I remember my first Easter weekend of sport as a reporter for BBC Radio, one who was very green behind the ears, and that was nothing to do with penicillin. I also remember an incident with a over-heated meat and potato pie, and overheated Arsenal fan and a very over-heated piece of radio equipment, but that's another story.

Moving on, my Easter recollections as a rookie commentator always take me to Bootham Crescent, for my first time as a member of the press. There I was with my new pen, new notebook, new Thermos flask (mum had insisted), and numb bum - though that was probably more because I'd been sat there since 9am for a 3pm kick-off, than for any other reason. Eager I may have been, but I had to earn the Press Establishment's respect. I didn't mind, sitting in front of them all was infinitely better than sitting in front of my 'A' level history students - no offence meant - and I may have swapped it for a three-month contract, but this was my real passion.

However, there was always one of the established who did nothing but encourage me right from the start, and I will always thank him for that. Some of the loyal readers of the Evening Press will probably remember him too. Malcolm Huntington. He kept the sporting pages of this paper in line for many years. When all I could do was read everybody else's report, I'd dreamed of being Malcolm. Mind you there was one occasion when I wouldn't have wanted to be him - during his experiences as a tennis umpire at Wimbledon when the brat-like McEnroe was in his prime. That day, Malcolm heard 'you canNOT be serious' in all its glory! I also guess there would be one occasion when Malcolm wouldn't have wanted to be me. I'd made such a huge fuzzy (or do I mean faux-pas?), it would have sunk the Titanic.

This time, I was at Headingley for a Yorkshire v Sussex match. By then, my notebook was seasoned and my Thermos had been ditched for the summer. I was dejected though - next door to my grotty little commentary booth, carpeted with last year's score cards, sat the merry band from Radio Four. There were two of them commentating for a mere 20 minutes at a time, there was a scorer, and there were lots and lots of chocolate cakes. Back with me, well I was there, with a warm-packed lunch, two hours and 15 minutes of commentary ahead, alone, and without a loo-break.

So, I mentally prepared myself for another over as the bowlers duly changed. In came Waller, for Sussex, a slow left-arm bowler. It went something like this: "And Waller's coming into bowl now and he's really tossing up his balls."

Yes, it had been a helluva long day. Realising my unfortunate terminology, I attempted to dig myself out of a rather deep and hot hole. So, it then went something like this: "What I mean is, he's giving his balls plenty of air."

Yes, the day was about to get longer. I knew what I meant. The listeners knew what I meant. As for Radio Four - I wished I could have stuffed my mouth full of their dratted chocolate cake, scorers 'n' all.

2/4/99

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.