Bill McLaren.
Long before I even liked rugby, Bill's voice was one of those atmospherics of well-being that eminated from the tinny speakers in the corners of my life. Like Oliver Postgate or Raymond Baxter, it was a voice that spoke of all being well with the world. That little safe place where your overburdened adult ego dashes to in a crisis? Bill McLaren is in mine.
Phrases like "great ambassador" may creak with over-use, but that's not Bill's fault. He was an ambassador of decency and goodwill not just for rugby, but for sport as a whole. Every purrring syllable spoke of his fraternal nature and, above all, his superhuman command of impartiality. Able to conduct himself with dignity even when his own son-in-law scored for Scotland, he was willing to join with you in your euphoria as your own team triumphed, even when against his beloved homeland.
His sad passing at the well-deserved age of 86 is really an epitaph for an era which died when he retired in 2002. But Death, be not proud; I just checked into my little safe place, and Bill McLaren is still there.
1 comment:
A very moving tribute, of a man who rarely failed to move me. Bill McLaren made the dourest of mud spattered fat boy arm wrestles seem like a pearl plucked from his bag of verbal gems, a bag that seemingly had no bottom, but regrettably he neglected to pass on to the lesser men who now sit in his seat.
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