The Longside Reference

Georgie Georgie

"Simply the Best"

George Best 1946 - 2005

     I wish I could honestly say that I can clearly remember some of the George Best games against Burnley but in all honesty I can’t. Mrs T tells me that yes we saw him, so maybe the fact that I don’t recall any great moments or bits of magic means that he didn’t as a general rule play particularly well at Turf Moor. Burnley full back Les Latcham was seen as one reason. Not many players got the better of George but somehow Latcham was one of them.  
     
      At Old Trafford it was a different story though when he played in the second of those two memorable Christmas games all those years ago. We hammered them 6 – 1 at Turf Moor and then went over there and lost 5 – 1. 1963/64 that would have been and Andy Lochhead scored four of the goals at the Turf. Georgie had been sent back home to Ireland for Christmas because Busby hadn’t intended to play him, not even in the reserves. After the debacle at Turf Moor, Busby in desperation called him back, threw him into the team, and then it’s very much true to say that the Best story began that day.  On he came, tore us and John Angus apart, and the rest they say, is history. Bobby Charlton recalls that Angus was so bewildered that he barely knew what day it was. Sadly, in the final stages of his life it was often Georgie who barely knew what day it was as his demons took over.

     There are those who will ask what is all the fuss about? Was he not a wastrel and someone who squandered his sublime skills? No. The answer to that is simply this. George Best belonged to that small handful of people who are blessed with a talent so prodigious that they leave an indelible mark on the people who see them perform. He belonged to that small handful of people who have that indefinable quality that can only be described as iconic. They also have that indefinable something that goes under the name of glamour. And then, tragically, just a few of this small handful of people somehow follow a path that ends in self-destruction. And then, because we love them so much, because they are so vulnerable and because there is no inherent badness in them, it is their talent we remember and not their faults and weaknesses. We watch their long slow descent into heartbreak and we are as helpless to help them, as they are to help themselves.

     As a footballer he was one of the world’s finest if not the finest.  He could do things with a ball that others could only dream of. He was the absolute, complete footballer, and yet in a frame that in his early career was so slight, that you might have thought a strong wind would have blown him over. He played in an age when defenders thought it their God given duty to cripple any gifted forward. It was an age when there was little or no protection from referees and little short of murder ever resulted in a caution. He played in an age of pitches that varied from mudbaths in winter to bone hard concrete in summer when the grass had all but disappeared. Nor did he have a ball that dipped and swerved and bent and dipped so that even an average player can today kick a football that changes direction several times and fools a goalkeeper from thirty yards out.

     For twenty-four hours after his death the TV channels played clip after clip of his mesmerising skills, his gravity defying balance, the feints, the instant acceleration, the swerves, the sudden stops and starts, the taunting of other players. The one I liked best was an old faded grainy black and white sequence showing one of his earliest games against West Brom. He nutmegs their hardman, Graham Williams, and then sets off at blistering pace all over the field evading lunges, swipes, knee high tackles and brutal body checks that today would have had every guilty player yellow carded if not sent off. And then there was that glorious colour clip of him scoring against Chelsea when Ron Chopper Harris comes across and attempts to scythe him in half just outside the box. Best rides the tackle, his body momentarily at a crazy angle of 45 degrees, regains the upright position and scores with ease. If I could take one video clip with me when I meet St Peter at the pearly gates… that will be the one.

     I’m trying to think who else in the world of football will leave such a lasting effect, such an impact, leave so many memories of brilliance, skill and finesse and I can’t think of many. There have been many, many unique great players who have passed away, Bobby Moore and Stanley Matthews, Blanchflower, Haynes, Tommy Lawton, spring to mind. There are many great players who will pass away in the future, but the measure of Best is that at nearly every football ground in the land, on the day after he died, there was a minute’s remembrance. At some it was a silence. At others it was a minute of sustained applause. It was at one of the latter that I stood, with a smile on my face, a smile of pleasure and affection and gratitude that people like this come along into our world and brighten our lives. It was for the good things that he did and the unmatched entertainment that he provided, that I smiled.

     Comedian Mike Farrell told me a lovely story about him. They had both appeared at a function and then late into the night sat up in the hotel bar having one drink, and then another, and then another, until at last George got up and walked to the reception desk and asked the night porter to give him a call at 6 a.m. as he had a very early morning flight to catch. The porter solemnly replied that no, he wouldn’t be able to do that. George a bit taken aback asked why not.
     “Because it’s 8 o clock now sir,” he replied.

    We all know he appeared drunk on the Wogan Show. But what idiot organisation would have plied him with drink in the hospitality room prior to the show?
     We all know he was given a lifesaving transplant and then abused it.
     We all know what weaknesses he had, the periods when his life seemed a shambles, the spell in prison he had, but these are not what I shall remember.
      And what I also note are the countless testimonies from those who knew him well, to his generosity, modesty and intelligence.
 
         We all know he walked out on football far too soon. But I’m just grateful that we saw those good years and they are what I’ll appreciate him for.
      I’ll remember his sense of humour. What other man could make self-deprecating remarks such as...
     “I tried so hard to give up drink and women… but it was the worst twenty minutes
of my life.”
      And, though I don’t remember any fantastic moments at Turf Moor, I know I saw enough of him on Match of the Day, and videos and sundry TV programmes, to know and appreciate the unbelievable talent he had.   

     “I think I’ve found you a genius,” the Irish scout reported to Matt Busby in hushed, secretive tones one day all those years ago, as if he was frightened silly that someone would overhear what he was saying about this incredible fifteen year old and would steal him away. How right he was. Genius is the best possible word to describe him and is not a word we bestow lightly.

     Without him, the world is an emptier place.
     How does that song go?
     And it seems to me you lived your life, like a candle in the wind… and your candle’s burned out long before your legend ever will…
 
Dave Thomas, November 2005.