Rest in Peace George

I was wrong about the papers. Not racist, except when it would turn a profit for them. They were talking disgracefully about George Best about a day before he died in such terms:

George Best Slips Away

Slippnig away means dying. The papers wanted to sell, so they pre-sold his death. Their disrespect knows no bounds.

Let’s talk about what I thought of the man.

He was funny, witty, charming, rogueish, a drunken womaniser and most importantly, in my opinion, the greatest footballer of all time.

Hold on - better than Pele? Yes. Pele scored lots of goals, but he scored them for Santos, where his opposition was usually a bunch of 10-year old ladyboys. Better than Maradona? Yes, because although Maradona was skilful, his audacity, despite all that “hand of god” b.s. was no match for Best, who would round a player, then round him again just for a laugh.

My father saw Best play at his peak. Not on telly of course, but on the field. He spoke of Best with near reverence. My dad had seen Jummy Greaves, Billy Bremner, Peter Lorimer, Dennis Law, some of the finest talents that the United Kingdom had to offer in their generation. Best was peerless.

I recall Best turning up for Wogan utterly blotto (sorry, such an 80s word). He utterly trashed Paul Gascoigne. He thought Gazza was good, but it was laughable for anyone to compare the two. Best made a fool of himself on the show, but he was absolutely stone cold sober when he brushed off the comparison with Gazza. And I believed him.

Best didn’t just beat his opponents. He trashed them, left them on their arse, waited for them to get up and trashed them again. Best was the most appropriately named footballer of all time. George like the Beatle, Best like nobody else.

Best would slalom up the pitch, leaving defender after defender in tears, broken, floored, then, having reached the goal-line, he would pull the ball back, beat another defender, beat the keeper and roll the ball in. He was of course finished very quickly, but the light that burns twice as bright burns half as long.

Best played football when men played football. Punches, elbows, leg-breaking two-footed challenges were not just legal, they were de rigeur. Part and parcel of the game. He survived all that and in an unforgettable night, destroyed Benfica, the world’s greatest team, single-handed. United went on to win the European Cup not long after, largely thanks to Best, when he was also voted European Footballer of the Year.

The only player who compares is Ronaldinho, who I think batters Maradona and Pele into a cocked hat. Don’t talk to me about Cruyff, Beckenbauer or di Stefano. These players were stylish, perceptive and beautiful, but Best was magic. Best was a wizard when cliches were still perfectly good words.

What else was he? Does it really matter? He defined football for an entire generation and no matter how hard Ryan Giggs tried - and Giggs was one of the finest wingers of all time, let there be no doubt - he would forever remain in the shadow of the greatest artisan, the most skilled practitioner that the beautiful game has ever known.

Football no longer has a place for characters like Best, which is precisely why no one will ever better him. How do you better the best anyway? Asked where his money went, he answered, immortally:

“I spent a lot of money on booze, birds and fast cars. The rest I just squandered”

Rest in peace George.