I also felt a wave of emotion. It is not often that you can conjure so clearly and vividly something that has begun to recede into memory. We were both in our late thirties, both contemplating the second half of our lives, but in one precious moment we were back to the pinnacle of our days. What had moved me so much was that the moment had been so spontaneous, springing as it did from our knowledge of each other and our different powers.
The aspect of Denis that I could never understand, and which I suppose made the sharpest contrast in the way we approached the game, was that he refused to be involved the moment he wasn’t playing in a match. If he was injured and had to leave the field, he would shower and go home immediately, perhaps with the outcome of the match far from decided. It was the same when substitutes were introduced; if Denis was replaced, that was the end of his afternoon. He wasn’t making any statement of anger or resentment. He was just saying that his work and his interest were over. He would rather be back in his house in Chorlton cum Hardy. This lack of involvement if he was not on the pitch was true even for the biggest games – when United played in the European Cup final in 1968, Denis was in hospital having a cartilage operation. He claims to have had a few beers – and fallen asleep.
If I had to pick a single, dominating aspect of his character, apart from the tremendous commitment which marked his play, and which set him apart as much as his dramatic talent, it would be his sheer Scottishness. I know all Scots aren’t the same, but I do love the way so many of them see a love of their country as something at the heart of their existence, and how it has always been so passionately expressed on the football field. Often there is a show of toughness, and quite a bit of bluster, but you don’t have to be so perceptive to see that at its core is deep pride in their people and a tough view of the world.
When Nobby and I were helping England win the World Cup, Denis made a point of playing golf. Whenever we played Scotland, Denis made sure to kick us both and call us ‘English bastards’, within the first minute or so of the match. It was as though he had been obliged to make a statement and, having done so, he could then get on with the game.
I believe that it is part of the Scottish education in life, if not officially in the schoolroom agenda, to compete with most determination against the English. The result in football was that even when some English supporters were making a reputation for strident, riotous behaviour across the world, they had little appetite for visiting Hampden Park. The English fans, like the players, knew that no quarter would ever be given.
When I played my first game for England in Scotland I remember the bus journey from Troon up to Glasgow. It seemed that there was scarcely a house where someone wasn’t hanging out of a window shouting the Scottish equivalent of, ‘You’ll get nowt today.’ Sometimes we did, sometimes we didn’t, but there was always one certainty: if there was ever a Scottish deficit, it would never be one of the heart. Down the years I formed the impression that no one embodied this national pride more strongly than Denis, and on my visits to his country there was always at least a hint that he was regarded as the most patriotic Scottish football player of them all. I know that this image for him will always be a matter of the deepest pride.
Nowadays, I see a certain mellowing in the fierce Scot. He comes down to the club more frequently, and I get the sense that he is pleased to see that his standing remains so huge. He had a battle with prostate cancer a few years ago, and maybe that slightly softened the ferocious edge of the nature that made him such a fantastic player.
Still, I do not expect all of his mysteries to disappear in the years of his maturity. His humour might become a little less edgy – and scathing – and he might be a little less of the loner, but at his heart, I suspect he will always be the same old Denis: a man who played his football, and lived his life, strictly on his own terms.
George Best, of course, kept so much of his mystery right up to the end, when Denis and I sorrowfully boarded that train to London on a cold, grey day in November 2005.
I had met Denis at Stockport station after calling him to discuss George’s situation against the background of reports that he was unlikely to survive his latest health crisis. Denis had already made one visit, and warned me that George was indeed at a low ebb. It was unlikely that he would be able to take much in.
It was as Denis said it would be. George, surrounded by his family, had slipped
