Written by Jon Coles

DAVID WILLIAMS, known universally as Dai, the President of Pembroke Cricket Club, died earlier this week.

Although he had been in declining health for some time, his death followed a short admission to Withybush.

To the end of his life, his conversation would become animated when he spoke about cricket: a sport he loved and he served over the course of a long life, well-lived.

David – Dai – taught at the Coronation School in Pembroke Dock before it closed and merged with Pembroke Grammar School at Bush.

There, he had the chance to influence young lives and to encourage his students to make the best of his talents.

But his contribution to Pembrokeshire sport – particularly junior sport – spread that influence across Pembrokeshire.

He really was Mr Pembroke Cricket.

He had a distinguished playing career himself, captaining a First XI containing strong characters such as Eifion Powell, George and Keith Hulbert, Derek Skone, and his great friend Johnny Jones.

I first met Dai when I turned up at the nets at Pembroke when I was around sixteen years old. I wanted to be a quick bowler and propelled a few deliveries down the concrete strip under his eagle eye.

He gave me a few words of encouragement in a Pembrokeshire accent as broad as the Cleddau that turned into more than a few laughs when I tried batting.

There was, he barked, a lot to work on.

Back then, Pembroke were ever-present in Division One and the Second team were a strong and experienced time. There was, however, still a midweek league, and I got my first taste of senior cricket in it.

There would be Dai, watching at the side.

Vee-neck jumper, baggy trousers, argyle socks and open toed sandals. His eyes scanning the play while he gossiped with other spectators.

He’d offer his opinions if you asked him. And you’d better be prepared for him to tell you if you’d mucked up or made a silly mistake.

One of my fondest memories of those years is from 1984, when Pembroke fielded a Third XI against a Saundersfoot Second XI at a time when neither team was in the league.

It was a baking hot Sunday afternoon at Saundersfoot, and we bowled out the home team for not many over a hundred.

Dai opened the batting with Eifion Powell.

Both had retired from playing and the young players watching didn’t have much of an idea what to expect. Our number three batsman was padded up and practising his shots in expectation of an early trip to the crease.

He waited.

And waited.

We saw a masterclass in manoeuvring the ball around the field, between the fielders, and the art of ‘quiet tap’, where the bowler leaks runs without realising what’s going on.

Both Dai and Eifion never gave Saundersfoot a sniff and we won the game by ten wickets.

And that was the last time I saw him play.

But years later, when I returned to Pembroke, there he was at every home game.

Vee neck jumper, baggy trousers, argyle socks, open-toed sandals. His eyes scanning the play while he gossiped with other spectators.

He’d kept on coaching Pembroke’s juniors and was one of the pioneers of junior cricket in Pembrokeshire.

His love for the game was exceeded only by his love of coaching young players to be better, to do more, to play cricket hard but to enjoy the experience.

His hair was a little greyer around the temples, but he was still keen for his young charges to do well.

Come tea, there he’d be, walking across the outfield from his usual seat near the gate, ready for a cup of tea, a sandwich, and a cake.

He’d chat away with the older players, his friends among the opposition, and remind those he’d coached that he had an eye on them.

By damn, there were a lot of them.

There still are.

After the game, he’d be in the rugby club over the road carefully counting out his money for each beer and happily accepting any free drinks offered to him.

He was, for such a short man, larger than life in every respect.

Dai Williams was one of those people you could imagine going on forever.

I saw him for the last time a couple of years ago.

His hair was grey and still swept back from the brows.

Vee neck jumper, baggy trousers, argyle socks, open-toed sandals. His eyes scanning the play while he gossiped with other spectators.

There are many who will remember him far better as a man, as a coach, and as a rock on which junior cricket could depend for so many years.

But when I remember him, it’ll be the familiar bark of his voice and his love for cricket and imparting his knowledge of the game that will linger longest.