If you were a football obsessed primary schoolboy in 1974, there was, likely as not, only one name you screamed out in the imaginary commentary as you banged one in from six yards on the playground. That name certainly wouldn’t have been that of either of Forest’s earnest, decent but unspectacular forwards John Galley or Neil Martin, whose goals steered the Reds to 7th in the old division two that 73-4 season. Nope. One name. Gerd Müller. And one celebration; Müller’s iconic, simple one hand aloft.
Gerd (Gerhard) Müller passed away a fortnight ago and I only realised yesterday, which suggests that his passing wasn’t noted as much as it should have been. Müller was a goal machine - 68 in 62 appearances for West Germany, 365 in 437 Bundesliga games for Bayern. His record for 85 goals in a calendar year (1972) was only recently bettered by Lionel Messi and his 40 in a season (71-72) similarly by Robert Lewandowski. Those who knew him suggest he didn’t like the reputation as a machine , or the nickname Der Bomber. He reportedly felt that undermined his artistry. His place as possibly the greatest ever footballer is generally overlooked as “all he did was score goals.” Not the exoticism of Pele or the exquisite skills and elegance of Johan Cruyff. But if football is about the joy of goals - and those of us unfortunate enough to support Forest at the moment might have forgotten that feeling - then Müller was magnificent.
It is hard now to imagine a time when Bayern weren’t all-dominating, but it’s not that long ago. Bayern had flirted with liquidation in the 1950s. Their record in the post war Oberliga South had not secured them a place in the first Bundesliga, which instead went to city rivals TSV 1860. A team built around the talents of ’The Axis’: Frank Beckenbauer, ’keeper Sepp Maier and Müller won promotion to the Bundesliga in 1965. Success came quickly, but the golden period was three successive European Cup wins: 1974 v Valencia, 4-0 in a replay at Heysel, in which Müller scored two; 1975 v Leeds in Paris, the night of the infamous Leeds riots, 2-0 with Müller scoring the second; 1976 at Hampden v St Etienne, 1-0 with Müller not on the scoresheet.
Three European Cups, a Cup Winners’ Cup, countless Bundesliga and Cup (Pokal) medals and we’ve still not really got to the crux really what Gerd is celebrated for, certainly outside of Bayern’s fan base. I asked Philipp, my chief correspondent in Cologne what he made of Müller, knowing full-well his ardent-loathing of Bayern as the antithesis of everything he believes football should be (namely fan-owned). Philipp takes a special anti-Bayern banner to matches against them. I’ve helped him tie it in place. His view: “Everyone loved and respected him and felt sorry for his alcoholism - not in a funny way like Gazza, but real sorrow and respect”.
This love is, of course, about Müller’s role in the national team. Scorer of the winner in the ‘74 World Cup final v Holland. Scorer of that goal, typically hooked in from 6 yards to knock England out of the ‘70 World Cup.
Müller quit Die Mannschaft, the national team, immediately after the ‘74 World Cup. It was his doing, aged only 28, and versions differ. Some say he quit in protest at wives and girlfriends being barred from the victory banquet. More likely, is the version that it was all pre-planned and he had informed coach Helmut Schön up to a year in advance.
His club career carried on, at Bayern until ‘79 and for a while in the fledgling North American Soccer League.
Muller struggled with life after football. If goal scoring is a drug, he suffered acute withdrawal and sought a replacement in alcohol. Bayern did their best for him. His friends, Uli Hoeness, Frank Beckenbauer and Karl-Heinz Rummenigge brought him back for therapy and to fulfil various roles on the understanding that he quit the booze. This he succeeded in, but life was to deal him another blow in the form of dementia, first diagnosed six years ago. True to form, and to their enormous credit, Bayern stood by him and he was part of the ‘family’ until his recent passing in a care home, just South of Munich. Ruhe in Frieden, Gert. Rest in peace.
Thoughts of Gerd Müller took me to Munich. Not (yet) to the ‘79 European Cup Final, but to the UEFA Cup quarter final in 1996. This was an odd season. A decent Forest side had got off to a great start, been trounced 7-0 at Blackburn (see ‘4,000 Holes’ post here) and still managed to be England’s only team left in Europe by Christmas. We were OK and finished 9th, but never really got over the sale of Stan Collymore. We’d beaten Malmo, Auxerre and Lyon. I’d travelled away to Auxerre, with Tart, on one of the official buses and it had been a pleasant enough trip, but a bit quiet and uneventful. Lyon wasn’t an option for me, but Munich was as someone, presumably in the Newshouse, had the bright idea to take a minibus.
So, in bitter, early March weather, off we went. If I’m honest, I can’t remember the full list of jolly travellers, but I know that Tart and Jed drove. Tart was, still is, Tart as a result of his habit of supporting a number of teams, whilst really being ‘married’ to Gillingham, his home town club. Jed was Jed simply because he resembled JD (Jed) Clampett in the Beverley Hillbillies and was a fabulous character. Not everyone sets off to a car auction to buy a ‘nice little runabout for the missus’ and comes home with a vintage fire engine. Jed did.
A significant haul of psychotropic dance drugs were stashed behind the dashboard for the consumption of those with a penchant for such things and the journey started. A journey of which I remember nothing, famously sleeping pretty much from Carlton Hill to the outskirts of Munich. I’d had a hard week at work!
Arrival in Munich was celebrated a) by waking me up and b) playing the Dambusters theme extremely loudly and sticking our arms out of the window as we went. It seemed funny then, but… Apologies to all of my German friends. If it makes it any better, no one noticed; was about 4am in some sleepy suburb. Why are we so bloody obsessed with the War? I’ve just finished a brilliant book, Why The Germans Do It Better, by John Kampfner. One of his (many) theories is that the German people have been forced by circumstance to have a much healthier view of it and be more forward looking. He may have a point. I recently got into a Facebook spat on a local nostalgia group, after posts appeared decrying the modern generation for their softness and claiming that the current 60-80 group are the “golden generation”. Why, I asked. “Because we won the war.” Aaaaagh! This kind of delusion, for reasons obvious, isn’t going to exist in Germany.
On which subject, we did take in a bit of history and took the train out to Dachau, to pay our respects and confront the horrors of history. Again, you have to admire the way the German people do not shrink from their history, take responsibility and try to learn. Coming to terms with history: vergangenheitsbewältigung. Great concept, great word.
Back to the story. We stayed in the lovely central apartment of our friend Darryl, erstwhile Pogues bass-player and Munich resident. Darryl had got into DJing and was, handily, able to direct us to the coolest and most outrageous clubs. Football began to look secondary. In fact, I’d estimate a good half of the minibus passengers never made it to the match, opting for a club night instead.
Those that stayed in a hot, sweaty club will not have envied those who made it to the Olympic Stadium, where the javelin-length icicles fell fRon the spider’s web roof onto the frozen souls below. Forest went down 2-1, a goal from Steve Chettle of all people giving us hope for the second leg.
But first we had to get home. Herding cats springs to mind, but eventually we could depart. Mercifully, my own capacity to sleep anywhere kicked in and all I recall of the journey was a bewildering period of seemingly going round and round in circles. “Jed, we were going North before, we seem to be going South again.”
“It’s OK, I’m keeping that chimney on my right.” Which seemed, to all and sundry, a sensible navigational ploy until, after nearly two hours (I exaggerate not), some bright spark twigged that we were on a ring road, possibly Saarbrucken, possibly Karlsruhe, and that the chimney was therefore always going to be on our right. We could still be there now…
To the second leg, full of confidence. A close to capacity 28,884, including a big away following, made it to the City Ground. Forest, from my recollection, started brightly and did everything but score. Woodwork hit, goal-line clearances, the lot… Bryan Roy had a goal disallowed for offside and then the inevitable happened. Forest conceded a soft free kick about twenty five yards out, Christian Ziege squeezed on in ‘twixt Big Norm and the near post and it was game over.
Bayern went on to destroy us in a thoroughly classy performance. Jürgen Klinsmann was unplayable and got two.Thomas Strunz got one, as did Jean-Pierre Papin. In fairness, they had quite a line-up: if you’re after big names, you can add Oliver Kahn and Lothar Matthäus and begin to understand why a decent Forest side struggled. Links to highlights below. Not the depressing watch you might imagine for a Forest fan, I’d suggest. A proper European night, a rocking atmosphere, big names, and at least we were there playing them. It all seems a long way off now…
Stevie Stone (He’s got no hair, but we don’t care) gives Lothar Matthäus the brush off…
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q3LNnInBaEs (Part one of highlights)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q3LNnInBaEs (Part two)
Comments