“IF I’D been born ugly,” George Best said, in a moment of immodesty, “you’d never have heard of Pelé.” It was perhaps his fortune and ultimate misfortune that he was born so well favoured and magnetic.
How tempting it is, for those of us who knew him from his teenage years, to blot out the memories of his last, sad, self-destructive days, returning instead to the charming, humorous, open 17-year-old he once was, and indeed remained in essence for several years.
On a football field, he could do anything and everything, the very personification of Total Football before it was invented. For, no more than 5ft 8in tall, he could outjump far bigger opponents to head spectacular goals. His ball control was consummate, his acceleration devastating, he could flip a coin over his shoulder and catch it in the top pocket of his jacket. Kicked, tripped and constantly fouled by tormented defenders, he rarely retaliated and was never intimidated.
One of the very few occasions of such skulduggery to put him out of the game was in Buenos Aires in September 1968, when United were fated to play Estudiantes de la Plata in the first leg of the so-called Intercontinental Cup between the winners of the European Cup and the Copa Libertadores. After a quarter of an hour, he told me afterwards, he simply stopped playing, knowing that against such brutal opponents and so permissive a referee, it was futile to go for any 50-50 balls. In the return match at Old Trafford he was at last provoked beyond reason, and he and his assailant were both sent off.
It was in large measure thanks to Best that United were involved in these torrid matches at all, having won the European Cup final the previous season at Wembley, against Benfica. At the end of extra time, the score at 1-1, they looked an exhausted team. Then, in the opening stage of the extra period, Best challenged for a long clearance by Alex Stepney, his goalkeeper, picked up the ball and, with a galvanic pirouette, went round his marker, drifted past the goalkeeper and stroked the ball into the net. Goals, as we know, condition games. A resuscitated United went on to win 4-1.
That was perhaps the most important goal Best scored, but which was the finest? The goal at Old Trafford against Sheffield United when he dashed half the length of the field past one baffled defender after another to score? Perhaps it was the goal he scored against Rapid Vienna in the European Cup quarter-finals of 1969.
Showing his usual courage and calm, he took the ball in a packed penalty area, made himself an opening and shot with his right foot. When the ball rebounded from a defender, Best, under still greater pressure, coolly retrieved it, tantalisingly juggled with it and drove it home with his left foot.
He had made that foot as strong as his right by wearing a gym shoe for training on his right foot. Ever the perfectionist, unwilling to rely simply on his vast natural talent, he would stay behind after United’s training to kick ball after ball against the crossbar.
Perhaps it was inevitable that he and the serious Bobby Charlton would not see eye to eye. There was something of a stand-off in those days between United’s Celtic players and the English. On one occasion, in a pub, Best threw eggs at Charlton’s portrait.
The sadness of it was that Best never played for Northern Ireland in the World Cup finals. Those were the days in which each team had to win its group to qualify and, in Best’s time, Northern Ireland never emulated the superb achievement of Danny Blanchflower’s side, which eliminated Italy. When the team did qualify for two subsequent World Cups, it was by dint of taking second place in their groups.
In 1969, Best was in dazzling form for the Irish on a rainy May night at Hampden Park, running the Scotland defence to distraction. He made his team’s goal with a glorious piece of ball-control and a surprising shot against the crossbar. Eric McMordie, appropriately, ran the ball home. He and Best had first come to Old Trafford as 15-year-olds, Best becoming so homesick that he promptly returned to Belfast. United persuaded him to try again. Lucky for them, but how lucky was it really for Best?
It might be argued that in those early years, he never got the care and attention that might have prevented his later excesses. Matt Busby was a remarkable manager, but not the figure Best needed for guidance. By the time Busby tried to keep him under control, it was too late. Best merely let him talk and examined the wallpaper behind his desk.
Arguably, he had a still better game against Benfica in the European Cup quarter-finals in 1965 when United, ordered to “keep it tight”, triumphed 5-1, exploding Benfica’s unbeaten home record. It was Best who essentially destroyed them. After just six minutes Tony Dunne, the Ireland left back, took a free kick and Best soared above the Portuguese defence to head a remarkable goal. Another six minutes had elapsed when David Herd, the centre forward, headed back Harry Gregg’s long clearance to Best, who slalomed superbly past three opponents to make it 2-0. Benfica collapsed.
One remembers another splendid goal for Northern Ireland, this time at Wembley when he left for dead Nobby Stiles, his club-mate and the most relentless of markers, with an electric turn to score.
He made his debut for United at 17 years and four months against West Bromwich Albion and excelled. “I knew then what I’d always believed,” he said, “that I’d find it easy to play in the first division.”
Defenders found it difficult to play against him whether he was on the right or the left. But in subsequent years he often came into the middle.
I remember him running rings round Don Howe, the Arsenal and England right back, at Highbury and chatting amiably afterwards. “The new wave is coming in gently,” I wrote, but the wave would in time become tidal.
He once confessed that when he beat an opponent, he became so excited that he had an erection — his humour then was disarming. Sitting behind him once on the United team bus — different days — he turned to tell me, “Malcolm Allison’s going to be the new England team coach. They’re putting the seats in his mouth!”
You might say the turning point came when, on the occasion of United’s match with Chelsea, he spent the weekend in the Islington flat of Sinead Cusack, the actress, while photographers massed outside.
Things fell apart, Eros trumped football. Best retired, came back, put on weight, never the same. But how cruel were the crowd on Saturday afternoon at Queens Park Rangers when his girth was wide and his face had gone. They seemed to be taking some kind of revenge.
Years later, making a television documentary, I went to see him by a beach in Los Angeles when he was playing for the local Aztecs. Genial as ever, dressed in white shorts and no shirt, he strolled across the road into a glass-walled bar, then on to the beach itself. “They’re asking now, who’s George Best?” he said. “Before, they’d be asking what’s soccer?”
Men are we and must mourn when even the shade Of that which once was great has passed away
