I only ever saw George Best play twice.  On the first occasion he was in his prime and playing for Manchester United at Nottingham Forest – my home-town club (although I don’t support them, being a lifelong suitor to the Mighty Spurs).

I’d guess it was the late 60’s and Forest had a decent team which ran United a very close second to the league title in 1967.  They were captained by Terry Hennessy and had players such as Ian Moore, Joe Baker and Henry Newton.  Besides Best United fielded such household names as Bobby Charlton, Nobby Stiles and Alex Stepney.  The weak link in the Forest team, at least according to the Trend End fans, was John (“Mary”) Winfield, their left back.

The contest between the two was pivotal in the match and the crowd knew it.  The first time Best got the ball he approached Winfield at speed with the ball seemingly tied to his boot.  Best dropped his shoulder to his left but quick as a flash feinted right.  Certain he had left Winfield for dead, he dragged the ball back left again, only to find Winfield still there from the first dummy.  Winfield took the ball off him and hoofed it upfield.  The crowd went wild.  The great George Best humbled by Mary Winfield.

It goes without saying that although Forest won 3-1, Best didn’t make the same mistake again and skinned Winfield every time he got the ball after that.

On the only other occasion I saw him play he was in the twilight, or rather dregs, of his career, a journeyman playing in the second division with Fulham – an overweight and usually hung-over shadow of the player he had once been.  He probably didn’t even deserve his place in the team on merit but he pulled in the crowds, so he was a “commercial” signing.  Again I saw him at Forest – by then in the early 70’s themselves relegated to the second division.

I’d gone into town prior to the match to buy a pair of trousers but had ummed and arrghed myself into not buying any.

The match itself was dire which I endured until 10 minutes from the end when, by then, the prospect of returning to buy trousers loomed the more attractive proposition than seeing out the rest of a goal-less and uneventful game.

Anybody who knows the City Ground will know the geography.  To get into the North Stand, the Trent End, you have to walk half a mile alongside the south bank of the river.  That was my way out – back by the side of the river and over Trent Bridge into town.

Just as I left the ground I heard the crowd behind me roar.  I’d missed the goal!  Rather predictably, (given that I’m now telling the story!) twice more did I hear that roar before I got over Trent Bridge.  Forest had contrived to score 3 goals in the last 10 minutes.  It was the most exciting end to a match I never saw.

George Best?  Didn’t get a kick all match.