George Best 1946-2005

I tried for too long to act like this would never happen. I tried to believe that will all of my might, whilst Besty lay dying in that London hospital, that he'd pull through, as he did in 1999, when it seemed to be the end. That he'd pull through long enough for me to say hello, and shake his hand, and feel the most influential English footballer to ever lives grace, wisdom and venerable power. I hoped beyond hope that he would shake his liver disease and be able to last long enough for me to say thanks. I tried to long to ignore writing about him. But he's too important to me for that.

For when we all talk football, we all mean George Best, who was football to millions throughout his career. We all mean that shaggy-haired, wide-eyed, son of a Belfast ship builder, splendor of a man. His untucked jersey, his short-shorts. That number 7 seemed to appear extra long on the back of his jersey. The prodigy, the heartbeat of Manchester United, and the most important player to ever miss out on the World Cup. Imagine if England would've had him in 1970. Brazil would've been a walkabout. But there was always something about him those pundits and plaudits back then didn't realize. His drinking, and womanizing, although well-publicized, was something they all looked past. But to know Besty as I and my generation know him, is to realize that the most gifted athlete on the face of the earth at that time (fuck you, Pele) was juiced out of his gourd a mere hour or two before every game.

Yet I can look past that. We that love him can look past that. For the myriad of reasons why he was he was, the most important aspect about him was his character. Although, he was a brilliant player, his speed was unmatched, his finishing ability, incredible. And although his side had a Holy Trinity of talent (Best, Charlton, and Law), he shone brighter than all of the proverbial stars in the footballing galaxy. His goals against Benfica to claim English football's first ever European Cup were the work of his insistent work effort and tireless gamemanship. Throughout the course of the match (helped substantially by Alex Stepney in the net, and the midfield impetus of Nobby Stiles), he changed the game from Eusebio's, the consummate striker of the day, to his own. With the memories of Munich, 1958, and the Busby Babes still fresh in their minds as they lifted the European Cup high over the Stadium of Light, the world was introduced to his genius. But like Hughie Gallacher at Newcastle a quarter century earlier, and like Robin Friday's life a few years later, Best would fall victim to himself. Time after time, until he forced out of the club by Tommy Docherty, the man who believed his morals weren't up to the standards of England's "only club built on Catholic tradition." Ironically it was Docherty to resign from his post a few years later after he was purported to have an affair with the club seceratary, a charge he couldn't deny. That was the end of Best's glory years, and he sank further and further away from the footballing life, unlike his cohorts, Law and Charlton. Finally, his journeys ended last Friday at a London hospital, and the man was only 59.

There are no players like George Best alive today. They were forced out of football as the game became more commercialized and greedy. Vinnie Jones brought his spirit back, but even the Welshman can be bought and sold. In the lack of Best's, there have been enough wankers to fill the new Wembley. Hacks with not as much skill, but more than enough swagger. The Champions of Europe of 1999, mostly now all gone, save for a brave few, still point to their inspiration on the mural at Old Trafford as their guiding light. Best was the original maverick in the days of mavericks, before Alan Hudson, Roy "Chopper" Harris, and Michael McDonald. Before Keane, Viera, and Gazza, there was Best, a genius in the time of geniuses, enough of one to have Pele to declare he was the best living footballer. Fuck Pele, Beckenbauer, Muller, Cruyff, and Jimmy Johnstone. George Best was and will always be the most influential footballer to me, and to millions. Thanks for the memories. It's been quite a ride!

And as Eric Cantona, the mercurial Frenchman and fellow United number 7 said: "After his first training session in heaven, George Best, from his favourite right wing, turned the head of God who was filling in at left back. I would love him to save me a place in his team, George Best that is, not God."