Georgie Best Saturday. TESTAMENT Taken From the Stars Matt Busby - Mad as it may sound, I once believed George Best was gifted to us by the almighty because of a guilty conscience over Munich. It is not a notion I have ever aired publicly, but one when I first saw George in full cry. Swift as a summer breeze, will o’ the wisp. Such beauty and grace. He reminded me of a lightning bolt illuminating the horizon on a night time ocean. Simply magical. But not anymore. Not now. For the old adage ‘with every wish comes a curse’ appears to have been proved true in George’s case. For every drink, there is a beautifully hit pass, for every bet or punt made, either won or lost, there is a defender left in a crumpled heap and bewildered. For every girl there is a flashing goal, an unworldly moment of skill that causes crowds to rise, eyes to blink and souls to soar. Come 1970, twenty four year old George is entering what should be his most expressive stage for the outrageous talent he possesses. At Manchester United he is providing salvation not witnessed since biblical times. Dragging his team, kicking and screaming, to victories thought impossible and snatching draws from the jaws of certain defeat. He is supplying win bonuses, he is saving and prolonging careers. He is George Best and drinking pints of vodka and lemonade thinking it is all still just a game. * Saturday 24th January 1970 Manchester United v Manchester City - FA Cup Fourth Round: Old Trafford: ‘That was for you Wilf, ’shouts Brian Kidd as he falls into his coach’s arms at the final whistle of a glorious victory for Wilf McGuinness and Manchester United. A much needed three goal win over their rivals with two scored by Kiddo has sent the vast majority of the 63,417, Old Trafford crowd delirious. It is such sweet revenge for the heartaches of last month’s league cup semi final defeat. ‘Kiddo you are a beauty my son,’ exclaims a beaming Wilf as he leads the young United star, born within a stone’s throw of his parent’s home in Collyhurst. ‘Keep this up and they will build a statue of you outside Saint Pats.’ An ecstatic crowd wave them off. For Wilf it is undoubtedly his finest moment since handed the job. He glances around at the massed terraces, rejoicing and finally able to hold their heads up high against their blue neighbours. And it was all achieved without a suspended George Best. ‘Look at that lot Brian’ says Wilf, pointing to the joyous supporters. All singing Kiddo’s name. ‘This is what it’s all about at our club. Winning. I love it!’ Wilf waves to the crowd. The rare taste of victory fresh in his nostrils. Now for Malcolm. The packed United boardroom heaves with bodies, half hidden amid cigar and cigarette smoke. The drink is flowing. Bottles opened and glasses refilled. Talk is loud, boisterous and good hearted. The City representatives are somewhat quieter – here out of courtesy no more, the crushing loss has hurt. Now as their dear neighbours discovered in previous defeats these moment have to be endured and dealt with in a gentlemanly style. I am stood with Joe Mercer. Both of us at an age where defeat may hurt but does not spear the soul. We can deal equally with good grace. Others not so. ‘All right Malcolm, old son. Where are you then?’ The loud booming voice announces Wilf’s arrival in the room. Amid the crowd, with cigar and champagne glass in hand, Malcolm Allison is in conversation with United chairman Louis Edwards. Malcolm looks up on hearing Wilf. He was expecting this and is ready. Over here WiIf, he shouts, whilst smiling wide. Wilf makes his way through the crowd. He grabs a glass of red wine off the table as he goes. He takes a swift drink. Suddenly he feels a little faint. His stomach goes cold. I try and make my way over towards Wilf to intercept him before reaching Malcolm, but too many are in my path. Wilf faces Malcolm. For so long he has rehearsed this speech. This was to be his Henry V. His Agincourt. But the words won’t come. ‘Are you okay WiIf? grins Malcolm, ‘you look a little pale.’ The next moment Wilf is arching over and violently throwing up. The nerves of the day and the excitement of winning finally overcoming him. Thus he is denied his moment of glory. Instead an amused Big Mal stands above him trying hard not to laugh. ‘The sweet taste of victory my son,’ smiles Malcolm, ‘enjoy it!’ Watching on with a look of disgust and much embarrassment Louis Edwards admonishes his team coach. ‘Go and get cleaned up Wilf.’ ‘Yes Mr Chairman’ says Wilf, wiping his mouth clean. Like the parting of the red sea the crowd moves aside and he leaves the room. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. * In George Best’s absence due to his suspension we embark on an unbeaten run. His return coincides with a Fifth Round FA Cup tie away against Northampton Town. In some sections of the press there are calls for Wilf to keep with the same team. These people. Sometimes they make me want to weep. They are probably related to those who abused Michelangelo for refusing to rush his masterpiece at the Sistine Chapel. Or those who ruined Mozart because his talent scared them and made feel their lives were worthless. And so they out to desecrate and destroy. In our genius’s absence young John Aston, back from injury, has been outstanding in his position and is many things that George is not. The perfect professional for instance. Something George could never be accused of. The lateness and absenteeism is increasing. The drinking is getting worse, a clear sign... When he can’t get out of bed, whoever’s it is, then so begins a slippery slope. This alarms me for George is one of the best trainers I have known. The stories that pass my desk about his drinking and womanising leave me in despair. I only have to read the newspapers to learn his latest exploits. The truth is probably stranger than the stuff that is made up. But he is still George and John Aston in comparison is a crowd extra to Laurence Olivier. There is simply no argument and no contest. Despite what some think Wilf is not mad and George is immediately put back in the line up to face the Cobblers at the County ground. They are hardly surroundings fit for the comeback of the golden boy of British football but Wilf knows that the eyes of the world will be on George and he will be bursting to put on a show. His pride has been badly hurt by suggestions United are better off without him. This boy, who believes he is the best player in the world, is scared of nothing or no one. Also, as it now seems, I am finally resigned to the notion that nobody can tell him what to do. George Best is on a path to only God knows where, but one thing I am certain drives him insane. It is the thought of being ignored. Something special will occur in Northampton, of that I have no doubt. Northampton Town 2 Manchester United 8 On Saturday 7th February, 1970, George gave notice of his genius with six goals against Northampton Town, and a performance that will remain an everlasting epitaph to his genius. Raised voices screaming ‘wasted talent’ will claim there should have been so much more from him and it is difficult to raise an argument after this performance. For here at Northampton, against journeymen professionals, George has indelibly inscribed a living obituary in pure gold. On such occasions you simply thank God for working overtime on the Sabbath and in a mood of generosity and wearing a red and white scarf, creating the eighth wonder of the world. George Best.
Posted on: Sat, 13 Dec 2014 17:39:23 +0000
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