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Obituaries

BOB WOOLMER: Bob, the sportscar and springbok, by Neil Manthorp

It was more than he could really afford, it was daring and it was one of the most romantic moments anyone could have shared. One of Cape Town 's most tranquil and classy restaurants, hired out in its entirety, for a silver wedding anniversary.

There were 50 guests, and from the moment they sat down the whispers began. Following starters and the main course, a menu made up entirely of the lady's favourites, the guests would need to gather on the driveway while the lady was 'diverted' for a few moments.

There they stood, wine glasses in hand, having enjoyed a meal of which few could remember better. Seconds passed before, slowly but surely, a silver sports car was driven amongst us. It had an enormous, silk bow tied around it and a card which read: "Happy Anniversary - love you always, Bob."

The whisper had alerted everyone to the surprise, everyone that is, but the recipient. The whisper had told us that the lady had dreamed, all her life, of driving an open-topped sports car with the wind blowing in her hair and the scent of the Cape filling her senses.

She was escorted down to the entrance of the driveway by her two sons, clearly bewildered and unaware of the surprise. When she finally focussed on the car, her emotions froze. It was too much to believe.

But then her husband explained his wife's dream to their guests, explained how critical she had been to his career, declared - after 25 years - his undying love for her, and said he could not think of anyone who deserved more to have their dreams come true than her. Still, she could not believe the evidence of her eyes, which were filled with tears.

When she finally pushed aside the giant ribbon and opened the door to sit behind the wheel, the guests cheered and whooped and danced. None of the guests would ever forget it. Tears and laughter were best friends.

In between tours and other assignments, Bob would stop at nothing to ensure that he and Gill could have at least a couple of days enjoying the passion they shared above all but their boys, Dale and Russell - game parks.

If Bob was away for two weeks or ten weeks, Gill would cope - as 'cricket widows' do - and they would catch up with each other in the tranquillity of the bush, watching a pride of lions, a stray giraffe or just a humble herd of zebra at the watering hole.

Now Gill is a widow, not a cricket widow, and those days are no more.

To play golf with Bob Woolmer was a lesson in calm. It is impossible to play the stupid game without being frustrated, of course, but if he said it once he said it ten thousand times: "You've hit your ball into a lake, nobody died." It didn't always calm the rage, but it did, at least, bring a smile to his partner's face.

After the tie against Australia in the semi-final of the 1999 World Cup, he was the only member of the entire touring squad able to speak, let alone acknowledge their emotions, for many hours. In some cases, days. He was dignified, honest and even generous in what he always described later as the darkest hour of his entire career as a player and coach.

If he could handle that, he could handle Pakistan losing to Ireland . Oh God, Bob, surely you could have handled that. As you said so many times, it was just a game. I know you handled it. I know you coped. You were one of the strongest and most honest men I ever met. Perhaps it was just your time to leave.

It saddens me deeply to hear former players describe Woolmer as having "lived and breathed cricket every hour of the day" because he did not. He was devoted and passionate about cricket, certainly, but he never lacked a sense of perspective and his family came before anything else. To say Bob Woolmer lived for cricket is to imply he was one-dimensional. The opposite is true.

Whenever in Cape Town , Bob loved a good meal out. Thai food was his favourite. The last time my wife and I joined Bob and Gill for grilled ginger fish, his favourite, was one of the best of many meals we shared. He was laughing about the peculiar and even scary pressures of coaching Pakistan . He dismissed the concerns of the table.

"Don't worry about me," he smiled, "I'll be the last person to die of a heart attack. I've seen it all - been there, done that."

If it was, indeed, a heart attack that took him away, it will be one of the very, very few things he ever got wrong.

The very best years of Bob's life lay before him. His own academy was taking root, the long months of touring were coming to an end after the World Cup, the three-day breaks in game parks with Gill were about to become two-week holidays and he was going to be able to play golf once a week rather than once a month.

Bob always said cricket wasn't fair. Fortunately he isn't here to witness just how unfair life can be.

He pioneered the reverse-sweep, revolutionised one-day cricket and laid down coaching foundations to stand for 50 years. He coached in townships when he and Gill were virtually bankrupt in the late 1980s. He set records which may never be broken with Warwickshire in the county championship and he mentored more young players than can be counted.

But more than anything else, he was a generous, loving, decent and honest human being.

Bob Woolmer may be gone, but his name and legacy will live on. He will be missed. Deeply.

ALEX BANNISTER, an appreciation by John Woodcock

Alex was one of the genuine ‘characters’ of the cricket press box with his dry, occasionally sardonic wit, and quiet, rather cranky voice, which sounded sometimes like a gramophone record running out of steam.

We were al addressed as "old son". "You’re not a journalist, old son, you’re a cricket writer," he said to me once, perhaps more with a tinge of reproval than acclaim. Having, the day before, been described by Jim Swanton as "the supreme non-professional", I remember wondering what I had better do about it.

For many years Alex’s opposite numbers on the other tabloids included Charles Bray (Daily Herald), Brian Chapman (Daily Mirror), Frank Rostron (Daily Express) and Crawford White (News Chronicle). There was certainly no lack of professionalism there, but Alex was invariably the one to plough his own furrow. He enjoyed the trust and respect of the players, which stood him in good stead and, not being given to taking chances, he was a thoroughly reliable source.

No day in the press box was properly under way until he had railed against his sub-editors. "They’d rewrite the Lord’s Prayer, old son, given the chance." His sports editors, apart from the blessed Tom Clarke, were no better than impostors. But the manner disguised a kind and gentle soul, and one quite incapable of bragging.

Born in King’s Langley in Hertfordshire, Alex served his apprenticeship with the local paper in Watford before becoming a Commando in the Second World War and having a rough time of it in the Italian campaign.

I first got to know him on the boat going to Australia with Freddie Brown’s side in 1950-51. It was then that he struck up a lasting friendship with Lyn Wellings (Evening News) and Denys Rowbotham (Manchester Guardian), both of them more polemical writers than Alex but no less assiduous.

After meeting on that tour, Alex and Don Bradman exchanged regular letters until the Don’s death in 2001. The two of them worked closely together when The Mail brought Bradman over to cover the Ashes series in England in 1953. The Bedsers and Alex were also longstanding friends, Alex ghosting their books for them.

Alex would have been embarrassed to be told "you’re quite a legend, old son", but in the world of sports journalism that is what he was. The reception he was given each year at several recent Cricket Writers’ Club dinners went to prove it.

ALEX BANNISTER: An obituary, by Brian Scovell

Alex Bannister's funeral will take place at the Chilterns Crematorium, Amersham, Bucks, on Friday, December 15, at 10 am. Friends and colleagues are welcome to say farewell to the oldest founder member of the CWC. He was 92 and he died at Hemel Hempstead General Hospital after failing to recover from a hip operation. In recent years he took tremendous pleasure in accepting our invitations to the Club's dinners and he will be sadly missed.

Born in 1914, Alex worked for a local newspaper in the Watford area where he was born. He served as a commando in WW11 and took part in the Italian campaign between 1943-5. His best cricketing friend, Sir Alec Bedser, said "He never spoke much about it but he had an extraordinary time there. He was captured, managed to escape and took weeks to cross the mountains to reach the Allied lines. He once told me he survived by digging up swedes with his bare hands. And it was freezing most of the time."

In 1947 Alex was appointed the cricket correspondent of the "Daily Mail" and despite two short term spells when he was replaced by Crawford White and Ian Wooldridge he stayed at the "Mail" until he retired at the age of 65 in 1979. His demotions left him a bitter man but his love of cricket, and his work, enabled him to continue. He made friends of many of the cricketers he reported on and his closest friend from overseas was Sir Don Bradman, whom he helped write a column for the "Mail." Bradman was always praising his integrity and fairness and they exchanged letters right up to the end of Bradman's death.

Ken Barrington, speaking at Alex's farewell party, said "We trusted him and he never broke a confidence." Alex once managed a Commonwealth tour to the sub Continent of Test standard and it was his proudest achievement. Although he was often heard complaining about "those so and so subs" and the state of the game, he had a wonderful sense of humour. He wasn't a Cardus or a Brian Chapman but he led the field in his time as a news cricket reporter.

Any young aspiring cricket reporter ought to read some of his cuttings. They were object lessons in telling the story in straight English, backed by a great knowledge of the game.

He married Delia in late life and they were idyllically happy. He has no children of his own but he had a step-son, John.

ALEX BANNISTER: An appreciation, by Derek Hodgson

Alex Bannister had been in my vision, as Fleet Street's best cricket story-getter, long before I really got to know him on my first England tour (Brearley to Australia 1978). I had crossed paths with him at county matches over several years and was always conscious of a very shrewd and perceptive presence in the box, someone who seemed to know every person of consequence on the ground and who would deliver, from time to time, a waspish wit.

I was lucky in that he rather took me under his wing in that first tour, introducing me to, among others, Bradman, Morris, Miller and Harvey. He arranged to meet Keith Miller over a lavish lunch where I heard the great man himself deliver that deathless quote: "Pressure? Pressure is having a Messerschmitt up your arse". Alex himself, Brian Scovell tells me, had what used to be known as "a good war", i.e. very distinguished service but, like many of his generation, he rarely referred to his experiences.

Dear old Lawrie Mumford, cricket correspondent of the London Evening News, once told me how he had been captured by the Germans, literally caught with his trousers down, sitting on a lavatory. I was re-telling this marvellous story, Lawrie being an enormously popular man in the box, but got my dates wrong, whereupon Alex, sitting quietly at the back, intervened: "It’s true", he said. "Lawrie's the only man who could have been taken prisoner before war actually broke out"

Alex was especially close to Bradman and was his ghost on the 1956 tour when Bradman was signed by the Daily Mail as a commentator, Alex always insisting that he had little more to do with the copy other than tick it and make sure it reached the desk on time. It was an arduous four months, for in those days touring team tried to play, and beat, all the counties, when Test matches were not the over-stuffed, over-hyped, over-cooked circuses they have become. Towards the end of August the Don became so tired that he would nod off in the car while Alex was driving.

On one occasion he woke up with a start and said. "You know, fatigue can do funny things to you. I was dreaming then that I could see kangaroos in a field back there". Alex said nothing. He had just driven past Whipsnade Zoo.

Alex Bannister was enormously respected in the game and in the box for his integrity. He was a scrupulous respecter of facts and quotes and was thus trusted by players, administrators and colleagues alike. He was the Club's last surviving founder member and attended the annual dinner and the 60th jubilee dinner when past 90 years of age. Like many other members of the Club I shall miss, seriously, his "How are you then, old son"?

Lilian Byrne

We are sad to report the death of Lilian Byrne. Lilian, who was 70, had worked for M.C.C for nearly 30 years before her retirement in 2001, and was married to CWC member Peter Byrne. She had suffered from Progressive Supranuclear Palsy for some time and passed away on 6th December while in New York .

The funeral took place at Golders Green Crematorium, West Chapel, 62 Hoop Lane, Golders Green, London NW11 7NL at 1pm on Thursday, 4th January 2007.

Following the service, there were light refreshments and drinks at Lord’s. By courtesy of MCC there was car parking at the ground.

Peter states: "Please, in respect of her religion, no flowers. However, Lilian supported three causes; The British Diabetic Association, Help The Aged and The Royal National Institute of The Blind. A donation to one of these in her memory would be appreciated."

Dominic Allan

Dominic Allan, former cricket correspondent of LBC and IRN, who many members will remember as a cheery and formidable press box presence, has had a series of strokes and is in a residential home in Somerset. He would very much appreciate any messages from former colleagues.

He's in the Hill House Residential Home, Hill House, 131 Sherborne Road, Yeovil BA21 4HF . He can be phoned on 01935 706285, though it obviously isn't easy for him to speak for long.

Thanks to Matthew Engel for this news.

Richard Marsh Streeton

Richard Streeton will probably be best remembered as a cricket journalist on The Times; a position he held for almost a quarter-of-a-century.

But Richard's career extended far beyond cricket. Born on November 4 1930, Richard Marsh Streeton enjoyed a distinguished naval career, before working on provincial newspapers in Nuneaton, Mansfield, Nottingham and Kettering.

After joining Reuters in 1958 he was sent to cover a wide range of sporting events around the globe. He reported from the Olympics of Tokyo (1964) and Mexico City (1968), the Monte Carlo Rally, several rugby tours (including the controversial 1980 Lions trip to South Africa) and also covered badminton, table tennis and cycling.

He joined The Times in 1969, originally as a sub-editor in the sports department. Never missing an opportunity to take a writing assignment he transferred to a full-time writing role in 1977 and remained with the paper until his premature, and reluctant, retirement in 1993.

The print dispute of the late 70s caused a hiatus for many journalists, but Richard took the opportunity to write the excellent P.G.H. Fender: a biography. The book, the result of hours of conversation with the Surrey and England all-rounder, was very well received and won the Cricket Society's literary award. Though time constraints ruled out further books, Richard later became president of the Association of Cricket Statisticians and Historians, serving two five-year terms from 1987.

Well-known in the press box for his research and record-keeping, Richard travelled with a library of reference material. As deputy to The Times' correspondent, John Woodcock, Richard covered the first of many England tours in 1980-81 (to India) and fully lived up to the image of the English gentleman abroad. Liberal use of sun block made him a distinctive face, while his resemblance to the actor Jack Hawkins earned him the nickname 'Hawkins'.

A Sherlock Holmes enthusiast, Richard was a member of several societies dedicated to the great detective. When agonising over a problematic opening to a piece he would often talk of "a three-pipe intro" - a reference to the sleuth's words in The Red Headed League - while he would fill a row of pipes and leave them in readiness on his dashboard before particularly long journeys.

Richard's latter years were dogged by ill health and he died on June 30 2006, aged 75. He is survived by his ever-supportive wife of 43 years, Mavis, and a son.

Brian Bearshaw by Colin Evans

Brian Bearshaw, the former Manchester Evening News Cricket correspondent, has died after a long illness. He was 73.

Brian was a true Lancastrian who lived and worked all his life in the county. He joined the MEN in the 1960s and became their cricket correspondent a few years later, taking over from John Kay and serving in that role for 20 years during which he earned a reputation for fair, accurate reporting. He was highly respected by colleagues and players.

Brian was interested in historical affairs, and wrote the official history of Lancashire County Cricket Club, entitled: “From the Stretford End.” He also ‘ghosted’ Jack Simmons’ autobiography ‘Flat Jack’ and a number of other books on cricket and walking, and some fiction.

Brian leaves a widow, Jeanette, two sons and a daughter. His funeral will be on Thursday (2pm) at St Michael’s Church, Bamford, near Rochdale.

Colin Evans writes: “I worked alongside Brian for many years at Old Trafford and in the MEN office. He was considerate, fair-minded, always gave the benefit of the doubt, and always searched for a just solution to any problem.”

John Thicknesse by Christopher Martin-Jenkins

Those who saw John Thicknesse in good form at the Cricket Writers Club dinner last September will have been shocked by the news of his death in early March only weeks after learning that he had advanced cancer. He was 74 but still in spirit a schoolboy, He had hoped to cover a few more county matches for The Times next season before leaving his professional life behind him at what would then have been the age of 75 to concentrate on family, golf at the lovely downland course above his home at Warminster, and defeating the bookmakers by shrewd application of a profound knowledge of his favoured sports, especially, of course, cricket.

Thickers was a card: independent, immensely conscientious and caring to the point of obsession about his job, but a great companion at any time other than when a deadline was looming. Impetuous and often infuriatingly stubborn he was also kind, very intelligent, a shrewd judge of character, irreverent of authority, a fund of stories and an unshakeable opponent of anything he felt was wrong. He would gamble on almost anything, but only when he had calculated the odds. He always said that his job as the Evening Standard's cricket correspondent from 1967 to 1996 was the best in the business. He was invariably an informative, opinionated, interesting read. Before he got onto cricket full time his first assignment for the Standard was to cover Donald Campbell's attempt on the world water speed record at Coniston Water. With his capacity to make immediate friendships he played cards with Campbell on the night before the fatal drive and reputedly dealt him the same 'unlucky' hand that Wild Bill Hickock received before getting shot.

A talented batsman and bowler of left-arm chinamen for Harrow and various wandering clubs he was also tough to beat on the golf course, especially when he appeared to have no chance on a hole after a wayward drive. He fought his own corner in every aspect of his life, including relations with the office. His sports editor cabled him sharply on his first tour of the Caribbean when he thought John was overdoing the colour. "Forget scenery" was the instruction. John cabled back: "Scenery unforgettable".

Punctilious in recording his expenses on tour, he used to quote the advice given to him by George Whiting as soon as he joined the Standard: "Remember son: thieve a little, leave a little." But he gave his employers dedicated service, not least when Mrs Gandhi's assassination at the start of an England tour of India gave him the freedom of the front page. It apparently amused the editor that John gave equal prominence to the murder of the leader of the world's largest democracy and the fact that, despite it, the England tour would proceed. But Charles Wintour sent him a "well done" message.

My most indelible memory of Thickers is the extraordinary experience we shared in Calcutta after a game at the Tolly Gunge during a taxi strike. We had got there by tube but after our usual highly competitive game and a drink the sun had set. Neither of us fancied a walk to the tube in the dark. The return journey was therefore a problem until one of the members at the bar, an obviously inebriated well-to-do Indian female, offered to drive us back. With some trepidation we accepted but her passage down the drive to the road was so erratic that another member tapped on her window and said: "Desist. You are not fit to drive." She ignored him but had gone only a few hundred yards into the thick of Calcutta's chaotic traffic when she suddenly stopped at an angle of 45 degrees to the oncoming cars, carts, buses, lorries, etc, felt into her handbag, pulled out a cigarette, turned to John and said: "Give me a light, darling." Thickers was already highly agitated as only he could be. "Get out of the seat and move over" he said. "I'm driving. Come on, get out." They exchanged places and we proceeded to have the most hair-raising journey, at once hilarious and terrifying, with John gradually warming to his task although neither of us had a clear idea of the right direction and she was by now virtually comatose. John let out yelps of pleasure, like Toad of Toad Hall, as rickshaws donkey-carts and cyclists scattered into the gutters from the path of the car. Horns blared constantly and there was the occasional emergency stop but eventually and miraculously the Grand Hotel hove into view.

It was occasionally necessary to share rooms on the subcontinent in those days, and Thickers was once drawn with Peter Baxter during a match in Pakistan. Always a bad sleeper, he woke at three o' clock and, considerately, went to the corridor outside for a cigarette. Reporting this to Peter next morning he said: "I passed the time of morning with a soldier outside. We must have talked for ten minutes without either of us understanding a single word the other was saying."

In fact, even when talking to another English speaker there were times when John did not make himself clearly understood at the first attempt. I recall a rather brassy Australian lady turning to him on a bar stool in Sydney and saying: "Aw, take the plum out of yer mouth darling."

His distinctive high-pitched voice has been intimated affectionately many times since his retirement from regular reporting and no-one whose path he crossed in a long life in cricket will forget him.

Irving Rosenwater by David Rayvern Allen

Rosenwater was one of cricket's great luminaries. A former assistant editor of 'The Cricketer' magazine, founder editor of 'The Cricket Society Journal' where he instituted much original research, a contributor to 'Wisden' particularly embracing the Records section, and a television scorer-statistician for BBC and Channel Nine, Australia, these activities were but the heel of his footprint on the games' many off-field pitches. He also enjoyed (in his own listing) 'a wide and varied career as writer, essayist, collector, editor, bibliographer, researcher, reviewer, obituarist, spectator, crossword-compiler, publisher's reader, indexer, speaker (and minor player)'.

Born at Mile End in London's East End early in the uneasy 1930s, Irving - in cricketing circles that name alone was sufficient - was the possessor of two birth certificates. His mother had had second thoughts soon after registering him as 'Isidore'. His father, originally Woolf Rosenvasser', had migrated from Warsaw in 1916 and married his mother Sarah Grunstein in 1928. They had met at a fashion factory where Woolf was working as a clothing machinist.

At the outset of the 2nd World War for a time the young Rosenwater, together with his elder sister Edith, was evacuated to Windsor before returning to Stepney to face the latest onslaught from the skies. A 'doodlebug' fell a couple of streets away from the family home in Diggon Street, which led to his mother running to Parmenter's Grammar School in Bethnal Green where Irving was being educated, to inquire anxiously about her son's safety. Eventually articled to a legal firm - Gerald Samuels - Rosenwater studied to become a solicitor, before becoming entirely enmeshed in the world of cricket. 'His heart wasn't in law' remembers a contemporary friend Norma Gutteridge, 'because his mind was consumed by cricket statistics. He failed his Trust Accounts exams, which didn't go down very well at home'.

Deferred National Service, spent with the R.A.M.C. at Crookham in Hampshire where his administrative abilities had been fully recognised, led to the offer of a permanent commission. But cricket was not to be denied.

Rosenwater had started to write articles for 'The Cricketer' in 1955 (early on he encountered a degree of anti-semitism by being told to adopt a nom-de plume, because he would never get anywhere in cricket with the name 'Rosenwater'), before in time becoming; 'Manager', 'Joint Assistant Editor' with John Reason and then in 1967, lone 'Assistant Editor' of that august magazine. Rosenwater always was single-minded and vociferous and with the imperious 'Jim' Swanton as Editorial Director, clashes were inevitable. By October, after a dispute over some obscure point of principle, Rosenwater had moved on.

In 1962, the year after he had organised and managed a minor tour to Bermuda of Stuart Surridge's side, Irving had started producing cricket books. An initial offering, 'A Portfolio of Cricket Prints', made a pleasing impression, and then in 1966, came the first edition of the encyclopaedic 'The World of Cricket' where he cemented a reputation for assiduous, painstaking work as one of the assistant editors. There then followed a joint authorship with Ralph Barker of the Ashes series, 'England v Australia' in 1969. But it was to be with his definitive biographical tome on Sir Donald Bradman that he scaled a peak never reached again. Deservedly winning The Cricket Society Literary Award, he seemed to have dissected every minute of 'The Don's' life.

The dust jacket of the Bradman biography recorded that Rosenwater 'no longer took part in Cricket Society quizzes because he was universally regarded as unbeatable'. It was a reminder of an unusual happening many years earlier. Participating in the Michael Miles TV Quiz programme 'Take Your Pick', a Rosenwater answer was deemed to be wrong, when - according to Irving and thousands of viewers - it was correct! There are ways of choosing the winner...

As television scorer-statistician for the BBC for nine seasons from 1971(1970 has also been given) and for Channel Nine, Australia (ten seasons and one season in UK), Irving was in his element. Endlessly providing the commentator with statistics that often changed with the progress of the game and as a source on instant demand of historical reference to previous matches and career records of the players involved, required a man with tremendous knowledge of law and lore. Peter Walker sitting alongside Irving for much of the 1970s, wrote that he met every requirement ' with speed, good humour and unerring accuracy' As to his excursion with the Packer circus. Irving complained that ' Kerry Packer always was borrowing money off me to make a bet!'

The Rosenwater mania for absolute veracity and accuracy with content and copy was legendary. Every comma and colon had to be in place. Correspondence was replied to instantly by first-class post. Woe betide the casual sender of a missive by second-class post - they were likely to receive a vituperative response - Irving knew to the second the delivery time of each piece of mail. Versification being a family trait (his mother wrote only one poem, that on the 1st World War, which was promptly published: his sister has composed frequent verse), he often wrote personal letters to friends in verse. And when writing, even at home, he would never not be wearing a collar and tie.

In many ways Irving Rosenwater was not of his time. He was a somewhat eccentric Dickensian figure, bursting, as he often was, with so many bees in his bonnet, giving unasked opinions on the sundry annoyances of everyday life and looking like he might become the original 'grumpy old man'.

But he was never quite that. He had a view and he wanted it heard. He was a full member of MCC since 1966 (life member, 1997) and at every AGM delivered a peroration which will undoubtedly be missed - perhaps by some not altogether regretfully. However, his knowledge was polymathic. In recent times he brought out a great number of beautifully produced limited editions on sometimes esoteric subjects. With these and elsewhere there was a tendency to think he was infallible and he, the ultimate researcher, occasionally missed modern updating because he assumed that he had said the last word. Never mind, the body of work he has left for posterity will forever be invaluable for future cricket historians. He delved into areas and excavated information that only he with his obsessional devotion to the game could have managed to find. Despite that, with his departure, a vast compendium of knowledge (not available anywhere else) has been irretrievably lost. The game of cricket with its literary and academic offshoots owes him far more than can ever be assessed and yet one cannot help feeling that he never found exactly the right niche for his extraordinary talents. One easily could have imagined Rosenwater gracing a university chair of cricketing scholarship pontificating to a surrounding group of adoring students. Sadly, it was not to be...

Irving Rosenwater born 11/9/32, London. Died 30/1/2006, London.

Bruce Wilson by Murray Hedgcock

Bruce Wilson, a familiar figure in English Pressboxes for the twenty years of his London posting, first for the Herald and Weekly Times, and then for News Limited of Australia, died on January 3, aged 64, after a brief battle with cancer. Bruce's prime sporting loves were cricket and rugby, and he spoke for genuine Australia on the day England won the Ashes, when he stood in The Oval press box to congratulate the home press contingent for their team's deserved success. He also was a splendid news reporter, and covered some 30 conflicts ranging from Vietnam to the Gulf War.

Bruce was given a warm send-off on January 11th at Mortlake Crematorium.The day began with drizzling rain but cleared, and there was some sunshine as about seventy gathered for the service, led by family friend John Valentine. It began with the singing of To Be A Pilgrim (He Who Would Valiant Be); there were readings by family members Rebecca Wilson and Luke Hardman, and old Fleet Street colleague Philip Jacobson paid a tribute that brought out the humanity of the man as well as his quality as a journalist. The gathering left the chapel to the strains of The Golden Striker, by the MJQ.

Ye White Hart, a splendid old riverside pub at Barnes, was the setting for two or three hours of reminiscence and tribute. There were many Fleet Street characters there from Bruce's days round the world, plus London-based Australian colleagues, as well as Ron Reed - known to many cricket travellers from his slot in the MCG Pressbox - who had flown in especially from Melbourne. Son Jim Wilson (also a Melbourne-based sportswriter) said the right words in appreciation of the happy time spent remembering a big man in the business - and a man much-loved by his large family. Our sympathy goes to his wife Clare, and the CWC is making a donation to Cancer Research UK.

Mike Smith - 1942-2004 by Norman de Mesquita

Mike Smith was the last of a dying breed... a former player-turned scorer. He took over from Harry Sharp in 1994, Harry having decided that the mysteries of computers were a little too much for him. "They're talking about a menu," said Sharp. "Isn't that what you have for lunch?" And that just about summed up what he thought of the new method of scoring. Mike Smith quickly conquered the computer; although he was renowned for having frequent rows with P.A. when his computer misbehaved.

He was also renowned as the possessor of a wonderful sense of humour. He specialised in self-deprecating humour and often told us, with pride, that his benefit had paid for his first divorce. And he laughed as loud as the rest of us when, on the arrival of a large tanker one day at Southgate, Byron Denning, the much-missed and wonderfully entertaining former Glamorgan scorer, said: "Oh Mike... your Tippex has arrived." Mike claimed to be the 19th-best scorer in the Championship (there are of course 18 counties).

His sense of humour sometimes backfired; as on the day when Middlesex played Northamptonshire at Lord's in a Sunday League (it was played only on Sundays in those days) match and the pitch was about 45 yards from the Tavern boundary. Before the match started, Northants lined up nine fielders along the fence and Smith took guard as if to bat left-handed. He turned round to face the bowling proper right-handed and, perhaps still laughing at his joke, was bowled first ball.

He made his debut for Middlesex as a 19-year-old slow-left-armer against the Indian tourists in 1959, but it was as an opening batsman that he made his name. He was unlucky to be around when England had no shortage of opening batsmen and, although recognised at one-day level, he did not play in a Test match. Perhaps he should have done. His was an unusual method as he moved across from a leg-stump guard to outside the off stump during the bowler's run-up. He was still able to play some handsome off-side shots.

He was refreshing company and (with apologies to the new Middlesex scorer Don Shelley) was missed especially at Southgate this year when the scorers sit in the press tent. It is that quiet humour that was missed and the fact that, in contrast to so many former players, "Smudge" never belittled the efforts or method of the modern player but had sypmathy with how the game has changed since he played and the different requirements for success.

How much he was liked and admired by his colleagues can be guaged from the fact that there were no fewer than 11 scorers (from as far afield as Nottingham and Derby) at his funeral and the church was packed with former Middlesex colleagues, friends and relations.

When someone dies, it is always said how much the deceased will be missed but there can be no doubt that Mike Smith will be sorely missed by all of us. I had the good fortune to know him well, as a player, match manager and scorer and to count him as a friend. A friend who was taken from us far too soon.

Neville Holtham - by Derek Hodgson

Neville Holtham, the sports editor of The People who insisted that he had a man on as many cricket tours as possible, died recently. He was little known to the members of our organisation but those who worked for him had nothing but praise for the man who always had time to talk.

One of them was the former England fast bowler Fred Trueman, 43 years a People columnist, most of it under Neville. "He was a great, sympathetic captain," said Trueman. "You could ring him any time of the day or night and he would always listen. He never pulled any punches either and I like that in a man. I once went with a serious problem and he talked to me until I saw sense. A good man, a great sports editor and at the same time very likable."

Derek Hodgson, who worked alongside Neville, attended the funeral the day after the club annual meeting at which he was made president after his long stint as secretary, and assures me that there was a good turnout to see Neville go. It was Derek's decision to leave Neville's name in the media guide for a year as our tribute to a fine journalist.

Bill Bradshaw, Express sports editor writes: Neville was 74 when he died in January. He was sports editor for 26 years and Fred Trueman was his "named" cricket columnist throughout that time. He also served on the Daily Mail and Herald and after retiring from The People he was founding co-sports editor of The European. After that he acted as a consultant for both the Sunday Express and the Reg Hayter sports agency. He was buried at Farningham's St Peter and St Paul's Parish Church on February 10.

Rob Mills - by David Warner

Cricket journalists throughout the country were shocked by the sudden death in late October of Yorkshire Post cricket correspondent, Rob "Freddie" Mills at the age of 51.

He was nicknamed Freddie by The Daily Telegraph's David Green when he first appeared on the county cricket circuit in 1985 and the name stuck to such an extent that his media colleagues never called him anything else.

Such was his popularity and esteem among his readers, Yorkshire CCC members and fellow cricket journalists from around the country that All Saints' Church in his village of Appleton Roebuck, York, was full to overflowing for his funeral service.

Yorkshire president Robin Smith, chief executive Colin Graves and club accountant David Ryder were among the mourners who also included vice-captain, Matthew Wood; former captain, David Byas, now director of cricket; former president Viscount Mountgarret, and several ex-players, including former cricket chairmen, Bob Appleyard and Bob Platt, and Ted Lester, Doug Padgett, Jim Love and Barrie Leadbeater as well as Dickie Bird.

Yorkshire Post sports editor, Bill Bridge, led a delegation from the newspaper, which included almost the entire sports department.

Born in York and a freeman of the city, Freddie took an honours degree in Classics at Bristol University - where he met his future wife Angela - and his first job in journalism was as a trainee reporter with the Evening Press in York where he soon began to write on sport, taking on coverage of York RLC.

He moved on to the Yorkshire Evening Post before becoming the first cricket correspondent of the Hull Daily Mail in 1985 and four years' later he succeeded David Hopps as cricket correspondent of the Yorkshire Post.

His everyday reports on Yorkshire's progress throughout the summer months were essential reading for many of the county's members and fans and his Saturday Mills on Sport column was recognised as one of the best sporting 'reads' in the country.

Over the past two decades, Rob and David 'Plum' Warner together covered the year-round ups and downs of Yorkshire cricket and very little happened either in the corridors of power at Headingley or on the field of which they unaware.

Freddie, says Plum, was in no way pompous or pious or pretentious - but did he have style? First impressions were of a quiet, almost shy man, who could somehow frown and smile both at the same time, but he was the life and soul of any party and an integral and lively part of any Press Box in the country, which he happened to be in.

And that style was so vividly and so uniquely conveyed on to the written page because he was a master craftsman, a top man in his profession.

The headline on Freddie's front-page obituary in the Yorkshire Post summed him up perfectly. 'Cricket writer with the sublime touch', it said.

"That sublime touch was recognised in his office, enviously observed in the Press Box and appreciated and enjoyed by all of his readers," said Plum.

Freddie also wrote with the same clarity on soccer and Rugby League and he would have been a worthy chief correspondent of either of those games, such was his versatility and flair. But so far as soccer was concerned he wanted to be nothing more than a loyal York City fan, standing behind goal on rainy days and sharing the joys and sorrows of his struggling club.

A generous tribute was paid to Freddie by Yorkshire president Robin Smith who said: "I was really upset at the news of Rob Mills' death. His cricket knowledge was profound and when I came new to cricket administration I learned a lot from him.

"He was lucid and had a profound insight into the game. As a writer he ranks as one of the best. I mention names like Neville Cardus - he was born of that tradition. He had a style, which commanded attention and judgement born of a great understanding of the game. The combination produced an obligation to read him, which I never missed.

"With regards to Yorkshire, Rob had to tell it as it was and I never had the slightest problem with that. The Press is the lifeblood of Yorkshire CCC and Yorkshire cricket has suffered an enormous loss."

As well as an air of deep sadness at his funeral there was also a special moment, which nobody would have appreciated more than Freddie himself.

Towards the end of the service, the vicar gently admonished the mourners, saying that it was perhaps inevitable that with so many hacks present a mobile telephone would sound off. It turned out to be Dickie Bird's!

Freddie and Angela have a daughter, Fran, and twin sons Alex and Lewis, all three of who are at university.

Peter West – A Great All-rounder by Peter Baxter

Peter West was everything he appeared to be. Straightforward, no nonsense and very much a child of his times. He would have shuddered at the suggestion of having an ‘image’, but image it was nonetheless - of the clean-cut man with straight-stemmed pipe clenched between the teeth, presenting the unadorned facts. And for 37 years that was the image presented as BBC television’s ‘front man’ for their coverage of Test cricket.

Close of play would see him discussing the day for the BBC cameras with E.W. Swanton, Jim Laker or Richie Benaud. Then came the post match interviews with players - memorably on the balcony at Headingley in 1981, when the victorious England players felt the media had hounded Ian Botham out of the captaincy and a surprised West had to handle a fractious Bob Willis.

His journalistic career began immediately after the Second World War with Exchange Telegraph, who harnessed his passion for the sports he had excelled in at Cranbrook School - cricket and rugby. And it was while reporting cricket that he found himself helping the great C.B. Fry, by phoning his copy. It was to prove a happy meeting.

On the strength of the quality of the voice telephoning the copy, Fry recommended him to the BBC and in 1947 he made his broadcasting debut on radio, commentating on the South Africans playing Warwickshire at Edgbaston. That same year he started work as editor of the first Playfair Cricket Annual - again with Fry’s backing. That was a glossier paperback than the pocketsize book on which we all now depend.

West edited the first six years of the Playfair Annual, before the late Gordon Ross took it on and by that time Peter’s face and voice were becoming familiar on television, covering cricket and rugby naturally, but also handling pets with Stanley Dangerfield on Good Companions, appearing as a panellist on What’s My Line or Guess My Story and eventually moving on to his celebrated comparing of Come Dancing.

His eighteen years as a television rugby commentator were in sometimes-uncomfortable contrast to his years on Come Dancing. Taunts from rugby fans on that score were among the few things that really irritated him. After finishing his time on rugby for TV he was taken on by radio and by the Times with whom he enjoyed eighteen years as rugby correspondent, though a lack of commitment by the paper to his covering a British Lions’ tour of New Zealand led to his resignation with some bad feeling.

It was a regret to Peter that he went a long time before he covered an England cricket tour. The call did come in 1986, three years after his involvement with the Times had finished, when the Daily Telegraph had a hiatus in the post of cricket correspondent and a tour of Australia was looming. Subsequently he had to temper an unhappy clash of wills and style with his sports editor to remember that this was a great ambition fulfilled - with a great story to report, as Mike Gatting’s side unexpectedly swept all before them in defending the Ashes and taking two one-day series, too.

Peter’s writing style had been very much in the flavour of his bluff broadcasting delivery, as might have been expected. But the newly founded Independent had a bit of a star as its cricket correspondent - Martin Johnson - with his own individual and entertaining style and the impossible suggestion was being made to West that that was how he, too, should write.

Twenty-seven years of BBC television commentary at Wimbledon and several Olympic and Commonwealth Games were also part of the West portfolio, adapting to less familiar sports with the same professionalism and thoroughness as ever.

Cricket owes him a less well-publicised debt in his early guidance of Cornhill Insurance’s hugely successful sponsorship of Test Matches. With Patrick Nally, he founded West Nally, which agency also handled Benson & Hedges as well as significant sponsorships in rugby, football and tennis. On his retirement he helped a fellow director, Karen Earl, set up her own agency, which blossomed in a way that brought him huge satisfaction and delight. That retirement in Gloucestershire with his beloved wife, Pauline, whom he married in 1946, restored him to the heart of his family and his immaculate garden and from there he would entice former colleagues to come and address the Cheltenham Cricket Society. His charm ensured that they always accepted.

Peter Robinson by John Bishop of The Witness, South Africa

PETER Robinson, who was arguably South Africa's leading cricket writer and was certainly the most entertaining, died in Johannesburg late on Tuesday night.

Robinson, who started his career in journalism with The Witness and spent 15 years with the newspaper, was diagnosed with cancer of the lung in October last year and underwent surgery. He made a rapid recovery and for months it appeared he had won the battle. It proved a false dawn. In mid-March tumours were discovered on his brain and less than a month later he was dead.
Robinson was educated at Queen's College in Queenstown, Alexandra High and University of Natal (PMB) where he graduated in 1975.

He was a useful sportsman, playing first team cricket and rugby at Alex but he finally found his sporting home as a goalkeeper for the Varsity first soccer team. He was a natural. The job description did not demand that he spend lonely, uncomfortable hours working on his fitness while his position offered a panoramic view of the action while allowing him to contribute vocally and critically in a loud voice from afar. From there it was just a short step into the world of sports writing.

He joined The Witness in 1975 as a soccer writer. Now not many people know this but Peter Robinson went on to play in the South African National Football League. Only briefly, really...well for only one game to be precise, but he wasn't half proud of it. It was in the late 1970s, a year or two after Peter had joined the Witness when he wandered off to report on Shamrocks' NFL game against Arcardia in Pretoria.

Just before kick-off one Squire Flint, the Rocks goalkeeper went down with an injury and Robinson was pressganged into action. He had only time to toss his fags into the corner of the net before he was making save after save and the match report - not, incidentally, even written by him - was glowing in its praise of his courage under constant fire.

Robinson stayed on in the Witness sports department until 1986, covering a variety of sports before the editor enticed him up the ladder by promoting him to Assistant Editor. His duties then involved writing a thrice-weekly humorous column and he provided light-hearted sketches of the city and provincial council.

Older Witness readers will remember him as Stinkvoet Snyman, who wrote a regular column during the 1981 Springbok rugby tour of New Zealand. But to most he was Peter, Robbo or, curiously, Bonk.

Watching Robinson at work was an experience. He would wander around the editorial department, from the library to the tea room to the newspaper stacks, coffee cup in one hand and fag in the other (this was a long time ago), nattering away to anyone not tied to a desk. He was working, he would explain primly to any one daring to question his work ethic. And he was, conducting wide-ranging research, or at least seeking the spark for a column. Finally he would return to his desk, bash away furiously, without lifting his head,for 40 minutes and his day was done.

In 1989 he followed Witness editor Richard Steyn to Johannesburg and he started making his name on the international cricket circuit. He became the Argus Group cricket writer while on the Star from 1990-96 and, belatedly and deservedly won the SAB Sportswriter of the Year award in 1994. After two years with The Sunday Independent, he joined the new sporting daily, Sportsday, as a senior cricket writer and when that newspaper closed he took charge of the South Africa's CricInfo web pages. After freelancing for the Mail and Guardian and the London Times, he finally came home to Pietermaritzburg in 2002, rejoining the sports department for a year.

His desire to return to mainstream cricket writing took him back to Johannesburg in 2003 when he joined another new but doomed paper This Day. When that paper sank without trace Peter spent an enlightening couple of months as news editor of the rapidly-growing Daily Sun tabloid newspaper in Johannesburg before he was appointed Sports Editor of the Citizen last year.

Peter was a lively presence in news rooms and press boxes the world over. He was well suited to the job with an easy, flowing style, able to work quickly and accurately under pressure.

He was a gifted writer with a delightful, quirky sense of humour. He could, without forcing the issue, find a fresh, amusing angle to the most mundane event, marrying the serious to the ridiculous and making his point with a smile.
He was also a knowledgeable, well-read critic and was widely respected by international players and journalists who enjoyed his wry sense of humour.

His description of Andre Nel a couple of seasons back was typical of his writing. "Nel looks like a fast bowler, he acts like a fast bowler, he even sounds like a fast bowler...the only problem is he is not very fast."

Brian Murgatroyd, the former English cricket writer and now media manager for the International Cricket Council (ICC), in tribute to Peter, said: "He was a thoroughly decent man, an excellent journalist and someone who has been first-class company to colleagues in press boxes throughout the world."

There are the kaleidoscope of memories, the early days at The Witness when we were dipping our toes into new careers, the whirl of cricket grounds, press boxes, net practices and hotels.

The most vivid times were on Ali Bacher's Magical Mystery tour of India in 1991 when South Africa made an extraordinary return to international cricket. But there were also the famous victories - the World Cup opener in 1992 when we worked late into the Sydney night and were locked INSIDE the SCG after South Africa had beaten Australia, the historic 356-run win over England when South African finally returned to Lord's in 1994 and those most famous of rugby victories, by Natal in the 1990 Currie Cup at Loftus and the Springboks 1995 World Cup final at Ellis Park.

Peter, for much of his writing career, was on the road, with different newspapers and on new assignments and fresh tours. It was a lonely, unsettled life and he only recently found contentment with Jo, his wife of less than two years.

Robbo looked like a journalist, he acted like a journalist, he sounded like a journalist, he was, in fact, the most talented of journalists...the tragedy is that he died with so much good writing still in him.

Peter Keith Robinson was just 54.

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