Frederick Trueman, GOM

LISTENING to the radio tribute to Test Match Special the other day I heard a recording of Fred Trueman, who while summarising between overs became diverted into a rant about mobile phones on trains. Fred, in his later years, was a groaner, grumbler and grumpy old man of international standard.

I once heard an impressionist ask an audience to name a subject - any subject - and he would talk about it a la Trueman.

Car Parks, said someone.

'Oh aye, car parks. I don't know. Car parks aren't what they were. Now in my day a car park was a thing to be proud of. There was plenty of room; people were polite and there'd be a man in a uniform with a leather bag round his neck full of change and he'd say, ''Good Morning'', take your money and guide you into your space. Probably an old soldier with a gammy leg. You could have a chat and he might even salute you.

'Look at them now.

'What have you got now? Pot’oles all over the shop and then you’ve got to go looking for one of them damn machines that don’t give change and there’s always some Range Rover taking up two spaces – I can’t be doing with it. There was a time, you know, when parking was a pleasure. I’d rather catch the bus now. Mind you, buses aren’t what they were in my day . . .

I DO HAVE a true story about Fred which demonstrates what a decent man he was. A local golf club had just built a new clubhouse and wanted a guest speaker for the opening festivities.

Their first thought was Tony Jacklin, top English golfer with Lincolnshire connections. Whether they ever got past his agent, I’m not sure, but the upshot was that Jacklin would come, but his fee and expenses were ruinous. Somebody suggested Fred Trueman and provided a phone number. Whoever rang was surprised when it was answered by the unmistakeable tones of the man himself.

‘Aye, I’ll come,’ said Fred. ‘Four hundred. Cash, mind.’

He was asked about expenses.

‘Don’t bother about that. I’ve got my car.’

All they wanted him to do was turn up at 7 pm, make a speech, cut the ribbon, and eat dinner at the committee table, but when Fred heard that members would be gathering in the afternoon, he decided to turn up early. He made a speech when he arrived and spent the afternoon chatting and signing autographs.

He made his official speech later, peppering it with Boycott jokes, and after dinner made a point of dancing with every woman there.

YOU HAVE FRED the grumpy old man, Fred the stand-up comic, Fred the professional Yorkshireman. But for me he will always be Fred the fast bowler. Fiery Fred. One of the few iconic fast bowlers, along with Dennis Lille and Curtly Ambrose, that it was thrilling to watch. All fast, accurate and hostile. Hostile? Murderous.

Fred was the first I saw. I can still visualise him as he turned and began the walk back to his mark, rolling up his shirt-sleeve, tucking in his shirt and pushing back the hunk of black hair from his eyes. No doubt some Brylcreem would be transferred, along with his own sweat, to the ball which he would polish furiously on his red-streaked flannels.

He began his long run and the crowd roared him on. A perfect action propelled the ball towards the stumps, maybe the Yorker which often followed two bouncers; perhaps a third bouncer, for times were harder then. Maybe the batsman managed to dig it out and Fred would glare at him, hands on hips. Then he would turn again, have a friendly word with the umpire, and start the walk back to his mark, tucking in his shirt and pushing back his hair, polishing the ball . . .