The film Best (Mosaic Movies 2000) tells the story of Georgie Best's whirlwind rise to football super-stardom and of how - having found himself at the peak of his career at the tender age of 22 - the only way forward was downwards.

Let me relate a story, no doubt a hackneyed one, but it encapsulates the tragic sense of loss experienced by a whole generation of football fans when Georgie Best hung up his boots despite all the fame, fortune and fornication.

With two League Championship medals, a European Cup medal and Footballer of the Year and European Footballer of the Year awards already to his credit, Georgie Best's career had declined into a merry-go-round of debauchery by the time he reached his mid-20s.

Then one night, in a top-class hotel in Las Vegas or some such place, Georgie ordered a bottle of vintage Champagne from room service, which duly arrived. Recognising the waiter's Northern Irish accent, Georgie chatted with him, gave him a substantial tip and sent him on his way. As the waiter handed over the chilled bubbly, no doubt he noticed the £20,000 thrown on the bed, money Georgie had just won on the tables.

Also stretched across the bed was a former Miss World in a rather revealing negligee. But just as the waiter was turning to leave, he stopped, looked deeply into Georgie's soul and, shaking his head, uttered the immortal words: "Where did it all go wrong, Georgie?"

I don't wish to wallow in 1960s nostalgia or tell the tale again of how a boy born into the working-class Creagh Estate in Belfast came to the attention of Manchester United. Neither do I want to deliver a post-mortem on our hero's downfall. But rather, let me take you on to a decade later.

Let me tell you the story of a different Georgie, in a similar city, 400 miles due south of Belfast. A city of steps and steep hills, more steps and church steeples. Where home was a spaghetti bowl of streets centring on the one called Devonshire.

We didn't call it the inner city here in Cork, just plain downtown - and down our street, soccer was a way of life. Thirteen-aside on tarmac, where every boy, girl, cat and dog chased like coursing greyhounds. You'd find us there every day between school and the Angelus - the downtown dirty faces, bloody knees, backward-running, shirt-tugging, roaring, red-faced - shunting a ball up and down, and shouting: "On the head! Lay it on! Georgie! Georgie! On the head, Georgie!"

Georgie was a superstar, the next Georgie Best. He beats one, he beats two, he beats one more. A quick flick off the high footpath, he traps the ball, chips it over his head, sells Chopper Healy a dummy inside a parked Morris Minor and leaves him on the flat of his back.

Keeper quivering, Georgie slows the pace. It's a one-on-one, the score 14-all, seconds ticking to the Angelus. The keeper hunches, stretching his arms and trying to fill the goal. It's a one-on-one, but it's no even match - Georgie is a genius.

Georgie raises his head just slightly, eyes picking up the sun's dying rays. Finger testing the wind, he smiles, sways hips to the right, shoulders to the left, hips left, shoulders right . . .

"Attack! Attack! Attack!" shouts the chorus.

Keeper slides left, then right, arms flapping, feet spread. As the bells of the Angelus strike their first, Georgie's right foot connects, sending a skimming ball scorching across pavement, quarter-irons knocking sparks off the road. Keeper stretches to breaking point.

"Attack! Attack! Attack!"

A rip-roaring rocket rattles the onion bag . . . 15-14, and the Angelus bell rings out for full time and tea. Picking up schoolbags and coats and jumpers and bags and coats, we'll live to fight another day, we say.

World at his feet, head over heels and arms over head, saluting the adoring fans of the Stretford End of his imagination, Georgie's on a lap of honour, down along the footpath. There's only one Red Army, and only Georgie can lead them to victory.

He shimmies from the kerb-side behind the Morris Minor, running for the centre of the stadium in his dreams. Hands in the air, head full of sound, he stops in the centre circle, raises his arms in a V for Victory.

To the screech of brakes, everything stopped. To the screech of brakes, we just stood there, could do nothing but watch as Georgie was chewed up, his schoolboy's bones crushed, splattering pavement with blood and guts . . .

I remember that day vividly. It was the day we lost the game, the day street soccer became a thing of the past, the day the traffic won the day and the heart of a city stopped beating - the day Georgie died.

Anyway, getting back to the Belfast boy, I loved Best. No doubt there are many flaws in it, and maybe this project would have been better served through the rose-tinted perspective of documentary archive. At times, it seems that the film's recreation of well-known real-life stills doesn't amount to much more than an exercise in joining the dots. But what dots!

It must be said that playing Georgie Best has to be one of the most difficult parts for any actor. Not only is the subject still alive and kicking, but God only knows how many hundreds of thousands of people have seen him in the flesh. Even here in Leeside, Georgie Best togged out for Cork Celtic back in the early 1970s. That level of living memory exposure doesn't allow much room for sloppy interpretation, but actor John Lynch plays a blinder in the role.

There is a moving sadness to be found in this film, especially when one realises that maybe it is inevitable that the brightest stars burn out rather than fade away.