I saw George Best once.
Not in the street or a passing car. But actually playing.
He had engendered my interest in football aged seven as I watched his mesmeric mercurial majesty on Match of the Day, the Saturday night highlights show on the BBC accompanied by the dulcet times of Mr Football, Kenneth Wolstenholme. He of “they think it’s all over…” fame.
Like so many who were besotted by their idols, I tried to emulate the magician himself in every way possible, both on and off the pitch. Well, in as much as a young boy can without a flash motor and a string of beautiful women on ones arm.
I grew the hair as required and the teachers duly and unkindly compared me “to a wee girl”. I had also the football shirt, worn outside the shorts, of course) a washed out, unauthentic United 1960s number, resplendent with turtle collar and home made legendary ‘7′ stitched on the back which, of course, turned pink after one wash,.
I tried to dribble like the man himself, with some success it seemed as I was allowed to join in the casual yet ‘no quarter given’ estate game which happened every evening in Dromalane, Newry with lads and men well in advance of my years and puny physique. ‘Wee Geordie’ they all called me - to my everlasting pride…
My mother used to sell pools for United to earn a few bob and I pondered with eyes on stalks, the occasional letters from Old Trafford signed by Les Olive, ‘Secretary’ thanking ‘her’ for her assistance “in supporting Manchester United and its development.”
Travel to Old Trafford was much more prohibitive then and not just due to lack of avenues. Airfares were completely out of the question so the boat was the only option and the financial wherewithal was definitely lacking in any case.
So it was a pipedream to think I would ever see United - meaning, to me, Best - in the flesh.
All that changed when, as defending champions, Matt Busby’s side were drawn in the first round of the 1968/69 European Cup to play League of Ireland winners, Waterford.
Due to the size of their ground, the first leg was moved to Lansdowne Road, home of Irish Rugby.
My mum duly announced that she had got tickets - I’m assuming through her connection with the club - and she and I were going to see United and, crucially, Bestie my idol in Dublin.
I’m sure few will understand what this meant in terms of travel and the size of the occasion and sense of adventure, Bestie aside of course. But back then, in 1968, it was a whole ordeal, perhaps akin to getting to a Wembley Cup Final for the first time, without access to timetables and a lack of familiarity with the transport system.
Transport then was simple, by which I mean basic. Really basic. Newry had no train station after the rail ripping up exploits of the mid 60s and so we had to get a bus to the nearest town on route to Dublin, which was Dundalk, from where we caught a train to the capital.
A circuitous route around the Louth countryside on a beautiful September day was part of the adventure and soon enough, well no, after what seemed an interminable time, we arrived at the train station. I was just bursting to see Bestie.
Planning a day like this must have been hugely troubling for my mum in the days before maps, timetables and other information were all at your fingertips and getting across a bustling city like Dublin compared to our small town of Newry, must have been a great worry to her.
Somehow we managed to get to the south of Dublin by bus in plenty of time for the game - three hours early in fact! So we settled ourselves outside in the blazing sun, propped against the wall at the appropriate turnstile and waited…and waited...
‘The clouds were afraid. and the sun was a demon’ as a certain song noted and we were sweltered as the time ticked slowly towards kick off. The trip was inevitably done on a shoestring and so adjourning to a nearest cafe was not an option. Besides, our tickets were for the terracing so getting a prime spot in the queue - not yet formed of course - was of great importance.
Roasted, impatient and hungry I waited with my heroine mother who had, for the occasion, modified my red Confirmation rosette and fashioned it into a United one. I’m sure the Almighty and the temporarily displaced Holy Spirit dove would have understood.
Well, they must have as, out of nowhere, a car appeared and a lady handed me a bag of apples saying they were just picked from her garden.
What a timely treat - and not for the first time that day were we to be so ‘blessed’.
At some point the turnstiles were opened and I, for the first time, entered a real ‘football’ stadium, one I’d only seen on TV for Irish Rugby Internationals, Lansdowne Road. It took my breath away with the endless rows of terracing and the huge looming cavernous stands. So this is what it’s like to see proper football I thought.
We positioned ourselves - wrongly - behind a barrier (a mistake I repeated when attending Old Trafford and the Stretford End in the late 70s) but I, at four foot six inches - or 102 cm in new ‘money’ - couldn’t see a thing so mum hoisted me up to sit atop the barrier as much to save my weary wee legs as to see my idol. Her own needs were secondary, bless her.
Then the moment arrived when the Reds came out to a raucous reception from the 48,000 crowd with Best’s presence adding a few more decibels.
In truth, I remember little of the game in which Best, Denis Law and Bobby Charlton all featured with Law notching a hat-trick. A total of nine players who had won the European Cup the previous May played and United won 3-1 and 7-1 in the return leg at Old Trafford two weeks later.
My one abiding memory is when the referee couldn’t get the second half started because Best was besieged by autograph hunters, mostly young women. Charlton and Law were shaking their heads in disbelief.
Game over, the long trek home began and little did I know how difficult that would be.
The train to Dundalk was no problem but when we got there there were no buses for the last 13 miles home. My mother, bless her, tried to keep me oblivious to the dilemma and we started walking in the hope of getting a lift. This entailed walking from the south side of the town to the road leading north out into the growing, menacing darkness and at some indeterminate point - we hoped - home sweet home.
Well, we walked and walked as the ever diminishing number of cars passed us by and after about three miles we both were worried.
She kept counselling me “don’t worry, just say a prayer. We’ll be alright”. She must have been as terrified as I was.
Thankfully and mercifully a car eventually stopped, we ran to it and asked were they going to Newry. “Surely. Get in”. Sanctuary.
When we eventually got home, left to our very doorstep indeed, the rest of the family had been worried sick all evening. In an era with relatively few means of communication - we certainly didn’t have a house phone - my father and six siblings had no idea what had happened to us and we could not inform them of developments to assuage their concerns.
It had been a brilliant day though - I could tell my classmates and all who would listen, that I had seen the mighty Reds and best of all, Georgie, my hero and genesis of the lifelong journey - just like the one of that day; long, tiring, difficult, but ultimately, elating.