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Nobody did it better
By Richard Early
 Our Irish
Soccer Icons series continues with a homage to one of the finest players
to ever grace this planet, the incomparable George Best.
AT George Best’s funeral in Belfast 100,000 lined the street. Some
commentators complained that a man who drank to excess and was responsible
for his own downfall did not merit the attention and adulation he received
in death.
Of course his lifestyle was responsible for his illness and decline but
those comments indicated sour grapes on the part of people whose own funerals
will not command the same turnout and an ignorance of the visceral nature
of the people’s game.
George Best represented the pinnacle of footballing skills. Rarely can
a family name have been so appropriate. At its most sublime football is
nothing less than poetry in motion.
That George was a poet with the ball at his feet — dancing, jinking,
turning, accelerating — is not in doubt to any football fan. His
skills have been written about at length and never more eloquently than
by his great compatriot Danny Blanchflower. “George Best makes a
greater appeal to the senses than Tom Finney or Stanley Matthews did.
His movements are quicker, lighter, more balletic… he has ice in
his veins, warmth in his heart and timing and balance in his feet.”
The television clips of George Best’s skills being shown at the
time of his demise were always the same ones. There was not the blanket
coverage of football in those days as there is now. This seemed to emphasise
that George Best the footballer belonged to an earlier era, while George
Best the phenomenon — fallen idol, flawed diamond — belonged
more to the current age.
First the thesis, later the outcome. In fact, after quitting Manchester
United and resurfacing at other clubs from time to time he later slipped
out of the public consciousness. People of my generation who grew up with
the football of the 1950s and 1960s knew the first part of the story well.
We were dazzled and thrilled by his footballing genius, whichever club
we supported, and I always felt sorry that his skills never had the opportunity
to be displayed on the world stage.
But of course George was more than just a fabulous footballer. He was
also a gift to the media. Years later when Paul Gascoigne was at the zenith
of his playing career Best predicted that the press would destroy him.
He knew how it worked.
For George Best was a child of the ‘60s. He burst onto the football
stage at the same time that the post-war years were finally sloughing
off their skin of greyness and austerity. There was full employment. The
young had money in their pockets. They could buy the records of the new
pop groups, buy the gear from the boutiques; be part of the scene.
Everything was possible in those halcyon days. There was an explosion
of new expression and talent: Musicians, fashion designers, models, photographers,
artists, film actors and footballers. You did not have to be upper-class
or privileged to be successful. On the contrary, the hoi polloi had found
their voice.
The ‘60s belonged to these bright young things and their acolytes.
For a short while England was the global centre of this new popular culture.
George Best with his good looks and iconic status on the football field
was one of the faces of the ‘60s. He was made for that time. And
the poor wee boy from Belfast was just like a kid growing up in a candy
store.
Teachers of the English language talk about collocations — a strange
word you will never see written outside a grammar book or referred to
outside a classroom. Collocations are simply words that are often used
together, like political scandal, or raging inflation. In the ‘60s
you could not read the popular press without frequently seeing the words:
Birds, booze and Best in the same sentence. Oh dear! The collocations
of George. There were other, kinder ones though: Weave and magic, mesmerising
and defence. But it was the birds and the booze that did for George, although
I think they gave him a lot of happiness, and who would begrudge a man
his simple pleasures?
He peaked early in his life, flowered brilliantly but relatively briefly.
After that there was only one direction. For a long time George seemed
to slip off the radar screen and to our children’s generation he
was only a name, a measure of excellence, yes, that was understood but
someone who belonged to the past.
Then he seemed to enjoy a renaissance in public life. The celebrity culture,
driven by the media’s voracious appetite for personalities, was
beginning to crank up. George appeared on chat shows.
He was gold for the Wogans and Parkinsons of the world. Gone was the lithe,
young, dark-haired athlete. In his place was an older, plumper, greying
man, yet still, considering his excesses, looking pretty good. For the
younger generation here was the legend made flesh and I was pleased for
them that they were now able to see the man and, as it were, get to know
him.
Later came the sad outcome as his saturated liver finally gave up its
unequal fight.
So, going back to those commentators who expressed indignation at the
people’s response to his passing how can we explain to them that
response?
Best was a paragon of a footballer but not a paragon of a man. His exploits
on the football pitch reached an apotheosis sometime in the late ‘60s.
He displayed prowess in his chosen field that very few others in any walk
of life can aspire to. For that he was rightly held in awe.
But he was a human being with human tastes, some of which brought him
down. And for that, people were able to identify with him and love him.
The great Cretan writer Nikos Kazantzakis wrote in his novel Christ Re-crucified
about a saintly figure who became despised and shunned by his community.
To put it bluntly, perfection can get up people’s noses.
When our great politicians, who are always right and never wrong, come
to pass away will they induce such emotion from the public?
Tony Blair may have wanted to cast himself in the role of world saviour
but when he departs this mortal realm will there be an outpouring of sadness
from the people, a great sense of loss? I don’t think so.
Give us our flawed heroes any day.
George Best. Ice in his veins, warmth in his heart, the ball at his feet,
heading for goal, weaving a little bit of magic along the way, leaving
defenders in his wake.
These are the images to remember him by.
George Best, blessed by the gods, scuppered by human frailty. Man of
the people. A real hero. |
