Fast Freddy was no Sticky Wicket

Round about the mid-1980s I found myself traveling on a bus along the Costa del Sol in southern Spain. Just for the sake of clarification, “I found myself” is applied here in a geographical sense; not a metaphysical one. Odds are that metaphysically I will never find myself and if these adverse symptoms I’ve been experiencing recently are due to an early onset of Allshiemer's disease then, finding myself geographically is going to be an increasing challenge. As for the misspelling of the disease word, what really bothers me is that I used to know how to spell it correctly.
In any case, I was on my way to the port city of Algeciras in order to hop a ferry across the Strait of Gibraltar to Tangier. The plan was to spend a few days there holed up in a cheap hotel, chowing down couscous, toking up pipe-loads of ganja with my head down on a pillow most of the time. My life was full of ups & downs back then and, for the most part, I enjoyed them…especially, if there was a good looking girl beneath me.
Halfway along the coast, the bus stopped in a town called Fuengirola. Once in a while, a bus or a boat I’m on will pull into a place I’ve never been before but, get a good feeling about. Fuengirola did it for me so; I got off and started looking for a hotel. Spotting a joint named ‘British Pub’, I figured somebody there might speak English and be of assistance. Seasoned travelers like me are quick to pick up on things like that.
I headed straight for the bartender or barkeep as the Brits would have it and asked if he could recommend a hotel. He pleasantly demurred, pointed to a fellow with thick, wavy black hair standing with several other blokes and suggested I ask him. When there was a pause in the chatter I put my case to the black haired fellow. With an engaging smile he indicated that there was a hotel up the street which he was familiar with and recommended I check it out. Then he asked me a bit about myself. We spoke for five minutes before he excused himself to return home for a siesta with his wife. Halfway towards the door he turned back, said he and his wife were having dinner at the hotel that evening and asked if I’d like to join them. I gladly accepted the invitation primarily because every so often I meet a stranger for whom I immediately feel an affinity. His name was Fred.
After he’d gone a couple of guys approached me and asked how I knew the guy…
“I don’t know the guy. We just met.”
“Well, congratulations. You just met Fast Freddy.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah… Fast Freddy Trueman.”
“Oh.”
“You’re a Yank, aren’t you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Well, that explains it. Anybody other than a Yank would know that Fred Trueman was the greatest English fast bowler who ever lived.”
“Sorry but, I’ve never been much of a bowling fan.”
“We’re talking about cricket not bowling.”
“Oh, I thought you said he bowled.”
It was there upon explained to me that a bowler is to cricket what a pitcher is to baseball.
The hotel that Fred had suggested was very suitable and at seven that evening I sat at the bar drinking a Guinness. The bartender asked if I was alone to which I replied affirmatively and indicated that I was planning to have dinner in the restaurant. When he offered to reserve a single table for me I said I would be dining with company.
“So, you have friends in Fuengirola?”
“Not exactly friends. Just somebody I met this afternoon and his wife.”
“Well good on you.”
“In fact, I’m having dinner with that guy,” I said, pointing to a photo of Fred on the wall behind the bar.
“My god, you know Fast Freddy?”
“Not really. I just met him a few hours ago.”
“You know who he is, of course.”
“A bowler of some sort, right?”
“Of some sort, indeed! You must be a Yank.”
And so, for the second time that day I had betrayed myself as a ‘Yank’.
To make a short story even shorter, Fred, his wife and I had a very pleasant dinner together. We also spent much of the following two days in each other’s company…looking at land that Fred was thinking of investing in, drinking pints in local pubs and exchanging anecdotes about places we traveled. Not once was the subject of cricket discussed. He was an enormously charming fellow and very unlike the pugnacious competitor that he was reputed to be on the cricket pitch. I honestly got the feeling that he enjoyed my company nearly as much as I enjoyed his. My guess is that was primarily due to the fact that I had no idea who he was. No doubt, a guy of Fred’s notoriety and great achievement grows weary of fawning sycophants. During his era, Fast Freddy Trueman was to cricket what Sandy Koufax was to baseball and, given the greater world popularity of cricket, Freddy was even more renowned.
Months later I happened to be in a bar north of Chicago that my brother’s in-laws owned. A group of us were drinking beers and watching some sporting event. At that time, Miller Lite Beer hosted a series of commercials championing the endorsement of prominent American sport celebrities. One of their commercials that afternoon featured Fred Trueman. Why, I don’t know. The guys at the bar were confused. “Who the hell is this guy?” was the general refrain. I exclaimed, “Hey, that’s Fast Freddy! He’s a friend of mine.” I attempted to explain but, there was little interest to begin with and even less a moment later. Obviously, I was amidst a bunch of ‘Yanks’!