Hugh Mcilvanney- a literary genius with a love of sport.

Hugh Mcilvanney - a literary genius with a love of sport.

Hugh Mcilvanney, who died today at the age of 84, was not only one of the finest and greatest of sports writers but he took sports journalism to a whole new dimension. For Mcilvanney, writing had to be measured and designed, carved and sculpted, illustrated and lovingly presented. He brought poetry to each and every sentence and paragraph, a heightened sense of drama to every line, while also bringing an almost Dickensian lyricism to every newspaper column. His was the richest Scottish voice in the sporting world.

Born in Kilmarnock, Scotland, Mcilvanney cut his early journalistic teeth on the Express newspapers before moving on to the Observer and in latter years with his equally as gifted colleague Brian Glanville who'd already made his name at the Sunday Times at the beginning of the 1960s. But for Mcilvanney the construction and execution of his art work on the written page was something to be meticulously refined and polished rather than unnecessarily rushed and hurried.

By the time he'd reached the Observer, Fleet Street, as it was then rightly called, had already prepared a special place for this wonderfully husky voiced Scotsman. Once the typewriter had been opened up to him, there flowed a unstoppable torrent of purple prose soaked thoroughly in the sweetest wine of description. The words came tumbling down the mountainside before becoming tablets of stone that would entertain and inform quite brilliantly. His readers couldn't get enough of him.

In a modern context it is hard to put the man from Kilmarnock into any one specific category because, quite simply, he defies any kind of classification. He described football matches, players, managers, grounds, international teams, World Cups, European Championships and football at all levels with a detached authority and extensive knowledge that may never be seen again.

Mcilvanney brought a rare craftsmanship and, some might say, a draughtsmanship to his profession that very few could come anywhere near to matching. He treated words like smooth pieces of wood in upholstery where any remnants of a rough surface would be rubbed down and then fashioned into a beautiful mahogany table.

The sentences may have been lengthy and elaborately detailed, words that waltzed gracefully off the page, delectable words that reminded you of long, winding country roads or cosy tea shops where everything was idyllic, a land of serene, sun lit uplands and gentle twilight brought a perfect conclusion to the day.

So it is that both race courses, boxing rings and football grounds will fall silent as they take an afternoon to reflect on the literary excellence of this wonderful sports writer. For Mcilvanney loved his horse racing, thrilled to the thunderclap hooves of a thousand horses, galloping together harmoniously to the finishing line at Aintree, Ascot, Epsom, Kempton Park, Sandown Park and Ayr which was somehow conveniently situated not a million miles from his birthplace.

Then there was the bloody brutality of the boxing ring where the man from Kilmarnock would crouch by the ringside, phone clamped faithfully to his ears before pouring impeccably delivered words to the copy desk at the Observer who must have been convinced they were listening to the first chapter of 'A Tale of Two Cities'.

In more recent years Mcilvanney turned his attentions to TV. Here he was responsible for some of the most entertaining football documentaries, shedding a fascinating light on the legends of the game. His trips down memory lane took us on a lovely journey where both Sir Matt Busby and Bill Shankly were, quite understandably, fondly recalled. It seemed at times that Mcilvanney was almost awe struck and completely entranced by his subjects, permanently grateful for their presence in the game.

But in one of those tumultuous periods for boxing during the giddy 1960s and the balmy 1970s, the boy from Kilmarnock found himself mixing it with the very elite of boxing company. A man known Muhammad Ali, who'd been running rings around those who ever doubted him, suddenly came head to head with one of the most eloquent wordsmiths Scottish sports writing had ever given us. In the middle of a jungle in what was then referred to as Zaire, Ali and Mcilvanney became lifelong friends.

Today marked the passing of a journalistic colossus, a giant of sports writing scribes, a man whose delicate management of the written word, whose carefully minted phrases and remarkable homages to the English language will keep a warm spot in our hearts by countless wintry log fires. There was a rightness and elegant precision about Hugh Mcilvanney that transcended the sport he so enriched.  Kilmarnock will never forget him and nor will we.