Ernie Toshack still possessed a humorous glint in his eye but he was greyer and thinner than his playing days. Days, long past, when he was part of a golden era of cricket.
“G’day, young “Marksy,”he grinned. “Tosh” used the word “young” only to distinguish me from my father with whom he had played before the war. Nevertheless, it’s nice to have the adjective prefix my name, whatever the reason. We talked for a while about the old days, of my father and of mutual friends. Then he made a request.
“Young Marksy, I have never met Sir Garfield Sobers and I was hoping you’d be kind enough to introduce me.”
“Don’t go away, mate,” I said and walked back to the main table where Sobers was busy signing autographs. Between signatures I asked him if he would mind coming across to meet an old friend of mine. Gary Sobers is an easy going sort of man and in a few moments he wandered over to where Toshack and I were talking.
“Gary Sobers, I’d like you to meet Ernie Toshack. Ernie this is Gary Sobers.
