Madam, - I was deeply saddened by the death of George Best. I have been a West Ham supporter since England won the World Cup in 1966, largely inspired by the Hammers triumvirate of Moore, Hurst and Peters, while my late brother used to support Manchester United, no doubt attracted by their equally famous triumvirate: Best, Law and Charlton.
In all that time, while I have seen many superb players such as Moore, Eusebio, Beckenbauer, Cruyff and a host of others, I have seen only three players that I would describe as great: Pele, Maradona and Best.
I saw Best in the flesh only twice: in the summer of 1976, when he and Rodney Marsh were playing for Fulham, the Belfastman clearly overweight and in decline; and six years earlier, when he came to Dublin in August 1970 to open the food supermarket in Penney's Stores. He was at the height of his fame then, having recently scored six goals in an FA Cup match for Manchester United against Northampton Town and the city centre was thronged with thousands of people, all hoping to see football's first superstar, who, as well as being extravagantly gifted, was also impossibly handsome.
He was a virtuoso on the football pitch, capable of conjuring a goal out of nothing. He had all the attributes of a great footballer - marvellous ball control, balance, pace and the type of dribbling ability you rarely see nowadays - but the thing that struck me most about him was his composure in the penalty box. While lesser players were inclined to snatch at chances that came their way, Best always seemed to have plenty of time, giving the impression of being coolness personified as be dribbled through a phalanx of defenders. I remember games between West Ham and Manchester United when he left the entire Hammers defence, including top-class defenders like Bobby Moore and Billy Bonds, on their backsides before waltzing past Bobby Ferguson and nonchalantly tapping the ball into the empty net.
I always thought he was appropriately named because he was without doubt the best Irish or British player of his generation. While his career was relatively short, he scored many wonderful goals and did things on the pitch that will live long in the memory. To have seen George Best playing for Manchester United and Northern Ireland in his prime, displaying the full repertoire of his dazzling array of talents, was to understand why football is called the beautiful game. May he rest in peace. - Yours, etc,
JOE PATTON, Chapelizod, Dublin 20.
Madam, - If George Best was playing today, those cossetted prima donnas currently strutting their stuff on the soccer fields of Europe wouldn't be fit to lace his boots.
George wasn't a good footballer; he was a great one. - Yours, etc,
PAUL DELANEY, Beacon Hill, Dalkey, Co Dublin.
Madam, I really enjoyed Kevin Myers's appreciation of George Best (An Irishman's Diary, November 29th). I too was at Filbert Street for that unforgettable match in which Manchester United beat Leicester City 5-0. But to put it mildly, the scoreline flattered United, for City were on top for most of the game, gaining over 30 corner kicks. United, though, orchestrated by Best's brilliance, hit City five times on the break, each of them magnificent efforts, bearing the hallmarks of the genius of Best, Charlton and Dennis Law (whose bicycle kick past an astounded Gordon Banks from the edge of the penalty area was especially memorable). Football is a strange game, for I was also present the following Saturday at St James's Park when it all came right for City and Newcastle United were humbled 5-1.
I disagree with one aspect of Mr Myers's assessment, for I feel that sometimes it was Best who let colleagues down with his over-elaboration and lack of the vision of, say, a Rooney (otherwise inferior to Best, in my view). I was present at Windsor Park on the day Best had his finest hour in a green jersey when, with an amazing display of dribbling, he helped Northern Ireland beat a fine Scottish side 1-0. There is no doubt that Best's contribution was wonderful and, above all, entertaining, and yet in this match he was also greedy. There were a number of occasions when centre-forward Derek Dougan (a man with a touch of genius of his own, and a star for Leicester City in the two games mentioned above) got himself into good positions and waited for crosses from Best which never materialised, because George - to the delight of the crowd - insisted on beating one more defender. - Yours, etc,
TONY WILLIAMS, Ashbrook, Howth Road, Dublin 3.