ORTH
I. S. | 20/10/1924

I was talking to an English journalist in Paris recently. I asked him who he knew from Hungary.

Without thinking, he said: 


— Molnár... Apponyi... Orth...


The first was a writer, the second a politician, the third a footballer.

György Orth, twenty-four years old, slim, one hundred and eighty-eight centimetres tall. The best Hungarian football striker, a real artist, juggler, acrobat, virtuoso. I saw him play again yesterday at the MTK-FTC match. He was as successful as exceptional writers or the most exceptional stage artists. Twenty thousand people applauded him, twenty thousand throats cheered him on, his talent, knowledge and qualities were acknowledged by his opponents. Someone (who was not part of his team) said this about him:


— If Orth was the centre forward of FTC, FTC would have won the match...


There has been much talk and much writing about him in recent times. They said he wanted to go abroad and become a professional footballer because he couldn't make a living at home. He was scolded, ridiculed, belittled. They accused him of being unpatriotic and wanted him out of their camp of amateur players.

Then it turned out he was staying home. He's associated with a sporting goods company and spends his days hovering over the counter. But his real place is on the football field, that's where he feels most comfortable. It's where he grew up, it's where he was born, it's where he's lived out his hopes, dreams and ambitions. Like the actor in the glow of the limelight, the concert singer on the podium, the jockey in the saddle, the soldier at the head of the squad, the scribe bent over his manuscript, the shepherd in the wild green fields, the winged lark chattering over the freshly ploughed furrows, so God made him for the game of football. Beyond his muscular, tail-tipped legs, he was given invention, intelligence, ingenuity, cunning and will. A footballist, whose feet, which carry out his intentions, — play only an instrumental and subordinate role when he controls the ball.

A footballist who calculates, plans, thinks, as if he were his own chief of staff, who calculates the movement in his head before the toe of his shoe touches the ball. His eyes are like an eagle's. He has an amazing vision. That's why he can always position himself so that he's always in action. It never happens that he's out of position. But he's also there where he's needed, where he can help, where he can intervene in the fight. He doesn't make his movements abruptly. He is calm, purposeful and controls the ball as he wants. He can measure distances almost to the centimetre. His ball control is perfect, he's sure, he always passes it to the right place, exactly where it needs to go. He knows when to use his head, back, chest and shoulders. He uses every inch of his body, every atom. Never rough, never rude, never crude. He's not selfish and he's not a prima donna. If he feels that one of his partners is in a better position, — he passes him the ball. He never gives up, never despairs, never gives up the fight for a moment.

He glides with the ball between the rushing opponents in such a way that we just look and stare. In the most desperate and difficult situations, he is brave, daring and determined. He plays the ball the way he wants. He directs it, he commands it. The ball is completely in his control. It's as if he's coaxing it to follow his will and obey his commands. Just when we think he's lost the ball, we realize he's only just begun to take control of it... He is fearsome, invincible, unstoppable. He tries the impossible and almost always succeeds in doing what is almost inconceivable in human terms...

He was the name of the game in the stadium on Sunday. Experts say he has never been as perfect as he was in this match. Anyone who wants to see a real football player, a player not purely of brute strength and feet, but of mind, intelligence, heart, soul and thought — watch him.

After the two halves of the match, he had his hardest task. He had to actually flee the field, run away from the crowd, which rushed wildly to shoulder him and celebrate. Even so, he was torn apart, his physical safety in jeopardy after the triumphant game...


See also: Gabór Kléber: György Orth
See also: Hogan: Orth, Hungary's great football artist
See also: Prof. Schmieger: György Orth's doom
See also: György Orth: the art of football I.
See also: István Pluhár: György Orth
See also: Orth, the centre-forward