This article was first published in Champions Journal – read the full piece here.

WORDS Uli Hesse

A glance at the big clock at the Heysel Stadium in Brussels told the Bayern München players the time of day, a quarter past ten, but not how many minutes were left in the game, the 1974 European Cup final against Atlético de Madrid. Still, they knew the match would be over in a few seconds and the trophy was as good as lost because the Spanish side had taken a 1-0 lead in extra time against an inexplicably listless, aimless Bayern team. 

A few steps into Atlético’s half, and Franz Beckenbauer received the ball. Of course he did. He was not only his club’s captain and a gifted central defender, he was also a playmaker in a very thin disguise. 

"He regularly dashed forward across the midfield line, superhero-like, discarding the defender’s cloak and slipping into the conductor’s tuxedo."

The 1970s were the heyday of the classic No10, of wild mavericks who sprayed majestic long-range passes across the field. Bayern never had a player like that because they didn’t need one. Their maestro was their sweeper, or more precisely: their libero. Because Beckenbauer had done what almost nobody else had ever done – he had invented a new role on the field for himself, in the process changing his team’s entire approach to the game. Beckenbauer wasn’t content with sweeping up at the back, unlike his counterparts in Italy, where the libero position had been pioneered. Instead, he regularly dashed forward across the midfield line, superhero-like, discarding the defender’s cloak and slipping into the conductor’s tuxedo. So, of course it was Beckenbauer who received the ball to instigate Bayern’s last attack of the final and then did something very unusual – in both intent and execution – that would help turn Bayern München into a European dynasty and secure their place among the elite group of super clubs. 

First, he pushed the ball sideways, not forward. He used to play up front in his youth, and those attacking instincts had never left him, which is why he would regularly scold team-mates for such lateral passes even when the clock was not ticking down relentlessly. Second, he played this pass not with the outside of the foot, his trademark and one of the reasons he was admired the world over as a player of supreme elegance and style. It was almost as if, for once, he valued precision over grace by choosing a conventional instep pass. Third, the recipient of this last pass of the game was a surprising target. Der Kaiser didn’t hand over the ball to the fleet- footed Uli Hoeness or the aggressive Paul Breitner, and he didn’t feed the lethal Gerd Müller. Instead, Beckenbauer concluded that desperate moments called for desperate measures. So, he gave the ball to stopper Hans-Georg Schwarzenbeck. 

It has often been called one of the great ironies of European football that what is widely considered the most important goal in Bayern’s history was scored by the most unlikely of saviours. And yet, on another level, it made perfect sense.