My fellow maverick could lift the soul

What a talent Frank Worthington was. Light on his feet, agile, you could not take your eyes off him. And that was just in a nightclub. On the pitch, my word, what a presence he was. That goal he scored for Bolton, flicking the ball over his head before volleying it into the corner of the net: that was a piece of magic that will be admired as long as football is played.

We belonged to an exclusive little club, Frank and I – and I do not mean Stringfellows. We were part of a unique cohort in the Seventies that become known subsequently as the Mavericks. There was Stan Bowles, Charlie George, Alan Hudson, Tony Currie, Frank, me and, at the centre of it, George Best. We all shared a common perspective: football was there to be enjoyed, both for the player and the fan. Our priority when we went out on the pitch was to entertain; to have fun. And boy, did Frank have fun.

The problem was, we were nonconformists at a time when the game was run at the top by those who valued conformity. Sir Alf Ramsey and then Don Revie as England managers had a right distrust of those who thought outside their strict guidelines. The fact is, they were suspicious of flair.

It was madness Frank did not play more for his country. He was always treated with such suspicion by England management, which was not altogether fair. I was with him in one get-together Revie organised and he would not go out with us that evening. He was trying to create a good impression. Fat lot of good it did him.

In one way, Frank was lucky that he was born at a time when he could have fun, enjoy himself, relax away from the game. If there had been camera phones around when Frank was out on the town, he would be permanently banned from playing.

I read an interview when he had just moved to Bolton, I think, and he said he was knuckling down, getting self-disciplined. Instead of going out seven nights a week, he was going to cut it down to just the six. I remember thinking, ‘Come on, Frank, you and I both know come next week you will be out on the seventh night, too’.

But in another way, he was unlucky with when he was born. Were he around now, Frank would have earned himself 100 England caps, not the eight he got. Eight: it is an insult. He really was that good. I read that when he was growing up