I have singularly failed to blog about George Best, and I am now putting this to rights.
George Best died on Friday. It had seemed likely for weeks, from Thursday afternoon it was officially inevitable. The media is full of tributes to him, and rightly.
I was born a Manchester United fan. I don't think it was especially my parents' intention, but that's the way it was. I grew up in an area which is absolutely Manchester United daft - except for our little road which bizarrely had a majority of Manchester City fans. In those days we even had actual Manchester United footballers living in the locality. On arrival at Primary School, the first question to be asked was "Are you a United fan?" And everyone hero-worshipped George Best. Actually, he had left United by the time I started school. But that was irrelevant. He was Georgie Best Superstar. Before I even started school, I enjoyed reading a copy of a Manchester United annual that lived in the cupboard at Grandad's.
I saw him play once, in 1982, in the George Best All Star XI vs the Piccadilly Radio Attackers, at Altrincham's Moss Lane stadium. He was well past his best. But, the point was, I saw him play.
During the 70s and 80s and even into the 90s, all we had to sustain us were the memories of past glories. Let's be honest here, I do not remember the 1968 European Cup Final. But it lived on and lives on as a folk memory. And history tells us that this was no ordinary European Cup win. Looked at only in retrospect, it seemed the ultimate inevitable conclusion of a remarkable story. But who could have predicted in 1958, when half the Manchester United team were dead, that it would be just ten years before the club proved itself to be the best?
Watch the TV footage, watch the sheer genius that was George Best on the field. How to describe him without resorting to cliche - poetry in motion? If you don't understand why people get worked up by football, watch George Best, watch his control of the ball, watch the way he takes on opponent after opponent. It really is the beautiful game. And he was the Best.
A meteor, not a planet. Said to be the most naturally gifted player ever from these isles. The best ever, said Pele. Invidious to make these statements.
A lot of people, not being into football, but being into Slebs, know of Georgie Best only as the dissipated broken drunk. Proper celebs become so because of their talent, their ability to bring happiness to the masses. Not just because they have a good PR agent. George Best's fame remained over thirty years after he retired. Of course the dazzling good looks, the personality, helped. Women wanted him, men wanted to be him. Even in the final months, those dazzling blue eyes stayed twinkling on, when the rest of his body seemed destroyed. But the good looks and the engaging personality would have not mattered one iota if he had not been the dazzling talent on the pitch.
And the alcoholism. What to say about that? His mother died an alcoholic. These things are often hereditary.
The subject came up in conversation on Thursday. Someone got very agitated and said he would not forgive Best for squandering the second chance he had, the new liver. I sensed this was more than an abstract comment on the day's headlines, perhaps there was a more personal reason. I decided not to go there. Someone else suggested, benignly, that medical treatment should understand we are sinners. Again, I did not go there.
Alcoholism is a disease. It's not a straightforward disease, which is cured by a course of tablets. When I worked in Social Services, alcohol and substance abuse came into Mental Health department. Like many alcoholics he said he wanted to give up drinking. He went to extraordinary lengths to do so. And succeeded, sometimes for months. Then went back to drinking. Why this happens, I don't know. what's the difference between him, an alcoholic, and me, a binge drinker? I can go for days without drinking, not even thinking about it. I don't need a drink to get me functioning in the morning. I rarely need a drink as a reaction to shock - maybe once a year. So how can I understand alcoholism? Alcoholics who fail to reform are not wilfully sticking their fingers up at society. It's not, at that stage, an arrogance. It's a mental illness which has a devastating effect on the physical health.
Should he have had a liver transplant or should it have gone to someone more deserving?
I don't know.
I don't know what proportion of liver failures are down to reasons other than alcoholism. I know some people have congenital liver disease. Others are affected by jaundice. Perhaps somebody knows the stats better than me, but I would wager that a fair number of people awaiting liver transplants are there because of alcohol. He said he would give up alcohol, indeed he did for a time. Should the medics have believed him, or should they have considered that alcoholics are liars? I don't know. Did he jump the queue? I don't know. Clearly, an organ transplant is dependent upon a tissue match, so they can never be done on a purely first-come first-served basis. Did he jump the queue by going private? I sincerely hope not, but if he did, I wouldn't blame him, but I would blame the system. Perhaps it's a question that needs to be asked in general - do private patients get preferential treatment over NHS for organ transplants?
But when all is said and done, I will always treasure the video I have of that grainy black-and-white coverage of that glorious victory over Benfica when I was just sixteen weeks old.
And next week Manchester United travel to Benfica desperate for the win that will enable them to qualify for the next stage of Europe.
Benfica.
