The Merchant of Venice
14 October 1967: George Best at Bramall Lane
In 1967, George Best had it all. There is hardly anything that can be done with a football that Best could not do. He is part of an elite group that includes Pele, Johan Cruyff, Diego Maradona, Stanley Matthews and Lionel Messi, players who have taken their place in the pantheon of the football gods.
Genius is a word bandied around far too often in football, but for George it was wholly appropriate. And he was, of course, unbelievably handsome. Teenage girls worshipped him, and women of all ages adored him. There are some people who look effortlessly stylish and elegant no matter what they wear – dress them in an old potato sack and they’ll still exude elan. George was such a person. It was this heady cocktail of football genius and dashing good looks (along with the fact that he was a really nice guy) that resulted in George being the first footballer to achieve fame outside the game. I remember, how, on a visit to France in the sixties, I saw George on the cover of Paris Match and thought, ‘This lad has really made it.’
It is for his genius as a footballer that I like to remember George. For me, his secret weapon was his acceleration. In all my years in the sport I have never seen a footballer move as fast as Best from a standing start – not Alan Shearer, Thierry Henry, Robin Van Persie; no one. When it comes to leaving your marker for dead, the first three yards are the most important, and the first yard is in your head. Add in the skill, agility and dexterity that throws opponents off balance and George became uncatchable.
I have never come across a player, then or since, who did it all so easily and, apparently, instinctively. George was a superb exponent of the almost lost art of dribbling. He scribbled football history with his feet and it was nothing to see him leave four, even five men standing off-balance and bemused.
Countless words have been written and spoken about George’s genius as a footballer. All of them wholly deserved. One thing I have never heard mentioned, however, was how thick and effective his neck muscles were. The power he generated from the neck enabled him to head a ball as well as the most potent striker or towering centre-back, and he was strong enough to look after himself when the going got tough, as it often did for him.
What is also often overlooked about George’s game is that he was a terrific defender and tackler. It was part of his job to track back and defend, and he did so to tremendous effect. But it was for his audacious attacking flair that he was best known and loved, and it was this skill that left an indelible mark on the minds of all who were lucky enough to see him play.
When George burst onto the international scene as a teenager with Northern Ireland, the former Spurs and Northern Ireland captain Danny Blanchflower was approached outside Windsor Park by Daily Mirror football reporter Vince Wilson and asked for his opinion of the young George Best. Most players would have replied with a list of insipid superlatives. Not the astute, aesthetic and articulate Blanchflower, the Oscar Wilde of Windsor Park.
‘George makes a greater appeal to the senses than Stan Matthews or Tom Finney did,’ said Danny, in characteristic fashion. ‘His movements are quicker, lighter, more balletic. He offers grander surprises to the mind and eye. Though seemingly insouciant on the pitch, he has ice in his veins, warmth in his heart and hitherto unseen timing and balance in his feet.’
Vince Wilson looked up from his notebook, somewhat agitated.
‘Yes, yes, yes, Danny,’ said Vince, pen still poised, ‘but do you rate Best as a player?’
I played against George on numerous occasions and was lucky enough to observe at first hand his development from teenager of outstanding natural talent to a true football genius. In October 1967, following a game at Stoke, I chatted to Gordon Banks about Best, because Manchester United were Sheffield United’s next opponents.
‘United play to his speed,’ Gordon informed me. ‘When we played them, Charlton and Crerand played the ball through the channels between and behind our back four for George to run on to. He times his runs to perfection, so he doesn’t get offside. He’s like lightning. He leaves defenders in his wake. You’re left with a one-on-one with him. He’ll really test you because he’s ice cool, clever, unbelievably skilful and very, very quick.’
I always felt that one of the strongest aspects of my game was when faced one-on-one with an advancing forward. I had, over the years, spent countless hours on the training ground working to improve that ability. In the 1960s clubs did not have specialist goalkeeping coaches. I did the normal daily training with the rest of the first-team squad but felt I needed more. As there was no one at Sheffield United to help me in this, I did it myself, mostly in the afternoons. Keepers at other clubs were also developing their skills, making what, in essence, was a journey of self-discovery, among them Tony Waiters (Blackpool), Peter Bonetti (Chelsea), Alex Stepney (Manchester United), Jimmy Montgomery (Sunderland) and the young-bloods: Peter Shilton (Leicester City) and Pat Jennings (Tottenham Hotspur). They were all working hard to improve their game and, in so doing, the standard of goalkeeping in England.
Though working in isolation we each devised personal training schedules to improve positioning, angles, reflexes, distribution, collecting, punching, dead-ball kicks, dealing with corners and free-kicks, organising the defence and so on. At the time the greatest exponent and the man who can be credited with turning the art of goalkeeping into a science was Banks, widely accepted as the best goalkeeper there has ever been.
You will have heard the phrase, ‘the goalkeepers’ union’. There is, of course, no union as such; it is simply a phrase to explain the bond goalkeepers enjoy with one another. As a specialist position it demands specific skills and attributes, but it also applies pressures that no other position in the team carries. An outfield player can make mistakes and get away with them; he can make a wayward pass and teammates will, more often than not, rectify his error as play unfolds. Not so with a goalkeeper. Mistakes here invariably result in a goal for the opposition. It is the knowledge and pressure of this that invokes in goalkeepers a common bond, and even in the days before teams were requested to shake hands prior to a game, goalkeepers always shook hands when they passed one another after the ritual tossing of the coin before a match.
When the teams met for a drink after a game I always made a point of chatting to the opposing goalkeeper. Quite often he would reveal a little nugget about a player he had encountered and I would try and reciprocate, hence my chat to Banksy about George Best.
Indecision in a goalkeeper gives away more goals than any other flaw, so I always tried to let my defenders know exactly where I was and what I wanted them to do. Nowhere is indecision more catastrophic than in a one-on-one. Quite often a striker is through before the danger can be seen. Call it intuition or instinct, but a goalkeeper must see the opening before a forward and, without hesitation, sprint out to cut down the angle and force the forward wide. It is all about alertness, anticipation and the ability to read a game.
‘You know, as well as I do, what to do in a one-on-one,’ said Banksy, ‘but Best is so quick and skilful, you need a special strategy. Anticipation is the key. You have to be out there, your position and angle spot on when he sets off, because he’s so quick. He’ll weigh you up in an instant, and his ability to change pace and direction is phenomenal. So get out to him as quickly as you can. Stay on your feet and make sure you force him wide to his left. He’s good with both feet, but prefers his right, so get him so the ball is on his left. Jockey him. He’ll twist and turn, but stay on your feet. Just keep jockeying him across to his left, boss it. Eventually he’ll try and switch and give you a glimpse of the ball, and that’s when you go down to collect.’
I thanked Bansky for his advice. It was more or less what I had figured, but hearing it from him made me believe my strategy would be the right one.
Just over an hour into our game against Manchester United at Bramall Lane, Pat Crerand played the defence-splitting ball Banksy had warned me about. George was on it in a flash, but I had taken to my toes a split second before.
George bore down on me. I had taken a position