George Best (1946-2005)
By EOIN MacHENRY
Dyslexic grafitti was in abundance when I was a kid in Belfast. But before, “Voilent Playground,” and the masked gunman's slogan, “We Damand Political Status,” a set of simply painted goal posts graced the gable wall of our street. Born in 1961, the year when Spurs won the double, whenever I got the ball, I was immediately transformed into, “Greavsie.”
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| GEORGE BEST |
Just as well really. There were already seven goal hungry kids declaring themselves to be Geordie Best each chance they got, and one of them happened to be a girl...
Could a surname ever be more appropriate? Best carried every young footie player's dreams during that watershed decade. Just a lad fresh out of school, Manchester United snapped up him and his friend, Eric McMordie, but both proved too homesick for the dimly lit foothills of Holywood.
George had to be coaxed back to Old Trafford, where he was placed under the maternal supervision of a sympathetic landlady called Mrs. Fullaway.
Equally adept on either wing, the 17-year old's April 1963 debut for United whet the fans' appetite for his
sublime compound of pace, courage, skill, balance and invention which would leave opponents tackling thin air, only for him to go back and further humiliate by beating them again.
Ten goals in 41 games were to play a major role in United's 1964-65 League Championship, the same year he would attain his first cap for Northern Ireland against Wales in Belfast.
During the 1966 - 67 season, he would lift another championship medal. There were bums on seats aplenty whenever George played.
It was his 1966 Stadium of Light performance against Benfica which would earn the 21-year old the nickname, “El Beatle.” Scoring twice in the first 12 minutes of the game, commentators noted not the time of the goals, but the date: a star was officially born!
Two years later, following his sides Championship Cup victory against the same Portuguese team, he would be voted European Player of the Year.
One hundred and eighty goals in 465 games over 12 years for Manchester United. Thirty- seven international appearances. One of his finest career goals against England was even disallowed because the red-faced referee couldn't fathom what he'd just seen! But the television cameras caught it...
Renowned for his candour, honesty and generousity, this most modest of icons was later to admit that never having played in a showpiece F.A. Cup or World Cup finals had wounded him deeply.
He could beat anyone on the pitch, but it was his virtually life long struggle with his only constant, “her indoors, the other half,” that would prove a predestined opponent he couldn't better.
Managers became frustrated. “A dodge to the left, a dart to the right then he disappears out of sight, that was just on the way home from the clubs.” Increasingly heavy drinking and womanizing were a reflection of pressures the team's dependency placed on a man who lacked the maturity to handle it.
This, “dedicated follower of fashion,” who had become a brand name ranking alongside that of Coca Cola went missing a lot... “They say I slept with seven Miss Worlds. I didn't. It was only four. I didn't turn up for the other three.”
The British tabloids, caught up in one of their periodic fits of morality, hacked him down in public. Easily made friends and lovers were lost just as quickly. Trademark socks round the ankles, George was starting to lose pace and possession.
Twice he announced his retirement, and twice he changed his mind. Attempts to revive a flawed career with Fulham and in Los Angeles merely highlighted his increasing girth and lack of dynamism. Spiteful fans brought a great star low, and after that, it was downhill all the way.
Sustained breaks from training proved fatal. He'd had it, lost it, got it back, only to lose it all over again. “Guilty of felony bad judgement.” The beautiful game had been deprived of a virtuoso.
“If I'd been ugly, you'd never have heard of Pele.” George Best's extraordinary footballing story was always peppered with an ebullient, self-effacing sense of humour, typical of those Norn Iron born.
Commenting on his recent liver transplant he quipped, “I was in for 10 hours and had 40 pints, beating my previous record by almost 20 minutes.” In his love affair with alcohol, he stayed true to the end. Now is the time to let him rest easy. “I don't think I ruined what you call talent at all. Mine was a really good life. I did everything I felt like doing.”
Too long in exile George. May joy finally be with you. Time to hang up them boots aul' hand, and head on home.
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