George Best one word

George was such an incredible mixture of genius and idiot that it wasn't true.

I met him first back in 1978, introduced by a pair of mutual friends (professional footballers) at a reception which George graced with the usual gaggle of tarts and hangers-on. It was early in the evening and he already was well on the way to a terrific bender. I didn't really want to speak to or interview him because he seemed oh-so-taken with himself, but my friend said I positively had to have a talk with George, and so he dragged the man over to our table.

"I don't talk to reporters," George said , and I told him I didn't really want to take up his time. But if we did speak, it would be about midfield play, not his personal life, which was of no interest to Americans anyway; certainly not to me. His expression and manner changed utterly, and he sat down: "You're joking. No one ever wants to talk football with me at these things."

Then we had the most amazing discussion about touch and balance and style and the midfield, for hours, with George drawing diagrams on paper napkins and drinking nothing stronger than Coca-Cola; me scribbling furious notes; the other player quizzing him; and the hangers-on and tarts doing slow steams. It was a seminar given by a man who not only was instinctive about his game, but very, very smart, and very much surprised that anyone should take him as such. But he had begun to believe the nonsense and felt the necessity to live up to it, which he proceeded to do the moment we excused ourselves.

As you say, that is the tragedy of George Best: a mbuttive waste of mbuttive gifts. And as you see people like him and Maradona -- not nearly as congenial or intelligent a fellow as Best, BTW -- fade, all you can say is, "Please, God, no more."

ld.