Four of Leverkusen’s side would play in the World Cup final six and a half weeks later and two combined to equalise five minutes later, Lúcio nodding in Bernd Schneider’s in swinging free-kick.
Over to Zizou.
For those of us at Hampden that night, other details may stick in the mind – the old ground bouncing to The Proclaimers’ I’m Gonna Be (500 miles) before kick-off, substitute Iker Casillas’s heroics in the face of a late Leverkusen onslaught – yet ultimately one moment alone now matters. Though already a World Cup and EURO-winner with France, Zidane had lost European finals with Bordeaux and Juventus. A month shy of his 30th birthday, he took hold of his and his team’s destiny in emphatic fashion.
His goal, in the 45th minute, is a piece of majestic technique and timing. Chasing a Santi Solari ball down the left wing, Roberto Carlos stretches out a leg and hooks over a high first-time cross. As the ball drops Zidane stands sideways to Butt’s goal, just inside the penalty box. He watches and waits, then as the ball approaches the turf, swivels and unleashes a thunderous volley with his supposedly weaker left foot. The ball flashes beyond Butt and crashes into the net behind him. Leverkusen coach Klaus Toppmöller shakes his head.
Zidane’s celebration is a moment of release. Off he runs, first over to the touchline and then up it; nothing choreographed, just a roar from his lips and a pump of his fist. Madrid’s world-record man had delivered.
Years later, he reflected: “I tried to score the same way, even during shooting for an advertisement, but it never happened again. Never. It was perfect the day it happened, but it never happened again.” Sometimes, truly, once can be enough.
