It was the most agonising choice yet, with the HSBC luncheon in Birmingham – having consulted the Telegraph readers’ poll, which put John marginally ahead – agonising long and hard before opting for the jinking genius from Llanelli.
Just as readers and diners recalled John gliding his way through defences on the Lions’ 1971 tour of New Zealand, so they thrilled at the memory of Bennett slashing his way through the Springboks’ defence in 1974 with the most devastating sidesteps the game of rugby has ever produced, as the Lions amassed record victories over the old enemy.
What possibly decided it in the end was the memory of the famous 1973 Barbarians’ match, when, in essence, the 1971 Lions plus Phil Bennett lined up against the All Blacks with John having suddenly retired the year before at the age of 27.
That, of course, is part of the latter’s enduring appeal. John left us wanting more and wondering what could have been, what should have been.
A child of the Sixties and a megastar, briefly, of the Seventies, John may have disliked the rock star persona that seemed to settle on him, but he truly was the James Dean or Jim Morrison of the rugby world.
With Bennett we didn’t have to speculate, his entire career was played out in full and gloriously so. Two Grand Slams with Wales, countless moments of breathless brilliance, the Barbarians, of course, the triumphant Lions of 1974 and then again in 1977, when he captained the touring party in New Zealand.
A fitness fanatic, Bennett was 30 years ahead of his time, a model professional despite the absence of a wage packet. He would have graced the modern game, filled huge stadia and unpicked the tightest of in-your-face defences. He would have mocked them and made those on the touchline tear up their coaching manuals.
Inside him would be Gareth Edwards, as he was in 29 Wales internationals and for the duration of the 1974 tour. The selection of Edwards was written in the stars and took a nanosecond to confirm in Birmingham, but we should try not to take his genius for granted. He was as far removed from a “normal” rugby player as we are ever likely to see.
A supreme athlete – he once beat future Olympic medallist Alan Pascoe in the England schools’ 220-yard hurdles – and a gymnast to boot, he was a phenomenal physical specimen.
An instinctive scorer of tries, a consistent performer of impossible acts that no defence could legislate against. Edwards was brilliant tactical kicker – he perfected the raking grubber down the touchline – and was as brave as a Lion in defence.
Everybody out there today, young or old, will have their own favourite Edwards moment. Mine is his incredible, adrenaline-crazed, 85-yard dash for that wonder try against Scotland at a swampy Cardiff Arms Park. He looked like a miner coming off shift as he emerged to be acclaimed. Spike Milligan thought a church should be built on the very spot where he scored to celebrate a miracle.
Edwards’s recollections of his two great partners and buddies are worth recalling: “The only thing that was the same about Barry and Phil was that they were both great players," he said.
"Otherwise everything was different – attitude, way of playing, character. Phil was a lot more introverted, a quieter person but a brilliant footballer more in the classical Welsh mould, like Cliff Morgan and Dai Watkins. He was a fantastic stepper but sometimes I think even Phil didn’t know where his sidesteps would take him.
“Phil inspired those around him in the team by his ability to show brilliance out of nothing, Barry gave a more subtle message by what he did. Barry would joke more, Phil would be more nervous, so we all felt the tension more than when Barry was around. Phil was more of an instinctive genius. You just tried to get as close to him as you could in support.
“When I look back at those times it was the sheer thrill of playing with those guys that I remember most.” Amen to that.