In the end, the Germans’ eagerness to go on holiday changed history.

Their Euro 1976 final against Czechoslovakia was not destined to reach the gripping climax of penalties.

West Germany, the reigning European champions and World Cup victors, strode into the match as heavy favorites.

Even if Czechoslovakia held steadfast through the extra time, the plan had initially entailed a replay just two days later. Welsh referee Clive Thomas had been instructed to delay his return home from the host nation, Yugoslavia, to accommodate this scenario.

Yet, mere hours before the final whistle, the script was rewritten.

“It was a request from the German Football Association,” recalls Antonin Panenka, the architect of a moment that would forever alter the game. “They said that their players had already booked some holidays, blah, blah, blah, and asked if penalties could be taken straight away instead of a replay.”

For the Czechoslovakians, the underdogs in this high-stakes narrative, the chance of a shoot-out felt more promising than a second match; thus, they acquiesced.

Panenka, an elegant playmaker, meticulously reviewed his strategy once again.

Everything was in alignment. No adjustments were required, and doubt dared not intrude.

A scheme two years in the making, poised to make him a household name for better or for worse, was set in motion.

Back in Prague, Panenka was embroiled in a daily duel of a different sort.

After training with his club, Bohemians, he would remain behind alongside goalkeeper Zdenek Hruska, putting their penalty-taking prowess to the test.

This was no ordinary practice; it was a personal and intense rivalry. Panenka would take five penalties – needing to score all five while Hruska only had to save one. The stakes were clear – the loser would cover the cost of post-training beer or chocolate.

“I was constantly paying him,” Panenka confesses.

“In the evenings, I would strategize ways to outwit him. I soon realized that, as I approached the goal, the goalkeeper would hold his ground until the last second, violently diving left or right.”

“What if I aimed for the center of the net?”

Taking his chance, Panenka executed the daring approach, creating doubt in Hruska’s mind and securing more wins, fewer losses, and still enjoying his post-training delights.

What could have remained a mere party trick burgeoned into a legitimate tactical weapon. Over the course of the next two years, he would refine this technique, employing it in larger and more significant matches: first in training, later in friendlies, and eventually in a competitive fixture against local rivals Dukla Prague just a month before Euro 1976.

Each trial added to his confidence.

“I made no secret of it,” Panenka asserts.

“Everyone in Czechoslovakia knew of it. But in the footballing powerhouses of the West? They paid little attention to our game.”

Thus, as Sepp Maier prepared for the showdown, he had no tactical dossier detailing Panenka’s trick. The Duesseldorf-born keeper crouched on the line, relying solely on instinct and experience—the latter having taken a hit moments earlier when his teammate Uli Hoeness had blasted a penalty over the bar, marking the shoot-out’s inaugural miss.

In sudden death, the pressure peaked. A make-or-break moment loomed: if Panenka found the net, history would record West Germany’s defeat.

Panenka’s run-up was deliberate yet charged. With the weight of the world on his shoulders and memories of training so visible in his mind, he shifted into his reliable trick. A subtle caress of the ball arched it gently into the center of the goal. His arm raised in joyous anticipation even before the ball kissed the net. Maier, blindsided and startled, scrambled backward but only managed to register a regretful glance as Panenka exploded in celebration.

“None of us could believe we were European champions,” Panenka reflects. “It was like Alice in Wonderland.”

Incredibly, this surreal moment echoed throughout Prague, a city still resonating from the aftermath of the Prague Spring, where Soviet tanks had rolled in just eight years prior, dousing aspirations of political change.

As the team returned, large public gatherings had been rare, only permitted for the orchestrated welcomes of foreign dignitaries. But the arrival of the champions unleashed an overwhelming tide of emotion from rejoicing crowds.

“Nobody expected that so many people would come to give us such a warm welcome,” Panenka recalls.

“When some head of state came, the roads used to be lined with young people holding parade wands. But it was all sort of forced. This time, though, they came spontaneously to greet us and show their appreciation. I had never experienced anything like that before. It was one of the best moments of my football career.”

Panenka’s decisive, unforgettable penalty propelled him into the limelight, not just among fans but also under the watchful gaze of authorities.

As Czechoslovakia navigated the political landscape of ‘normalisation’, aiming to quash any trace of dissent, the emotional victory was bittersweet, underlined by tension and scrutiny.

Just three months prior to Euro 1976, Czechoslovakia’s secret police had arrested a psychedelic rock band, vigilant to undermine any semblance of counterculture.

Panenka’s calmly executed penalty was delivered with an audacity that shattered conventions.

To replicate such a daring feat on a stage this significant bore both personal and sporting risk.

“I never thought politics and sport could intertwine like this, but it’s true some viewed it as a statement against the political system,” Panenka reveals.

“Had I failed to convert, it certainly would have drawn repercussions, likely some form of sanction.”

In netting his shot, however, Panenka sidestepped potential scrutiny and avoided a mundane fate—perhaps a life confined within factory walls.

But scoring also birthed animosity.

A loss was alien to Maier, of Bayern Munich fame, who had just carved his name in history with three consecutive European Cups. To face humiliation seemed unthinkable.

A Scotsman’s report from Belgrade articulated how Panenka’s solitary kick dismantled two long-held notions: that Czechoslovakia was a faceless collective and that Maier would bring inevitable success and control.

“Czechoslovakia’s old, hard discipline is still evident,” wrote Ian Wood. “But the cult of personality has gained more than a fragile toe-hold and nowhere was the new zest more perfectly illustrated than when Panenka gave the Czechs the championship by grounding the hapless Sepp Maier with a dummy of supreme impudence.”

Yet outside of that praise, harsher words painted a different picture.

“Some foreign journalists, especially Western ones, insisted that I made a fool of Maier, portraying him as a clown,” Panenka reflects. “That was never my intention. It was simply the most efficient means to score. But Maier took their interpretations to heart.”

“Every mention of ‘Panenka’ became painfully irritating for him, resulting in thirty-five years of silence between us.”

Yet as time passed, the icy tension thawed.

The ‘Panenka’ technique blossomed into a recognized – albeit high-stakes – tactic, embraced by footballing legends in moments of glory.

Zinedine Zidane orchestrated one in the 2006 World Cup final against Italy. English fans will never forget Andrea Pirlo’s audacious effort against Joe Hart in Euro 2012. Other luminaries, including Lionel Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo, Thierry Henry, Neymar, and Zlatan Ibrahimovic, have also graced the stage with their interpretations of the ‘Panenka’.

Gone are the days of Sepp Maier being a lone figure of ridicule; the footballing world cradles many keepers who have succumbed to the magic of the Panenka. The sting of the 1976 heartbreak has faded; the stigma is now mostly a relic of the past.

Maier, however, opted to remain elusive, declining to share his perspective for this article.

“Our relationship has become quite normal lately,” Panenka shares. “The last time I encountered him was four or five years ago at a press conference in Prague. He didn’t appear bothered; in fact, we shared a beer and played golf together.”

“When he first spotted me on that trip, he wagged his finger nostalgically, mimicking the trajectory of the chipped ball.”

Yet, the sentiment surrounding Panenka’s legendary penalty is complex.

His exploits, marked by a dazzling array of free-kicks, precision shooting, and surgical passing prowess, have often been eclipsed, overshadowed by the fame of his daring stunt.

“I’m ambivalent about it,” he admits. “While I take pride in the penalty’s legacy, that it’s revered and emulated by the best, I also grapple with the reality that when people hear ‘Panenka’, they solely think of ‘the Panenka penalty’.”

“In a sense, the penalty killed my career.”

If he could rewind time and face Maier again with the Championship on the line, what would he do? Would he gamble once more on a Panenka, or would he discard the bravado for a more conventional strike that wouldn’t forever define him?

The answer is resounding.

“Of course, I would do the same! Sure! I can’t do anything else!”