Rugby union Welsh wing wizard JJ Williams dies

 Rugby union Welsh wing wizard JJ Williams dies.

Rugby union was always a game of red-blooded physicality and raw-boned masculinity. In more recent times rugby union has opened its doors invitingly to women and the game has been much the better for this major breakthrough. But when the rucks and scrums became particularly intense and committed, JJ Williams, the former Welsh wing wizard always emerged with ears that didn't resemble cauliflowers.

During the 1970s JJ Williams was one of the most consistent and industrious of players, a player who threw himself into the rough and tumble of the game with an unswerving dedication to duty and a passionately patriotic purpose that often left most neutral observers gasping with wonderment. When Wales were the noble monarchs of the game during this period, Williams name was often mentioned and eulogised over and over again rather like a favourite Welsh hymn.

His immensely talented contemporaries JPR Williams, Mervyn Davies, Phil Bennett and Gareth Davies were once famously involved in that glorious game against the New Zealand All Blacks in 1973. You must remember it surely. It was the match when Cliff Morgan a former hop-scotch rugby union exponent himself, screamed at the top of his voice as the BBC commentator on the day, waxing lyrical over the kind of dreamlike try international rugby union may never see again. 

It was sport at its most purest, classiest, flamboyant, ornate, perfect in its hand to eye co-ordination and breathtaking in its execution. It was rugby union at its most rhapsodic, a flowing, flinging, slinging, singing, dancing, joyous, complete try that was varnished and polished by some of the finest sporting hands you were ever likely to see. It passed through at least nine or ten sets of Barbarians hands, backwards and forwards, inside and outside, a unique work of art, rugby at its most instinctive. 

But JJ Williams was an essential cog in that irresistible Grand Slam side that the Welsh will always fondly ruminate over, savouring the man's very visible presence, a gentleman of the game, darting, weaving, spinning his web, dodging the flailing challenges, tucking the ball under that secure arm, carrying it for miles and miles until the opposition were now beaten and vanquished, breathing heavy winter air and puffing out his cheeks at full pelt.  

Sadly, the always melodious Welsh valleys will lower their heads today in mourning, eyes misting over with reverence and appreciation of their special hero. They will remember the way Williams would doggedly chase lost causes, running opponents ragged and then diving valiantly over the try line as if  Welsh rugby union would always remain in his heart even when defeat loomed large. 

Williams was a proud bearer of the Welsh red shirt, a lung-bursting athlete, a man with a ferocious roar and bark on the pitch when spirits were flagging. When Wales were romping away with innumerable Five Nations Internationals, Williams was always emotionally and spiritually involved in everything that the Welsh composed and fashioned from their box of tricks. 

In a world where nothing seems to make any sense at all, Williams could be easily understood. He was one of the chief architects and engineers behind those bows and ribbons Grand Slams. Williams was a truly outstanding sportsman, a fine, upstanding individual who always belonged in a red Welsh shirt. Rugby union will miss Williams deeply because he was one who mattered when Wales needed him most. Sport will lament one of its much loved characters, a man with an unmistakable love of the oval ball.