The arrival of George Best at Easter Road, 1979

Definitely the Best footballer in the world.

‘Look, there he is,’ says Sammy,
‘Over there by Morton’s Rolls.’
Tanned legs, three o’clock stubble
and wearing our green and white
Bukta strip, chevrons on the sleeves;
the first team, apart from the Soviet Union,
to wear the sponsor’s name on the shirt.

‘Georgie, Georgie, Georgie Best,’ sing the crowd,
and we are a crowd for once,
we’ve turned out in numbers
to see the Belfast Boy,
the footballing genius,
the flawed fire cracker.

‘Georgie Georgie, give us a wave,
give us a wave,
give us a wave.’
He gave us a wave.

When Hibs pile forward,
George just kind of ambles along;
when we rush back in panic-stricken defence,
he never goes too far back,
in fact, George seems to spend
quite a lot of time
perambulating around
the centre circle.
 
He doesn’t run much, at least not at pace,
but then he takes all the free kicks and corners,
and delivers them on plates,
to colleagues like the misnamed Ally Brazil,
who do not always anticipate
his speed of thought.

He scores his first goal for the Hibees,
but I can’t remember it for the booze,
and the fact that half the east terracing
jump on top of me,
causing me to lose my dentures
in the ensuing melee.

Even with George,
we get relegated anyway,
and some say
that it has all been a stunt, a diversion,
and a cabaret.

I was happy to be diverted
from the winter of discontent,
and the coming of Thatcher,
to gaze on a footballing fox:
Reynard. Gorgeous George,
who burst across our emerald firmament,
like a tipsy ballerina on a curtain call,
to shine his light on us,
only for a moment,
but what a precious moment.

Martin Russell