Meetings with remarkable men
I interviewed the Brazilian legend in Dublin in 1994 when he was on a whirlwind tour of Europe to promote a credit card company who were major sponsors of the forthcoming World Cup in the US.
When I was shown into the room where our chat was to take place, I found the Brazilian absorbed in watching a compilation video of great moments in international football and, just as I approached him, what should pop up only a clip of Ronnie Whelan’s memorable goal for Ireland against the Soviet Union at Euro ‘88, the great man, like any fan, wide-eyed and giving an approving ‘ooh’ as the ball hit the back of the net.
Listen up, Ronnie Whelan – Pele liked your goal. (And, unlike Big Jack back in the day, was diplomatic enough not to mention that you’d “shinned” it).
Georgie I met in rather more bittersweet circumstances, when he was nominated for a Hall of Fame gong in his native Belfast, also in the run-up to the ‘94 World Cup.
A few of us travelled up the night before and found ourselves passing a few hours in his company at the hotel where we were all staying. George was in good form but what quickly became apparent was how low his boredom threshold was and how, as a result, his old competitive instincts were now discharged in trivia like general knowledge quiz questions and bar-room games.
Having trumped all comers at the quizzing – where he happily played both master and contestant – he then moved onto the pool table where, to no-one’s surprise, he also proved to be invincible, seeing off one challenger after another.
However, George was also quietly but steadily working his way through glasses of white wine the whole time so that, when my turn came to face him on the green baize, his cue action was beginning to succumb to the wobbles.
Still seeking that extra bit of competitive oomph, George suggested we play the game for money, so we each put a tenner in the pot and cued off.
Now, your humble correspondent is no pool shark but, between George’s own increasingly shaky grip and a large helping of flukes on my part, I managed to win the game and the loot.
Of course, this being George Best, there was no question that he would surrender the table and so, even as he betrayed increasing levels of frustration and disgruntlement, he continued playing and losing against others until, the drink having now turned comprehensively sour in him, he angrily flung the final black down the length of the table and stormed off to his room.
The following morning, I met up with him again to get his take on the upcoming World Cup, and Ireland’s chances in the competition, for a piece I was writing for the Sunday Press.
And, back to his old self, George, an obviously intelligent man, couldn’t have been more charming or articulate, even though he was still visibly sweating out his prodigious liquid intake from the night before.
By the way, did I keep that tenner, you ask. Nope. Back in those days, I was rather too partial to a drop myself, so the chances of a bonus tenner – even a George Best bonus tenner – staying in my pocket in a late-night hotel bar were, as they say, vanishingly small.
A few years later, me and the hooch would finally go our separate ways – irreconcilable differences, you know yourself – something which makes me reflect on the sad irony that, while I’d spent most of my life since I was a football-mad kid wishing I was George Best, now I can’t help wishing that, in the end, George Best could have been just a little bit more like me.
Zinedine Zidane I’ve met twice, once in Lens and then again in Dublin, during the 2006 World Cup qualifying campaign. Although when I say ‘met’ it wasn’t like we ever had a cosy tete a tete in a little bistro on the Left Bank. In fact, there were about a hundred people in the room on both occasions – okay, okay, they were press conferences, alright? – but, still, I got to ask him some penetrating questions (like, ‘What do you think of Roy Keane?’) and he even pretended that they worth answering so, as far as I’m concerned, that makes me and Zizou nigh-on blood brothers.
Johann Cruyff? Struggling here now, I’ll admit. How’s about: en route to Rome airport the morning after last May’s Champions’ League final, my taxi was overtaken by motor cycle cops escorting a sleek black limousine in which I caught a glimpse of the Dutch and Barca legend in the brief seconds as it whizzed past. At least, I think it was Johann (I always call him Johann). Might have been someone else. Anyway, we were both definitely in the Stadio Olimpico the previous night, so that makes us soul mates by anyone’s standards.
And Diego Maradona? Well, there was the time he and I holed up for a lost weekend in an opium den in Kinnegad but you don’t really want to know about that, do you?
SO back to Pele and, although I wasn’t around to renew an old acquaintance this week, I can’t let the moment pass without telling one of the greatest yarns ever about the greatest footballer of them all.
Six years ago, after Pele has been signed up to promote Viagra – yes, yes, we’ve heard all the jokes about keepie uppies – a conference call by telephone was set up between the great man, who was somewhere in Spain, and a handful of Irish journalists in Dublin. A company press officer had advised the journalists beforehand that, as a condition of getting to speak with Pele, they would have to ask him a question about “the product” but, naturally, they were altogether more keen on using the opportunity to get through as many football queries as they could. Thus it came to pass that as my colleague Paul Lennon manfully endeavoured to fit in one more question of a footballing nature, he found himself being politely but memorably interrupted by the voice of Pele coming out of the speaker: “But Paul, you have not asked me yet about... erectile dysfunction.”
Now, there’s one to tell the grandkids.
When they’re a bit older.
