Bleddyn would slip serenely through the gap for yet another try.

I THOUGHT he was immortal.

But coming back after two weeks away I heard the news: "Bleddyn's dead."

And part of my childhood died with him, for he filled my childhood dreams. He was everything we all wanted to be.

For every rugby-loving schoolboy of my generation there was only one Bleddyn, the great Bleddyn Williams, our peerless paladin, hero of every urchin who ever stood, nose pressed to the railings of the old Arms Park, to be beguiled by his genius when Cardiff really was the world's greatest rugby club.

They called him the Prince of Centres. To us, he was more than that. He was a true god of the game, birthplace Mount Olympus rather than Taffs Well. Yes, we really did seem to hear the sound of trumpets when he strode out onto the pitch, impossibly glamorous, lighting up those drab post-war years like no other sportsman of his time except, perhaps, Denis Compton.

Bleddyn's first international, against England was in 1947, and that season he scored 41 tries for Cardiff, a record that stood for almost 50 years. That same year Compton, cricket's dazzling cavalier, hit a record 18 centuries and 3,816 runs. No wonder their names were bracketed, as those of Barry John and George Best would be years later. (Yes, I was there when Bleddyn got that 41st try and I remember a player standing on the line, waiting for Our Hero to arrive to take the scoring pass rather than plonking the ball down himself).

Adventure, Wizard, Hotspur and the rest were stuffed with sporting supermen, but none could match Bleddyn. He inspired us all. On the street, in the park, we dreamed that we were him, forever attempting that legendary jink, that scintillating sidestep. Even boys born to be props wanted to be centres. Like Bleddyn.

I can still see him in his pomp alongside Jack Matthews, the Iron Man, three years older than Bleddyn and now, at 89, the oldest surviving Wales international. An irresistible burst from Jack, the bludgeon, one-time schoolboy sprint champion. The superbly timed pass to Bleddyn, the rapier, who would slip serenely through the gap for another of the 185 tries he would score for Cardiff.

When Graham Henry came to Wales as coach in 1998 his first priority was to make what can only be called a pilgrimage - to the Athletic Club to meet Bleddyn and Jack. His father had watched them as Lions against the All Blacks in 1950 and told young Graham, constantly, that they were the finest centre partnership he'd ever seen. No one who saw them together can disagree.

It was a partnership that lasted up to Bleddyn's death last week. They were inseparable and it was a privilege to hear them reminisce as the days of their triumphs grew ever more distant.

It might sound a bit over the top, but if you can imagine a young Greek 3,000 years ago sitting, listening in awe as an aging Achilles and Odysseus talked of old times, of that great game against Troy, you might guess how I felt when sitting with them.

(Yes, I know Achilles died at Troy. But when I remember Bleddyn as pure poetry in mo-tionI expect a bit of poetic licence).

CAPTION(S):

Receiving the MBE in 2005 Rugby legend Bleddyn Williams played 283 games for Cardiff and scored 185 tries for the club