There are a few ageing sports celebrities I sometimes see as co-passengers in the strike-prone but otherwise perfectly good South Western Railways, the overground train service I take to go from Barnes, a neighbourhood in southwest London I have been living in for more than fiteen years, to Waterloo Station in central London, on my way to work.
One of them, Bob Willis, the legendary fast bowler, passed away today. He looked like an academic or a writer except for his giant stature, and was always reading a book. But even at an advanced age his physical appearance evoked glimpses of the brutal beauty of his long run up, the curly hair, the pale grey eyes, and the fearsome leap before he released the ball....
I never tried to talk to him the few times we were in the same compartment. He would typically be immeresed in his world, and I felt that he deserved to be left alone. Once there was a brief eye contact and I bowed slightly in recognition and respect, and he gave me a faint but indulgent smile back.
In a Tweet the actor and his friend Stephen Fry says: “Oh no, not Bob Willis ... what joy he gave, and what a marvellous man. That 8 for 43. Used to lunch with him occasionally to talk cricket, Wagner, and Bob Dylan, his three great passions.”
What a unique combination of interests! Yet, somehow it seems to make sense.
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