He was often controversial, rubbed some people the wrong way, defied authority and normal standards of decorum, but his charisma, his fierce determination to win, and the way his emotions played out so publicly in his face made the game of snooker compelling viewing and provided every player who came after him with a sport that had a prestige that would have been unimaginable before his appearance.

There are many memories.

The UK final against Steve Davies where he lost all the games in the first two sessions, phoned his wife and told her he was going to win, and proceeded to do so.

The entrance into the arena with the hat in a World final against Cliff Thorburn.

The unbelievable escape from an impossible looking snooker on the black rail by going right round a crowded table and nestling against the ball with perfect pace and judgement of angles.

The emotional beckoning of wife and child after the magnificent century to win the World final against Ray Reardon.

But the one that I’ll never forget is that break against Jimmy White when two frames and 60-odd points down and looking to be beaten in the semi-final. Every shot was a hard pot and it seemed like every position was harder and harder. And a miss on any of them would have spelled defeat. It took a very special talent, it took nerve, and it took guts. It was magnetic for audience and TV viewers alike and you had to remember to breath. Surely we thought, he had to miss one eventually, but somehow he seemed to will them into the pockets and coaxed just enough of a miracle of position to make the next one possible. Not by a long way the most fluent break, but quite definitely the best, the most creative and the most difficult I’ve ever seen.

The drinking, the smoking and the gambling took their toll but the crowds loved him because he was human and fallible and because you could read the desire, the frustration, the hope and the genius etched across his face, and because he always seemed to want to give the audience the entertainment that he was uniquely capable of giving them.

Farewell Alex, you made the world a more interesting and exciting place. I only wish it had been kinder to you as a person.

He was more than a commentator, he communicated an understanding and appreciation of a game notorious for the complexity of its laws to a much wider audience than just the fans and players. People who had never been to a rugby match listened to him and felt they understood it. He did it with an honest Borders style, a wonderful turn of phrase that included bars of soap, leaping salmon and charging giraffes, and a gentle humour. He cut through the technicalities and made you feel as if you knew the players and why they played the game. And that rarest of qualities – he was impartial. Who can forget that wonderful Scotland try that went the full length of the pitch and was scored by Alan Lawson – who just happened to be Bill’s son-in-law. Who else could have kept his emotions in check at that moment?

As a teacher he trained generations of Border children in the sportsmanship of the game, and the players loved him for his gentle encouragement. You hadn’t arrived as an internationalist till you’d been given one of his Hawick Balls. Not just the Scottish players either – all over the world people wanted to play in matches that he commentated on and wanted to meet him.

He was a legend, and he’ll go on being a legend as long as the game is played, because there simply will never be another like him.

Watson is of course a legend – 5 times a winner in the event and the star of possibly the finest golf battle ever when at this very Turnberry links he and Jack Nicklaus left a star-studded field for dead and played out what was effectively a match-play event for the last two days with an unbelievable finish which saw Watson win by a single stroke.

Universally loved by the Scottish golf crowd, as much for his gentle and respectful manner and his appreciation of links golf and its history as for his achievements in the game, Watson comes across as a really nice guy, and it’s hard to believe he’s now almost 60. Especially when he’s sweeping golf balls miles down the fairway with a swing that’s as pure as any seen in the game since Sam Snead.

His first round here was immaculate. In the second round he had a bad patch early on in very difficult conditions and most folk watching probably thought that was his cue to fade out and leave it to the youngsters. Not a bit of it! He may look like your favourite granddad but he still has a champion’s competitive nature, a game honed for wind and links play, and knows this course better than almost anyone. Yesterday he also putted better than he had since his halcyon days.

It would of course be nothing short of miraculous if he could win it, but with Tiger out, Harrington having hit a bad patch after a superb couple of years, and Garcia seemingly unable to putt, you have to romantically wonder if experience could maybe just count. It would be a fairytale and it would be the most popular outcome you could imagine. Whatever happens Tom, thanks for the wonderful memories and,  go on – do it one last time!!

Which brings us to drug testing and the announcement that footballers will be required to tell drug testing squads where they are at any time so they can be randomly tested. Now when applied to athletes, who are training as individuals and often traveling to warm weather or high altitude venues, this may have some purpose to ensure there is no out of competition doping; although even there it is somewhat restrictive. The position with footballers is rather different; they play and train every week and are available at their club’s premises at clearly defined times. There seems no reason whatever for additionally insisting that they reveal their whereabouts in the evening and on Sundays. It can only be seen as standardisation for standardisation’s sake, with the base model being a sport which has become a joke affecting one which has no record of drug use – well apart from beer of course.

Personally I’d like to see the traditionally non-olympic sports tell the IOC where to go and to take their drug issues with them, but sadly the lure of money and supposed prestige seem to hold sway with far too many of them. The sight of tennis players half-heartedly competing for gold medals which mean nothing compared to their Grand Slam tournaments is pathetic. An under-23 football tournament that takes players away from their clubs in the middle of the season is beyond pointless.

A winner of Brain of Britain, and later a semi-finalist on Mastermind, he was also a headmaster, an author, and a historian of many subjects, including sport at all levels which he could recall seemingly at will to the constant admiration of his radio and TV colleagues. On STV at a time when the general quality of their sports content rather lagged behind the BBC, Crampsey’s pieces to camera (which must have been live) were a haven of intelligent and unbiased comment to me as a youngster who was already fed up with the bias that was rife at the time.

In later years on Radio Scotland’s Sportsound in the midst of the football banter and sometimes bickering between Jim Traynor, Chick Young and Gordon Smith it was always Bob who would drop in a persuasive observation or recall a historical precedent that would become the definitive answer on the topic being debated. While he loved football he was also an expert on Cricket, a game he said gave him even more pleasure, frequently attending Somerset’s games in Taunton.

Though he was a summariser rather than a commentator, when Bob retired it was like losing John Arlott from Test Match Special or Bill McLaren from the rugby commentaries; the authority wasn’t there any more. A few years later there is still no-one around with anything like the knowledge or integrity that he had. Now his death leaves an enormous hole and cuts a link to a past in which football was the game of the working class rather than the playground of super-rich businessmen. He will be sorely missed.

Here is a man who has played only 5 events this year and barely plays even on the Seniors tour; who has recently married one of the pin-up girls of my youth, the lovely Chris Evert, and who spends most of his time building a business empire. Here also is a man who should have won far more majors than he did but was outrageously beaten by a series of one-off shots when poised to add to his tally. He was a great champion at a time when there were lots of great champions – Ballesteros, Lyle, Faldo, Langer, to name just the best of the Europeans, let alone the Americans. Now, 8 years older than the oldest man to win a major, he’s 2 shots clear going into the final round. Forget Nadal winning Wimbledon or Spain winning the European Championships, if he wins this it won’t just be the story of the year it’ll be one of the stories of the century.

Some may say, and have on the radio, that Tiger Woods isn’t there, but conditions such as we’ve seen at Birkdale have blown Tiger away before – remember Muirfield? Woods is a phenomenal golfer, maybe even better than Nicklaus, but there is no guarantee that his swing would have survived the winds this weekend. And the fact is that his great length has come at the cost of his knee joint. Norman has a wealth of experience, vast knowledge of a variety of links conditions, and has nothing to prove. He shows every sign of being happy and content and can give this his all. Some might even say that golf owes him another major.

One radio pundit says it’s ridiculous that Norman is leading the Open, that the younger players are  failing to step up to take Woods’ place. Having been struggling with a trapped nerve in my shoulder for a few weeks I know what it feels like to be getting old despite keeping fitter and slimmer than most of my contemporaries, so the thought of hitting golf balls 350 yards and maintaining the sort of touch around the greens that Greg has demonstrated is an awesome thought, but the modern obsession with youth over experience does get a bit wearing. A few weeks ago I heard a 29 year-old footballer described as a veteran with not long to go in his career. Insane. Clearly the commentator hadn’t heard of Teddy Sheringham, hadn’t watched Dalglish at the end of his playing days, or Roger Milla play for the Cameroon side in the World Cup. Within limits what matters is whether you’ve looked after your body and have the drive and mental attitude to make it happen.

But still, 53? Can he really do it?

By god I hope so. And I bet plenty of 50-somethings all round the country hope so too.

Go on Greg!!

Jock Stein immortally won it first and lost a second final to an outstanding and emerging Feyenoord team. Amazing to think that Stein’s only major purchase in the Lisbon Lions was the sum of £30,000 for Willie Wallace from Hearts. Ronaldo would cost a thousand times that at least! It shows how impossible it is to compare different eras.

Brian Clough, with two European Cup wins, has to be considered in the same level, especially given the fact that the Nottingham Forest team that he took to European success was languishing in the second division when he became their manager. But perhaps the only man who can be claimed to be definitely above Ferguson was Bob Paisley, who guided Liverpool to three of their European Cup wins, though the man himself would doubtless have been far too modest to claim it.

As for Man Utd, it will be fascinating to see what Ferguson does next. Scholes will surely now move on or retire. Giggs too is coming to the end of a glorious career. Assuming that Ronaldo stays then the priority will presumably be an attacking midfielder, though another striker might be on the cards if Rooney continues to be played slightly behind the front line. If of course the Real Madrid rumours turn out to be true then there should be enough money for a complete recasting.

Meanwhile here in Scotland I wonder if the Celtic fans who have wanted rid of Gordon Strachan ever since he arrived will have changed their minds now that he’s delivered a third Premier Division title in a row. And will Mark McGee really take on the poisoned chalice of Lithuanian Hearts when he could be leading Motherwell into Europe?

We may love beating the English but we’d rather see them playing enterprising running rugby when we do it rather than wasting talented backs in sterile grinding foward moves. Cipriani has looked like a breath of fresh air so far and rugby needs more like him. Pity he doesn’t have a Scots Grannie

A few months ago before the wrist injury which put him out of Wimbledon I listened with disbelief as a Radio 5 tennis correspondent wrote off his chances of being a great player because he wasn’t as physically developed as Nadal. Nadal, as plenty of teenage girls will doubtless affirm, is not only a great player but has a musculature way ahead of his age. This criticism was at a time when Murray was winning tournaments, rising steadily in the rankings towards a top ten place and clearly developing as a player and a person.

As usual there were plenty of people quick to complain when he was knocked out of the recent Australian Open in the first round. Strangely enough no-one retracted that when his conqueror went on to reach the final with a series of inspired displays. No wonder Tim Henman retired early. Britain doesn’t deserve good tennis players if this is how we treat them.

Much was made in the media prior to the world cup about the fact that the entire Scottish team had changed their body shapes through heavy gym work over the last few months, yet Chris Paterson was being criticised during the tournament as being too small and light for a winger, though he would dwarf many forwards from the relatively recent past. It’s becoming hard for smaller men to compete, no matter how talented. Would such luminaries as Gerald Davies or Barry John get a game these days? Would the subtle skills of Mike Gibson be muscled out of contention? Heaven knows what they’d think of the small but elusive Jim Renwick and David Johnston, and I fear Andy Irvine would be considered far too light to be a full-back.

As I write this South Africa have just beaten England in a final that had no tries. Two incredibly big strong teams pounded away at each other and neither could come up with the creative spark that would have set the game alight. Much of the attractive rugby in the tournament – and there wasn’t very much of it by all accounts – was by the minor teams such as Fiji or Japan, but many teams seemed to either have ineffective back divisions lacking real pace and invention or were muscled out of it by heavy packs.

This seems to have been the way the game has been moving since it went professional but if it continues along these lines then it may find itself with fewer spectators. It’s becoming a thud and blunder game rather than the glorious running sidestepping spectacle that I grew up watching. Something needs to be done to make it easier for the lighter, quicker players to exist in the same arena as the 18 stone plus giants. The players who can beat a man by invention and sleight of hand rather than the crash-ball merchants who bulldoze their way forward.

Let’s hope for a few tries in the Six Nations, and some attractive running rugby. If we don’t get them then I fear the game is in trouble.