GEORGE BEST
THE BEST

“In the morning I still had to train, it made me feel “alive”; getting rid of so much shit helped me both physically and, above all, psychologically. I don’t know with which strength; surely the mind wanting to keep everything in a false vision of control was the engine of it all, for better or for worse. It was extremely difficult; palpitations, dizziness, nausea. Training after a drunken night is madness. Every day. As soon as I left, I stopped at the first bar on the road while I was heading back. First stop. By now I knew the girls who ran the place: nice and friendly, they knew how to take care of things. Lately, I was going for Cocktails; I had stopped drinking Champagne and beer because I had to drink too much to get tipsy. The amount of alcohol in the Cocktail was three times that of the juice. Customized; just say it the first time and the bartenders understand... also because you become a fantastic customer. A couple, and I get back in the car. Lunch is an excuse to keep drinking. Before reaching the restaurant, I stop at one of the friend’s bars where I'm a regular and they expect me. Here, too, a couple. My Cocktail is dangerous because it is delicious and cold goes down like a charm... then it kills you. Off to the restaurant; they see me coming, I park and my cocktail is already ready for me... another couple while I spew the most absurd bullshit with the usual people every day. Of course, I'm already tipsy (a six drink maxi on an empty stomach, well) and surely I'm not in the mood to eat much. A steak with some potatoes. While I eat, I don't drink. I don't have the taste for drinking well. I'm not interested in a good glass of wine with the meat. I drink solely to focus as little as possible on what surrounds me; people, the usual conversations, television, newspapers, and all the bullshit that pisses me off. I am a prisoner of a false past, people think I had everything possible, they certainly don’t think of a fragile man, fearful and crushed by conflicting emotions. The lunch lasts 10 minutes because I can't sit still, I am frantic. We get up and go back to drinking. A couple of digestifs like they should be... three, four. And the inevitable cigarillo. I don't like smoking. I only smoke when I drink. Glass and cigarillo always as a couple. I should go lie down, calm down, and above all, stop drinking, at least for today... sure, I should. In reality, I go to the other bar and for a couple of hours continue to drink. I almost always pay, friends and girls come to greet me. I've lost interest in women for some time. It's enough for me to know that I'm still in their thoughts. I don’t want and don’t desire relationships, on the contrary, they would bother me. Now it's extreme but it has always been this way; more than the physical act, it was the knowledge of being desired that I was looking for. I was already fine. Insecurities constantly need false certainties; my ridiculous ego was served. A few hours go by, adrenaline passes the ball to the beginning of a psycho-physical depression that is alienating. I get home, and the dramas begin. You either continue to drink or collapse. Usually, I make myself throw up to feel just a bit better. By now I vomit orange. Screams and crazy rants, maybe one day I'll drop dead. But the terrible moment is the night. You don't sleep anymore. Maybe half an hour, an hour then I wake up with my heart in my throat, palpitations, nausea, a very heavy head, and anxiety beyond limits. By now I see them every night, I see my demons. Pills to calm me down. Surely, alcohol and psychotropic drugs are perfect. Morning comes, how nice. I go to train... and go on”

I read the autobiography quite some time ago and now I've reread it with the same curiosity to try to understand if what I thought of him was confirmed or not.

Usually, those who talk about lives like Best’s use clichés like “what a waste of talent”, “It’s a pity he had no self-control”, “If only he didn’t have the problem with drinking” to continue with verdicts like “What a career he could have had” or “He would have been like Pelé” from the rational at all costs, or with “A legend”, “The greatest”, “An idol”, “I wish I could have been like him” from those miserable who cling to the idea of lives more fulfilling than their own: dull and useless, scraping the barrel of every tiny fragment of dignity.

All this human uselessness is often swept away by the truths that come out over time.

When I decide to read autobiographies I “choose” them instinctively from people I believe might have had a dangerous and intriguing life together. Existences where the difficult life situations and/or a fragile and insecure or too “exuberant” personality completely steal the scene from rationality and behaving “correctly and appropriately”. But then who is it that sets themselves up as a judge on what is correct/appropriate or not?! Correct or incorrect?! By what logic do we judge others' weaknesses, lives, and choices without having lived them?!

It is not necessary to be outside the rules at all costs, indeed these are the most fake and you immediately discover it because they do it just to appear. It is sufficient to be yourself and discover day after day that we can’t adapt to the pre-established rules and align like everyone else and like “logic” dictates.

I would find the biographies of characters who do everything to reach the top, who have success and victory at all costs and by any means as their highest value, aligned and perfectly in harmony with the status quo created by this sublime modern democratic society unbearable and indigestible. Then you’re surprised (but who?! But where?!) if some end it or you pretend (or really don’t understand?!) not to comprehend why someone couldn't keep up with it. My biography or that of people I know would be much more interesting than that of many useless “famous” ones.

But let's try to stay related to the Our otherwise it would take twenty editorials to describe the ignorance and sadness surrounding us.

Egocentric, shy, spiteful, generous, proud, fragile, presumptuous ... above all sincere. His seeming rebelliousness didn’t come from a desire to show off or be recognized as such, but from not understanding why certain behaviors had to be kept hidden (as others did). Why drink or secretly see married women?! Why not do everything out in the open if on the field I still do my duty?! ...

Obviously, everything degenerated and, like the very famous dog biting its own tail, you start drinking to tolerate pressures you can’t stand because you don’t understand, you find yourself besieged and chased by everything you do, drinking increases proportionally... and you find yourself at the point of no return.

In a few years from a humble - but very dignified - childhood in Belfast, a shy boy catapulted to Manchester, the first team, the tremendous success on the European throne, the first player icon outside the playing field (we are talking about fifty years ago, another era!), the devastating fall with fleeting comebacks and sudden collapses alternating.

The death of his mother from alcoholism, his feeling responsible, that beloved family of his; noble, humble, and proud, that couldn’t coexist with the tabloids and not that talked about their beloved George... who was talked about as if he were a delinquent... all the fault of the hack journalists and those miserables who feed on gossip to fill their miserable "lives". But screw you!!!

I won't say more, let George handle it with his straightforwardness, not looking for excuses for his mistakes as the multitude would... because there are no excuses, he lived as he wanted; if he went back, he would surely try not to overdo it... but nature doesn’t change... you can’t live going against your soul.

Best, a person more than a character.

Of the Footballer, I won't even speak; if you love geniuses, take one of his DVDs and watch the goals he scored... because, in the end, there was no greater emotion for George than leaving the tunnel that led from the locker rooms to the field and entering Old Trafford.

By the way... the guy at the start isn’t Best... but in his small way, he did the same, if not worse/better... bear with him.

Happy reading.