Michael Michalsky, not yet the Global Creative Director but already a defining influence within the brand, found himself thinking about history—not just the company’s history, but the man behind it. Adi Dassler. The founder. The craftsman. The man who turned a family workshop in Herzogenaurach into a symbol of post-war German innovation and global sporting success. And with 2000 fast approaching—the 100th anniversary of Dassler’s birth—Michalsky couldn’t understand why no one inside the company was actively working on a tribute. He found it strange. More than strange—it felt wrong. For Michalsky, Dassler wasn’t just a name in the company’s story. He was the story. A true innovator, Dassler had spent his evenings tinkering alone in his workshop, guided by the feedback of real athletes, always searching for marginal gains that could lead to better performance. He invented, adapted, and listened. His legacy wasn’t simply a catalogue of products—it was a philosophy of doing things with purpose.
He had quietly revolutionised performance across disciplines. In athletics, he replaced heavy leather with lightweight canvas and rubber, creating spiked shoes that gave runners a critical advantage. Jesse Owens wore Dassler’s shoes when he defied Nazi ideology and won four gold medals at the 1936 Berlin Olympics. That moment wasn’t just political history—it was a technological one, and Dassler’s name was stitched into it.
In football, his screw-in stud system changed the game—literally. When West Germany shocked the world by defeating the favoured Hungarians in the rain-soaked 1954 World Cup final, it was Dassler’s adaptable boots that allowed players to dig into the pitch and maintain control. The studs gave them an edge when conditions turned. It was innovation underfoot that made the impossible possible.
Even off the pitch, Dassler was listening. When footballers complained about communal showers being unhygienic after matches, he created the Adilette slide. Practical. Functional. Unapologetically designed for purpose. That humble sandal would go on to become one of the most iconic silhouettes in global streetwear, but it started as a solution, not a style.
For boxers, Dassler designed lightweight boots that reduced fatigue. For weightlifters, he engineered soles with stability-enhancing angles. In sports like fencing, luge, cycling—disciplines that rarely grabbed headlines—he refined performance gear in ways that mattered deeply to the athletes who used them. His inventions weren’t flashy. They were effective.
For Michalsky, that meant everything. Dassler didn’t just build shoes—he built systems. His legacy wasn’t based on what sold, but on what worked. A lifetime of feedback, adjustment, and improvement. The soul of adidas, in Michalsky’s eyes, wasn’t in its logos or its catalogue. It was in the workshop. In the quiet process of caring enough to ask what could be done better, and then doing it.
To him, that legacy deserved more than a memo or a marketing line. It deserved a statement. Something tangible. Something thoughtful. A product not designed for trend but for tribute.
And so, in 2000, he decided to make one.
The idea was simple in theory and radical in execution: create a shoe to honour Adi Dassler’s 100th birthday. Not a reissue. Not a marketing stunt. A shoe with soul. A shoe that told a story. A shoe that made people stop and ask, “What is that?” But it couldn’t be the obvious choice. No Superstar. No Stan Smith. No nod to the classics that had already been over-referenced. Michalsky turned to the archives and pulled out something that most people at the time would have laughed at: the Kegler Super.
Originally designed for Kegeln, the German cousin of bowling, the Kegler Super was one of the least fashionable shoes in adidas’s historical vault. It was associated with old men in community halls, suburban lanes, beer halls and dusty clubhouses. It was the kind of shoe you hoped your parents never wore. It was, in essence, uncool. But for Michalsky, that was the magic.
He saw elegance in its proportions. He liked its modest silhouette. And most of all, he was fascinated by the outsole—a three-screw Vario peg system designed in the 1970s to offer athletes customisable cushioning. Whether the system worked was beside the point. The intention behind it—personalisation, adaptability, forward-thinking—was unmistakably Dassler.
Choosing the Kegler wasn’t about irony. It was about surprise. In a world obsessed with status symbols, Michalsky wanted to turn the forgotten into the iconic. He saw the shoe as a provocation—something that could quietly challenge the norms of sneaker culture while also paying respect to adidas’s founding values.
Once the model was selected, the project moved from concept to craft. Michalsky made a decisive call that would define everything about the shoe: it would be made by hand in Herzogenaurach. That town was the spiritual home of adidas, the site of its earliest factories, and the heart of Adi Dassler’s legacy. Even though most production had by then moved to other locations around the world, Michalsky wanted to go back to where it all began.
Inside the company’s repurposed buildings, down in the basement of what used to be the original factory, a few shoemakers remained. These were specialists, the kind of craftspeople who worked only on bespoke items—custom shoes for Olympic athletes, rare performance requests, sports without mass demand. Many of them had been with adidas for decades. Some had even known Dassler personally. They understood not just how to make a shoe, but how to feel it.Michalsky approached them with his idea, not knowing how it would be received. The shoe was unconventional. The materials were eccentric. The concept was indulgent. At first, they were confused. Then they were intrigued. And finally, they were on board. These craftsmen, who had spent their careers watching production move further away from Germany, were suddenly given a project that was both a throwback and a tribute. They embraced it fully. Every shoe would be made by hand. No production line. No industrial shortcuts. Every component had to be sourced, assembled, and finished with intention. And no detail spoke louder than the leather.Michalsky chose ostrich skin—a bold, textural statement that instantly set the shoe apart from anything adidas had done before. Known for its distinctive quill follicle pattern, ostrich leather is both visually striking and technically superior. It offers a unique combination of suppleness, durability, and breathability, making it one of the most coveted exotic leathers in the luxury world. Each hide has its own fingerprint, with irregular dotted textures that add character and tactility to the material. It creases gently rather than cracking and grows more beautiful with age, much like fine leather-bound books or heritage luggage.
But the choice wasn’t just about aesthetics. Michalsky was acutely aware of the ethical and environmental questions surrounding exotic materials. He deliberately avoided skins like crocodile or python, which are often sourced from endangered species or raise concerns around cruelty and over-farming. Ostrich, on the other hand, is typically a byproduct of the meat industry—especially in regions like South Africa, where ostrich farming has a long and regulated history. The hides are tanned and finished using traditional methods, but with significantly fewer ecological and ethical red flags. For Michalsky, this made it the perfect material: rare, responsible, and refined.
He selected a rich chocolate brown hue—timeless, warm, and grounded. Not loud, but quietly confident. He had, at one point, considered a deep adidas blue as a nod to the company’s visual identity, but no tannery could produce the exact tone and quality he demanded. The brown, in contrast, was instantly elegant, and subtly suggested the shoe’s departure from sport into something more artful.
The lining of the shoe was just as considered: glove-grade suede, the kind used for fine accessories or tailoring—not something anyone would expect inside a trainer. It was soft enough to be worn barefoot, intended to feel like a second skin. The laces were flat and waxed, chosen for both form and function, and sourced from a specialist manufacturer known for equestrian gear and handmade footwear.
Even the outsole’s hardware was carefully considered. Instead of simply recreating the original Kegler Vario Shock Absorption System, which consisted of three removable pegs in the heel, also made popular in the LA Trainer traditionally coloured in red, white and blue, Michalsky introduced a modern reinterpretation—a set of precision-milled gold pegs that nodded to the spirit of Adi Dassler’s innovation without mimicking it directly. The pegs weren’t functional in the traditional sense, but they carried meaning. They symbolised adjustability, customisation, and the idea that performance could—and should—be tailored. Their golden finish wasn’t for show; it was subtle, almost hidden, meant to be discovered rather than flaunted. Like everything else in the shoe, they were deliberate. No part of the Super Kegler 1/100 was generic. Nothing came off a production line. It was, in every sense, a crafted artefact—shaped by hand, informed by heritage, and designed with reverence.
Packaging was no afterthought. Each pair came housed in a custom-built brass box—heavy, cold, and industrial. Inside, hidden under black tissue paper, the shoes rested on wooden shoe trees, as if they were heirlooms rather than footwear. They weren’t individually engraved due to timing and final budget constraints, but each was marked “1 of 100,” symbolising its place as a centenary piece. Tucked inside each box was a small but elegant insert— a double-sided card printed on thick, luxury off-white card stock with minimalist black italic font. The front of the first card read:
Expect the extraordinary! On November 3rd, 2000 adidas celebrates the 100th anniversary of Adi Dassler's birthday.
Honouring his sense of design & style and his contribution to the sporting world, we are introducing the ultimate sneaker.
Get acquainted with the unique ostrich leather Kegler Super, the new, very limited edition version of the classic Kegler, originally launched in 1981.
(Image of adidas trefoil logo) adidas
The reverse of the card featured inverted colours— off-white text on a black background—designed for both contrast and emphasis:
To understand the exclusive nature of the ostrich leather Kegler Super, you must understand its uniqueness:
Hand-made specially for each recipient.
Only one hundred pairs available world-wide.
Extra soft leather lining for ultimate comfort.
Gold embroidered trefoil and golden vario cushioning system in the sole.
Complete with golden packaging.
These cards weren’t just informational—they were ceremonial. A printed affirmation of intent and rarity, setting the tone before the shoes were even laced up.
These special adidas shoes were not meant for mass sale. Michalsky priced them at 1,949 Deutsche Marks—a reference to the year adidas was officially founded, and a not-so-subtle sign that these sneakers were not for everyone. At least half of the 100 pairs were never sold. They were seeded to cultural tastemakers, musicians, stylists, and creatives who had helped reframe adidas’s identity during its renaissance. Rumour had it that Usher received a pair. Missy Elliott got one. Many others went to insiders, key influencers before the era of influencers. A few pairs made it to Originals flagship stores, where they were displayed like museum pieces.
The project wasn’t about profit. It wasn’t even about product. It was about storytelling. About memory. About honouring a lineage of innovation that wasn’t loud or branded or theatrical, but quiet, exacting, and deeply human. This was not a business decision—it was a personal one. Michalsky wasn’t trying to shift units or build hype. He was crafting a message in physical form, a message that said: ‘This is who we were. This is what mattered. And maybe, still does.’
He wasn’t interested in adding another drop to the ocean of sneakers that flooded the market every season. He wanted to create something that existed outside of that rhythm—something timeless, rare, and reflective. The Kegler Super 1/100 was never meant to become part of the cultural churn. It was meant to sit above it. It was never about launching a new trend, but about reclaiming a lost conversation—the one about why adidas trainers are made, and for whom.
Michalsky wanted to remind the world that adidas was built in workshops, through calloused hands and listening ears. It was built through obsession with detail, and a relentless commitment to making performance better, not just prettier. That was the essence of Adi Dassler’s legacy. Not chasing what’s fashionable, but solving what’s functional—with grace, precision, and care.
Two and a half decades later, Michalsky still owns an unworn pair of these special sneakers. Perfectly preserved. Still housed in its original brass box—the weight of the container a deliberate contradiction to the lightness of the shoe inside. He took them out recently, brushing the suede, running his fingers along the seams, remembering not just the shoe, but the story it told. And they still looked beautiful. Still strange. Still full of soul.
Time had not dulled them. In fact, it had deepened them. What had once seemed obscure or out of place now felt prophetic. While the industry continued to chase noise and novelty, the Kegler Super remained defiantly quiet, proudly unfashionable, and utterly intact. It was a shoe out of time—then and now.
To Michalsky, the Kegler Super 1/100 is more than just a shoe. It’s a sculptural object. A deliberate artefact. A small rebellion against commodification. It resists easy categorisation. Every element was considered—from the contrast stitching to the exotic leather, from the modular sole system to the waxed laces, even down to the decision not to use a popular silhouette. Its defiance is part of its message.
Because real style, Michalsky believes, doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need validation. It’s born when something functional transcends its purpose—when use becomes beauty, and simplicity becomes elegance. He didn’t invent the Kegler Super. He found it, reinterpreted it, and told a new story through it. He took something ordinary and turned it into something quietly extraordinary.
He curated it. He elevated it. He revealed what was already there, hidden beneath layers of cultural bias and passing fashion.
It wasn’t just a tribute to a man. It was a mirror held up to a company—and perhaps to an industry—that had begun to forget its origins. It was a whispered reminder that greatness doesn’t come from algorithms or celebrity campaigns. It comes from care. From humility. From daring to build something because it matters, even if only to a few.
That was Adi Dassler’s way. And for one brief moment in the late 1990s, through a shoe that no one expected and few ever held, Michael Michalsky captured that way, preserved it in ostrich leather and presented in a gold box, and let it speak again.
Not loudly. But clearly.
Images owned by diggerdas
And now, twenty-five years later, the story enters its most mysterious chapter. No one knows exactly how many of the original 100 pairs still exist. Some may be tucked away in private collections, some forgotten in basements, and others, perhaps, lost entirely to time. Even Michalsky himself admits he’s unsure where many of them ended up. They were never widely sold, never officially tracked, and never individually numbered. That anonymity—intentional or not—has only amplified their allure.
There is a real possibility that the adidas Kegler Super 1/100, once made quietly and almost defiantly, is now the rarest and most elusive shoe the brand has ever created. Unlike high-profile collaborations or million-dollar auction pieces, it was never designed for spectacle. It was designed for meaning. That very lack of commercial intent may be what makes it one of the most prized and significant sneakers ever made by adidas.
In many ways, the Kegler Super 1/100 deserves to be spoken of in the same breath as the Nike Air Jordan 1, or Converse Chuck Taylor All-Star. Where the Jordan 1 marked a cultural turning point for basketball and sneaker marketing—a collision of athlete, style, and rebellion—twenty years later the Kegler Super was its quieter, more cerebral counterpart. It was not about performance or endorsement, but reflection and reinvention. Both shoes, in their own radically different ways, disrupted the norms of their time and inspired waves of design thinking that followed.
The Kegler Super showed that a sneaker could be a canvas for storytelling. That history, craftsmanship, and innovation could be woven into something wearable—not for hype, but for heritage. And while it may not have been worn on court or televised around the world, it still sparked a new approach to what Originals could be—elevated, conceptual, intentional.
Today, somewhere in the world, behind closed doors or buried in boxes, a few of these pairs may still sit—quietly ageing, quietly watching. A reminder of a time when a designer chose to tell a story rather than chase a trend, and when a company’s past was honoured not through profit, but through purpose.
And that, perhaps, is the true legacy of the Kegler Super 1/100. Not just as a shoe, but as a question whispered across time:
What if the most valuable things we create are the ones we never try to sell?