July 1^st, 2006. The world went on turning, but suddenly it seemed a little bit darker, a little bit colder; for that was the day when F S Trueman died.

He was 75 and had had a good innings, a life full of achievement. He had the approval and worship (even) of his fellow Yorkshiremen and the grudging admiration of others. Test Match Special brought him elevation to status of ‘national treasure’, even if there was just a hint of a sneer from the Hooray Henry classes. Through it all, he remained himself, our Fred, warts and all.

My first memory of Fred dates back to 1950, the famous Test Trial game at Bradford Park Avenue, when England bowled out The Rest for 27, Jim Laker 8 for 2.

My dad and I arrived mid afternoon when England were batting. And that meant Len Hutton. I was only six but I knew that Len was the greatest cricketer on earth, and I wanted to see him make a century.

He had reached 85 when he was suddenly bowled by this dark-haired fellow. In an odd quirk of memory I can see the bails flying now, sixty years on. I had no idea who the bowler was, and I hadn’t quite understood who England were playing against. I sort of assumed they must be Indians, or something.

But, of course, the bowler was our Fred, desperately trying to make a name for himself as a Test ‘possible’; and, in doing so, ruining a young kid’s afternoon.

As the years passed and the little kid became a teenager and then a young man, Fred was always there, always bowling fast for Yorkshire and fast for England. I learned to appreciate that superb action, the late outswing, the accuracy, the pace and, above all, the sheer endurance of the man. Others faltered, but never our Fred. Like his great counterpart from over the Pennines, Fred was never injured, seemingly never tired. They were the best England has ever produced: Trueman and Statham, the dream team made in heaven.

England were the best team in the world in the 1950s, and have never been so since. Looking back from 2010 it seems such an alien society we lived in, where birth and social class counted for more than ability, on the cricket field and elsewhere. Change was coming, and the next decade would see wrinkles appear on the smug face of the established order. Even now, in 1952, Len was made England captain – but he felt it necessary to learn to talk posh in order to face the media and the public.

Fred’s outspokenness counted against him at times. He was seen as a rebel – no elocution lessons for him! – though later years revealed him to be a deeply conservative person, a supporter of traditional values, like many another self-made man.

Even so, he retained a deep dislike for some establishment figures who had disrespected him (to use the modern term) in his youth. George (Gubby) Allen and that pompous prat E W Swanton come to mind.

Whatever the reason, it is a fact that between the 1953/54 tour to the West Indies and the 1956 Ashes season, Fred played in only one Test match. That’s two years out of his fast bowling life, two years when he was at his physical peak, though not yet the finished professional, the great bowler he would become.

Still, it meant he always played for Yorkshire, and I could see him in the games at Bradford and, occasionally, at Leeds or Huddersfield, as well as on the annual family holiday to Scarborough. We kids cheered every huge six, gasped at the flying stumps, and laughed when he showed off by throwing in left-handed from the boundary.

In 1958 my family moved away from Bradford to a god-forsaken midlands hole called Burton upon Trent, so I managed to see Yorkshire only occasionally. There was the odd trip to Bramall Lane and, of course, the games at Scarborough each September.

Test matches were now being shown on television, so I watched Fred skittle out the 1961 Aussies at Headingley and the 1963 West Indies at Edgbaston. In 1964 he took his 300^th Test wicket at the Oval, the first time I can ever remember him looking totally knackered.

Those old black & white clips are still shown occasionally.

In 1961 Trueman, now the complete bowler, was exploiting a crumbling pitch by bowling off-cutters, and by 1963 and 1964 he had lost the pace of former years. Seeing this footage prompted a Lancashire friend of mine to suggest that Fred bowled at ‘about the same pace as Phil DeFreitas’. If this was meant as a wind-up, it succeeded brilliantly!

Phil DeFreitas my arse!

When his career was all over, done and dusted, Fred had taken 307 Test wickets at 21.57 in only 67 matches. For Yorkshire, in First Class cricket, he had 1745 wickets at 17.12 each, including 97 instances of 5 or more in an innings. His total number of first class victims finished on 2304, and he had to bowl 99,701 balls to achieve this figure.

One of his proudest achievements was to captain Yorkshire to an innings victory over the 1968 Australians at Bramall Lane, the last great feat of a wonderful career.

Thanks for the memory, Fred. That menacingly curved run-up, the glorious sideways action, the slightly pigeon-toed follow-through, a theatrical gesture to the batsman, and then the long walk back, rolling the right sleeve in readiness for yet another unplayable delivery.

Nor was he a one-dimensional cricketer. Though not an all-rounder in the genuine sense, he was a good number 9, scorer of 3 first-class centuries, big hitter by inclination but determined blocker if the situation demanded.

His fielding was outstanding. The left-handed throw was a good party trick, but he had a bullet right arm. Better still, he was exceptional at short-leg, the old ‘round-the-corner’ position of those days.

He was also a natural clown, with a good sense of timing. One favourite trick was to creep up to batsmen who were conferring mid-pitch, hand to his ear in an exaggerated pantomime gesture.

Now, in March 2010, almost four years after his death, Fred has been honoured with a statue erected in the canal basin at Skipton. It cost £90,000 and was made in bronze by Graham Ibbeson.

I was almost tempted to go to the unveiling on March 18^th, but I wanted to see the statue in the setting chosen for it without the intrusion of crowds, so I went the following day.

It also occurred to me that there would be dignitaries at the ceremony happy to bask in glory reflected from the great man. The sort of people who wouldn’t have wanted to know Fred when he was a brash youngster.

Or is that just me being paranoid?

So what of the statue itself? Has Mr Ibbeson been able to capture the movement, the grace and power, of the great athlete? After all, that is what artists are supposed to be able to do, especially ones who have been paid £90K.

I travelled expecting to be disappointed, but it really is quite an impressive piece of work, with lots of little details, such as the right sleeve unfurled and the toe-cap worn on the right boot.  The face is a good likeness, and Fred’s position in his follow-through looks right. There was some discussion amongst bystanders about the hair, which the sculptor has tried to depict thrown awry with the effort of bowling. I’m not entirely convinced by this detail.

However, my verdict is: yes, good, well-done! More importantly, there were a couple of Fred’s relatives present and they liked it. I don’t think Mr Ibbeson has achieved greatness. He is not as good a sculptor as Fred was a bowler! But this is a wonderful addition to an already beautiful town.

The statue is excellently sited next to the canal but there is no inscription of any sort at the moment. Word was that they were waiting for cement to dry.

It remained only for me to drive a few miles to view Fred’s grave at Bolton Abbey, a fitting resting place near the peaceful Wharfe for a man who toiled so long and honestly, and who gave so much pleasure to so many.