Childhood memories are, for me, the most precious. Among the most prized, polished it seems by the passage of time, is the West Indies tour of England in 1966. I remember cutting out the newspaper item containing the pictures of all those in the West Indies touring party and carefully tucking the clipping away in my secure space.

Cricket had taken me captive the previous year when Bobby Simpson’s Australians toured the Caribbean. The exciting, mercurial Rohan Kanhai — whose arrival at the crease invariably reduced radio commentator Roy Lawrence to a nervous wreck — had quickly become my hero.

Kanhai would have a quiet series in ’66, including a ‘duck’ in the first Test. Garfield Sobers was the star — head and shoulders above all others. But I wasn’t to know that. The night before the start of the first Test, I thumped my pillow five times because I had to be up and about at 5:00 am to catch the start of play. Sure enough, at minutes to five, I was wide awake.

Now came the hard part. I had to sneak into my parents’ room and steal away with the battery-powered family radio. On tiptoe, pausing with every creak of the floor boards, I finally got the radio to my bed. Ever so carefully, I turned the thing on, making very sure the volume stayed low.

Then, to my utter disgust, I discovered I could only pick up the odd word or two. Very low volume, thousands of miles of static and English accents I could neither make head nor tail of, had conspired to confound me.

Then out of the blue, blessed relief. On came a clear, sweet voice, a Caribbean voice, a voice as clear as the bell at the Anglican Church on a still, Sunday morning. All of a sudden I was hearing every word. I had heard Tony Cozier the previous year during the Australian tour and during the regional domestic cricket season. But this was different. Now, he had become my saviour.

For decades after, as I followed radio commentary of West Indies exploits all over the globe, I was always waiting for Cozier. It wasn’t just that amazingly clear voice. Even as a child, it gradually came to me that Cozier’s limitless love for West Indies cricket and great knowledge of the game gave him an extra dimension.

No matter what, he stayed focused on cricket. He understood the value of colour in commentary: fluffy white clouds, birds flying about, distant mountains and attractive ladies in the stand next door.

But most of all, Cozier knew that his prime responsibility was to paint a vivid picture for his core constituency, fellow cricket lovers. So it was that after every few balls, Cozier religiously told the latest score, the scores of the individuals at the batting crease, the state of the game. With regularity he gave his listeners bowling figures, field placings and rationale. So you learnt that the leg-spinner had six on the off and three on the leg side, perhaps because he was inviting the right- hand batsman to hit against the spin.

And within it all, Cozier sought to paint a picture of every ball, every shot, even the defensive ones. So that in my child’s mind in ’66, little snippets stuck, like the description of an England fast bowler up against ‘massa God’ himself: “… short, rising delivery on off stump and Sobers is back, up on his toes in defence, dropping the ball at his feet”. Boys everywhere — with collar up, Sobers style — who had never seen the great Barbadian, would essay that back defensive shot and many others besides.

You sensed Cozier had his favourites. His descriptions in the 1970s of Lawrence Rowe’s extraordinarily artistic stroke play often left his listeners with goose bumps; and we were left to wonder sometimes if Cozier wasn’t about to choke in ecstasy.

In time, I also understood that Cozier was a magnificent writer. Just as the truly great batsmen never seem to waste effort, Cozier never wasted words. His prose was athletic, pinpoint, razor sharp and beautiful. And admiring young writers found his pattern irresistible.

More than style was substance. Cozier sought to bring objective analysis to bear in everything he wrote. Again, his great love and knowledge of the game meant he saw things others missed.

So when Vivian Richards struggled in the first two Tests of the 75/76 tour of Australia, and could only produce frustrating cameos in the third and fourth, there were those suggesting that maybe he wasn’t quite ready for the Test level. Too impetuous, they said.

Not Cozier. For him, Richards was a batsman “of rare talent” who would come good sooner, rather than later. The cream, after all, will always rise to the top.

I was delighted to find when, as a hopelessly shy youngster I first met Cozier in the 70s — that he wasn’t just a great professional, but a wonderful person. I remember interviewing him for a long-dead, weekly Sports ‘n’ Arts, and marvelling at his patience and willingness to share.

I was honoured in later years to be asked by him for the occasional contribution to his publications. I recall my satisfaction in finding that in such arrangements, he was absolutely principled.

The last time I saw Cozier was his last visit to a Sabina Park Test. He was obviously unwell, but his love for cricket remained strong, vital. He told me then of his utter frustration at always having to write about the politics of West Indies cricket rather than cricket itself. For Caribbean cricket writers, that probably has been the greatest pain of all.

He told me of his love of travel. It seemed to him that every time he went anywhere, no matter how familiar he was with the place, there was always something fascinatingly new.

When Cozier didn’t come for the last two Sabina Tests, I knew I probably would never see him again. In the four decades since I first met him, I couldn’t recall him missing a Test at Sabina. But there was hope, for he kept on writing. To the end, he kept on writing. So fresh, so vital.