According to a Google search I carried out this week, the English writer GK Chesterton once remarked: '‘You cannot grow a beard in a moment of passion’'. I don’t know who the guy is but he got that one spot on. I know, because I have tried and failed to grow a beard many times.

For a young boy growing up in west Belfast during the '70s and '80s, beards were everywhere. The youth workers and community activists who coached the local football teams had them, George Best was no friend to a razor and for our local MP, Gerry Adams, facial hair was a bit of a trademark along with his old duffel coat. So gravitation toward the more hirsute footballers and the unkempt virility they portrayed was really just a natural progression.

My introduction to the bearded footballer came through my father. Although I would eventually eschew his boyhood heroes Wolverhampton Wanderers in favour of more glamorous Manchester United, I retained a soft spot for their big centre-half George Berry. Here was a man for whom hair was obviously a hobby and judging by the collection of follicles, he was very good at it.

'The 1982 Brazil World Cup captain Socrates, Glasgow Celtic’s hard-man skipper Danny McGrain and his Brighton counterpart Steve Foster showed that furry men are leaders, motivators and instigators'


I was but a child when George made his 124 appearances for Wolves, scoring four goals, so my short-term goal was to copy his hairstyle. I soon realised that this would remain an impossible dream given the glorious failures of men like Arsenal's Alan Sunderland and Tottenham's Alan Brazil.

As George moved on to Stoke City, among other clubs, so I moved on to other shaggy-faced heroes who demonstrated the versatility and universality of the bearded footballer. Tottenham’s Ricky Villa and Archie Gemmill of, first, Nottingham Forest and then Derby County, were flair players who brought supporters to the edge of their seats.

The 1982 Brazil World Cup captain Socrates, Glasgow Celtic’s hard-man skipper Danny McGrain and his Brighton counterpart Steve Foster showed that furry men are leaders, motivators and instigators. In Ireland we had our own woolly captain in midfielder Tony Grealish, winner of 45 caps during a nine-year international career that ended when Jack Charlton became manager in 1985.

Under the stewardship of Charlton, Ireland enjoyed unprecedented success on the field but apart from John Aldridge’s thick moustache, facial fuzz was in short supply in the dressing room. However, the most iconic bushy footballer of my childhood days was Argentina’s World Cup-winning defender from Mexico ’86 Sergio Batista, a footballer with the appearance of someone peering through a hedge. The term 'bedraggled' did not do Sergio justice. His commitment to facial hair matched his commitment to the practice of the type of controlled aggression on the pitch that is the hallmark of all great defenders.

Since the 1990s, changing fashions have meant the decline of beards in football, as in society. In recent years, Matthew Upson, Olof Mellberg and David Prutton have bucked this trend with varying success. Among managers, Rafa Benitez heroically persists with his continental whisp while Roy Keane sported a full growth on a recent episode of Match of the Day. But, much like Star Wars, He-Man and Pipkin’s Ball, the true hairy football heroes belong resolutely to my childhood and my memories.