay in European Cup final history, a far more one-sided affair. This time, Udo Lattek’s key performers found their mojo. Several had conquered Europe with West Germany in 1972, and it was two members of that side who shared out Bayern’s four unanswered goals – starting with Uli Hoeness just before the half-hour. Then came Müller’s opening salvo, a superb rifled effort from a tight angle on 56 minutes, his touch to tame Jupp Kapellmann’s cross as crisp and polished as the finish that followed.
That, too, was a strike which defied his reputation as “a man of small goals”, in the words of his then West Germany coach Helmut Schön. Müller’s second, however, was on a higher plane yet. Squat, balanced and nimble, the Bayern No9 hoovered up 565 goals in his 15 years with the club, including 34 in 35 European Cup games, but this one deserved a trophy cabinet of its own. Call it peak Müller, the ball hustled into the net with all his usual instinct, control and audacity but with the dials cranked up to 11. For Reina, in contrast, it was the fuel of nightmares. Pure, slow-motion torment.
This was the night that kicked off Bayern’s three-year reign as continental champions, and like many of their most ominous moves during the 1970s, this goal begins with Franz Beckenbauer. The captain shuffles the ball forward to Kapellmann, who pushes it further upfield. Hoeness gets muscled out of possession but jogs back to mop up, before laying the ball off to Rainer Zobel. The tempo is languid, breezy, deceptive.
All this time, Müller has been lurking in front of the defence, waiting for his moment. Zobel provides it with a wonderful chipped pass. And there, on the edge of the area, Müller sprints to meet the ball, letting it bounce at his side. The spin from Zobel’s pass holds it up awkwardly, but Müller adjusts. He hasn’t once glanced at goal or Reina’s position, slightly off his line. He doesn’t need to. He knows. And with a swivel of the hips, he dinks the ball skyward.
Everything inside the stadium seems to fall still. Except for the ball – its arc high and graceful. And Reina, stumbling backwards, leaping. Time slows as everyone else can only stand and watch, enough perhaps for Müller to recall his introduction to then Bayern coach Zlatko Čajkovski ten years earlier. “I am not putting that little elephant in among my string of thoroughbreds,” vowed the Croatian, who also coined the striker’s other famous nickname: “Kleines dickes Müller” (Short, fat Müller).
But Gerd Müller was neither. He was Der Bomber – and never more so than when his perfect lob, all vision and application, dropped under Miguel Reina’s bar, landed behind the goal line, and detonated.
From Der Bomber, a devastating mortar shell.
For most of his career, Gerd Müller’s nickname felt like a well-intentioned misnomer. Evocative, sure, but inaccurate. Bayern München’s all-time record scorer was far more lethal at close quarters, providing the decisive blow with the equivalent of a bayonet – a flick, a slide, a header, often within touching distance of the goal itself.
However, his second effort in the replay of the 1974 European Cup final was deadly ordnance, lobbed from range with precision. Forget Müller’s image as a football commando causing mayhem behind enemy lines. Here was the real thing, a looping projectile that could have been plotted out on a ballistics chart. But it also very nearly never happened.
Two days earlier, on the same Heysel Stadium pitch, Müller had endured a quiet night, suffering from training-ground knocks as Bayern faced Atlético de Madrid in their first attempt to settle the outcome. The Bundesliga champions had appeared fazed in Brussels, no German side having ever lifted the European Cup. That long wait was starting to irk back home, where Kicker magazine had growled: “It’s now or never!”
Defeat was not going to cut it. But it looked inevitable after Atlético made the breakthrough deep into extra time, Luis Aragonés burying a free-kick on 114 minutes. Just as well, then, for unlikely escape artist Hans-Georg Schwarzenbeck, the centre-back ambling forward and letting loose from distance in the closing seconds. Miguel Reina, the father of former Spain goalkeeper Pepe, could only flail at the ball – distracted, his coach Juan Carlos Lorenzo would later allege, by giving his gloves to a photographer, believing the game already won. Either way, Bayern would fight again.
And so to the only replay in European Cup final history, a far more one-sided affair. This time, Udo Lattek’s key performers found their mojo. Several had conquered Europe with West Germany in 1972, and it was two members of that side who shared out Bayern’s four unanswered goals – starting with Uli Hoeness just before the half-hour. Then came Müller’s opening salvo, a superb rifled effort from a tight angle on 56 minutes, his touch to tame Jupp Kapellmann’s cross as crisp and polished as the finish that followed.
