48 hours: A creative energy that would not conform

George Best, once asked about his footballing wealth, responded that most of the loot had been spent on women, booze and fast cars, and the rest had "just been squandered".

He was my childhood hero, the focus of hundreds of hours of "research" (invariably in the form of books and magazines), the basis for a horrifically botched hairstyle, and the motivation for my first venture into the world of overseas fan clubs.

I feel partly responsible for his demise, having personally contributed to his excesses by subscribing to the George Best Supporters Club in 1968, and possibly tipping him over the edge in terms of easy cash.

Once a month for about the next three years, an impressively stamped envelope would arrive in our South Dunedin letter-box containing a personal message from George (almost certainly written by someone else), news of his on-field successes, and about 100 different ways to invest in his memorabilia.

These were all high-quality items such as a moulded-plastic George Best wig, a George Best-autographed swizzle stick or, if your parents were really swimming in it, a cut-rate price for the upcoming Strikers Annual.

At that stage, neither my mates nor I had even seen film footage of the great man; our fanaticism stemmed from the brilliant stories he'd inspired from the press, the way he made seasoned Fleet St professionals salivate over his deeds, and magazine editors clamour for his words.

But as time passed and we began to see his poetry on the silver screen, it was clear that Best was even better than we'd dared to imagine.

The way he could turn, stop, surge and feint was brilliant enough, but add Swiss-like timing and an equal ability off both feet, and it became apparent that to be at one of his games was to be in the presence of greatness.

People talk about present stars such as Cristiano Ronaldo, the Manchester United livewire with more tricks than a magician's trunk, but the truth is that Best always seemed less rehearsed, and therefore less predictable.

He was first spotted in Ireland by Manchester United talent scout Bob Bishop at age 15, while playing for club side Cregagh against a bunch of 18-year-olds from a team called Boyland. Best scored twice in his team's 4-2 win and the story goes that Bishop was on the phone to Matt Busby immediately afterwards, declaring he'd just found a "genius".

By the time 1968 and Manchester United's European Cup success had come and gone, the films and book were starting to reach New Zealand, and Best's artistry was already the stuff of legend.

Most Best fans reckon his finest club match was in Lisbon against Benfica, in the 1966 European Cup quarter-final. That was the day he ran amok against Eusebio's team at the Stadium of Light, scoring two superb goals in a 5-1 rout.

If memory serves, he also provided the final pass for one of the other goals in stockinged feet, having lost his boot during a tackle moments earlier.

The shame is that, rather than celebrating the uniqueness of Best's footballing gifts, many prefer to dwell on his battle with the booze, and his self-destructive lifestyle since leaving United at age 27.

What they need to understand is that what killed Best created Best. His views and opinions were invariably anti-authoritarian and irreverent, in much the same way as those of John, Paul, George and Ringo.

His was a creative energy that had no time for conformity - and for that we should always be grateful.


Highs and lows


High: The Kiwis socking it to the Kangaroos in yesterday morning's Tri-Nations showdown, capping off the perfect weekend for New Zealanders, following the All Blacks' Grand Slam finale.


Low: Please keep this to yourself. The Knights lost 3-2 to Melbourne on Saturday but, in the interests of being positive, we're trying to play it down.