CARDIFF CITY 2 BURNLEY 2
Brighton manager Chris Hughton astonishingly was quite miffed at the penalty awarded to Burnley for shirt pulling. He was thoroughly indignant that what he said was something that happens all the time and referees are rarely bothered to punish, had been penalised at Burnley.
To a degree he has a point but there is shirt pulling and then there is undressing, and Michael Keane had his shirt pulled so vigorously and for such a length of time, it was a wonder it didn’t rip in half as he was almost undressed on the pitch.
It goes on in game after game, at every corner, along with the wrestling, pushing and shoving and you wonder how it has come to this, that it is tolerated so much. I read somewhere and don’t know that it is actually correct, that until the corner is taken, the ball is not actually in play, so that all the shenanigans that go on can be left unpunished. Well it’s time they were and the Brighton lad got his deserved comeuppance.
Time flies and I dug out of my dusty filing cabinet a tribute to George Best that was written 10 years ago to mark his passing. The newspapers were filled with tributes and banners filled the Old Trafford Ground. What a player he was:
I wish I could honestly say that I can clearly remember some of the games George Best played against Burnley but in all honesty I can’t. Mrs T tells me that yes we saw him play so maybe the fact that I don’t recall any games or bits of magic means that as a general rule he didn’t play particularly well at Turf Moor. Burnley full-back Les Latcham was seen as one reason. Not many players got the better of Best but Latcham was one of them although he always jokes that his success was based on getting a tackle in that he’d meant to make five minutes earlier.
At Old Trafford it was a different story though when he played in the second of those memorable Christmas games all those years ago. We hammered Man U 6-1 at Turf Moor and then went over there and lost 5-1. 1963/64 it would have been and Andy Lochhead scored four of the goals at the Turf.
Georgie had been sent back home to Ireland for Christmas because Busby hadn’t intended to play him but in desperation called him back, threw him into the team and then it’s very much true to say that the Best story began that day. On he came and tore Burnley to shreds including the unwilling victim John Angus one of the best full-backs in the business. Bobby Charlton recalled that Angus was so bewildered he didn’t know what day it was. Sadly, in his final years it was George that barely knew what day it was as his demons took him over.
There are those who never saw him that might ask what all the fuss was about? Was he not a wastrel and a man who squandered his talent and sublime skills? The answer is maybe yes, but sadly he belonged to that small group of vulnerable and flawed people, artists, poets, painters and writers, actors, who over the years are blessed with a talent so prodigious that they leave an indelible mark on us all and in the history of their art. Those who see them perform are almost as blessed. They also have that undefinable quality that goes under the name of glamour so that they are icons of whatever era they grace.
And then, tragically, just a small number of this group follow a path that ends in self destruction but because we love them so much, because we see they are so vulnerable and because there is no inherent badness in them, it is then their talent that we remember and not their faults and weaknesses. We watch their slow descent into heartbreak and we are as helpless to help them, as they are to help themselves.
For 24 hours after his death ten years ago the TV channels played clip after clip of his mesmerising skills, his gravity defying balance, the feints, the instant acceleration, the swerves, sudden stops and starts, the taunting of other players. The one I liked best was an old, faded, grainy black and white sequence showing one of his earliest games against West Brom. He nutmegs their hard man Graham Williams and then sets off at blistering pace all over the field evading lunges, swipes, knee high tackles and brutal body checks that today would have had any guilty player yellow carded if not sent off. And then there was that glorious colour clip of him scoring against Chelsea when Ron Chopper Harris comes across and attempts to scythe him in half just outside the box. Best rides the tackle; his body momentarily at a crazy angle of 45 degrees, regains the upright position and scores with ease. If I could take one video clip with me when I meet St Peter at the pearly gates … that will be the one.
I’m trying to think who else in the world of football will leave such a lasting effect, such an impact, leave so many memories of brilliance, skill and finesse and I can’t think of many. There have been many, many more unique great players that have passed away, but how many of them have names that will ring around a stadium ten years later. Great players pass away and will do so in years to come and we will mourn them, but how many will be remembered at every ground in the land when they pass away, with a minute’s silence or applause.
At Turf Moor it was applause and many of us had a smile on our faces as we joined in. It was a smile of pleasure and gratitude and affection for someone who had come along into our world and brightened our lives. It was for the good things that he did and the unmatched entertainment that he provided, that I smiled.
Comedian Mike Farrell told me a typical ‘Bestie’ story. They had both appeared at a function and had got on really well so that afterwards in the hotel they sat up into the small hours having one drink, telling stories, then another drink… and another drink until eventually all track of time was lost. George, bleary-eyed decided to head for some shut-eye and at last went over to reception and asked the night porter to give him a 6 a.m. call as he had an early flight from Liverpool to catch. The porter looked at him with a puzzled expression.
‘But Mr Best,’ he said, ‘it’s already 6 o clock.’
We all know he appeared much the worse for wear on the Wogan show. But what idiot organisation would have plied him with drink before the show? We all know he was given a life-saving liver transplant and then abused it. We all know what weaknesses he had, the periods when his life seemed a shambles, the spell in prison he had. But these are not what will dominate our memories of him, because what we also hear are the countless testimonies to his good nature, his humility, wit and humour, modesty, generosity and intelligence.
As a footballer he was one of the finest the world has seen, if not THE finest. He could do things with a ball that others could only dream of. He was the absolute, complete footballer and yet in a frame that was so slight that you might have thought a strong wind would have blown him over. He played in an age when defenders thought it their God-given right to cripple any gifted forward in an age when there was little or no protection from referees. The creed was simple; what the referee doesn’t see isn’t a foul.
He played in an age when pitches could vary from mudbaths through the winter to bone-hard, concrete, grassless surfaces, by the end of the season. Nor did he have a ball that dipped and swerved and bent and dipped so that even an average player today can kick a football that will change direction several times and beat a goalkeeper from 30 yards out.
We all know he walked out on football far too soon. But I’m just grateful that we saw the good years and they are what I will appreciate him for. His self-deprecating sense of humour was delightful. What other man might have said:
‘I tried so hard to give up drink and women… but it was the worst 20 minutes of my life.’
‘I think I’ve found you a genius,’ the Irish scout reported to Matt Busby in hushed tones one day all those years ago, as if he was frightened silly someone would overhear what he was saying about the incredible 15-year old he had just spotted and would steal him away. How right he was. Genius is the best word to describe him and is not a word we bestow lightly. How does that song go?
‘And it seems to me you lived your life like a candle in the wind… and your candle’s burning out long before your legend ever will.’
Burnley away to Cardiff City, for me and Mrs T it was another weekend over in Hornsea and a wonderful food festival in Beverley Minster. What JC would have thought of the trading going on and the beer stalls and gin stall I wouldn’t like to think? Traditionally he throws traders out of the temple. But what a feast of pastry and country grub this was. How sad though when we went past the stall selling duck and pigeon and stuff. The duck was labelled Mallard. Now that kind of brought a little lump to my throat as I see them every time I walk along the canal near home, and then I thought what a good job it wasn’t labelled Gertrude or Jemima, I’d have been in tears. I succumbed to temptation and bought a Rabbit Pie and a Christmas Pie, plus a claret cheese for afters.
All this was while Burnley were apparently struggling at Cardiff with a performance that once again left those that were there thinking that there is more to come from this team. In the blue corner were those suggesting that we’ve been saying this all season and they still blow hot and cold and this is as good as it’s going to get. More than just a few folk though were adamant that a stonewall penalty was denied them when the ball was handled on the line. Had Burnley gone 1-0 up and the culprit sent off who knows what might have happened?
What did happen, as I was perusing a stall of wonderful looking mince pies, was that Cardiff scored their first and then the second as I was looking at the most mouth-watering array of Christmas cakes I have ever seen. It was a slow job trying to make your way through the throngs of people looking hungrily at table after table of the finest baking and cuisine.
The second Cardiff goal was headed in so easily from a corner and you thought back to that spell last season when you covered your eyes with your hands when the opposition took corners; we conceded so many. I once used the F word rather loudly by the bananas in Marks and Spencer’s when Mrs T told me we’d let a goal in. This time I remembered where I was and said it to myself.
Into the last minutes and as we wandered by the stalls near the door; a local choir now filled the Minster with the most gorgeous A Capella singing. Next up was a ladies banjo group of all things. Clearly the Lord in Beverley likes his ale and plinkety plink music. As the ladies plinked, I blinked, when Mrs T informed me that Burnley had pulled a goal back with just minutes to go.
Just a consolation we assumed and proceeded to sample a slice of locally-sourced turkey a bloke was handing out from a large dish. But heck no, before I’d had time to circle back and get another slice thinking if I can a get a slice of bread from another stall I can make a sandwich, Burnley had astonishingly equalised. Folk looked at us strangely as we whooped and hollered by now walking by a table of pickles and chutneys. 2-2 and praise the Lord I said, for he is truly bountiful.
The film we saw later showed what a comedy goal the equaliser was. We’ve given away enough of them ourselves at the Turf in past seasons so no-one was going to feel sorry for the Cardiff lad who in running mode simply ran into the path of Keane’s header that was going 10 yards wide, and bundled it over his own line. Ta very much we all said and by this time plenty of Burnley folk had left the ground or were halfway out, many of them drenched by the merciless wind and rain that gave people a soaking even as far back as row Z.
‘I’m just so pleased with the mentality of the players,’ said Sean D at the end. Mentality, resilience, bouncebackability, Marney is back and a Christmas Pie for tea… if Carlsberg did happy endings…