Geoff came into my life when he starting ‘dating’ Trice well over 40 years ago. She and I have been friends since birth so as their love blossomed, so did my friendship with him. His dry sense of humour and considered thought process regularly had me exasperated but more often than not, laughing. Hosting me for my first Christmas in London, Geoff surprised us all with stockings hanging on the mantle piece, each with a name on it and filled to the brim with individually wrapped gifts. Included were items such as toiletries and underwear which brought smiles and queries as to how he knew what size to purchase. His journalistic skills apparently helped with the research required for this endeavour. Geoff was never hurried - ever. Patrice and I waited and waited for him to propose and thankfully he did but not until after I returned to Australia which made it financially difficult for me to share this special day. But I was happy to be woken in the middle of the night when Meg was born. Geoff was a little taken aback when I answered ‘hello Geoff’, he wasn’t sure how I knew it was him but he was so proud and delighted to finally be a dad, he just wanted to share his joy. His relationship with Meg was one of enormous love, patience and an abundance of sport both played and watched. I know they shared many hours over the last few years discussing and debating the merits of many players across a number of sporting codes deepening their friendship. There are so many anecdotes about Geoff over the many years ours lives have been connected but my lasting thoughts will be his penchant for using words from times long ago - swell, durry, unit - just to name a few. I won’t ever be able to hear those word again without thinking of a man who truely loved Patrice and Meg, his journalistic life, his cricket and soccer and the odd ale or two. Godspeed.

Part One I had the pleasure of knowing Geoff for most of my life. Since we were teenagers, in fact, setting sail into journalism on the Hawera Star. We had a lot of fun. Annual treks to Auckland for cricket tests at Eden Park, with the odd Bob Dylan concert on the side. I remember another trip up to New Plymouth for a Plunket Shield final. I think we might have even turned out once or twice for the same business house cricket team and, on one wet, windy occasion for some low-grade Wellington football team – Brooklyn Northern United seems to ring a bell. For a while, in Palmerston North, we lived in the same flat block. Unlike me, Geoff was solid, dependable and focused. He was great company whether yarning in the pub or debating weighty matters like cricket, football and, sometimes, politics. Geoff was relaxed. In those days, he was easy-going to the point of exasperation, at least for me, but he had his reasons. He lived with a remorseless condition that accounted for his Dad and already had his brother, Alistair, in its sights. There was a reason he did not lose sleep over petty issues or get involved in some of the punch-ups he would still growl me about, decades down the track. Geoff took on Myotonic Dystrophy and gave it a run for its money. One of the keys, it seemed, was physical fitness. When I made use of the hospitality warmly offered by Geoff, Patrice and Megan, years later in south London, he insisted on kicking off our pub crawls with vigorous bouts of squash. It certainly gave you a thirst, I’ll give him that. In London, Geoff became what he was always destined to be - a respected journalist at the more responsible end of Fleet St. It was a pleasure to meet him and his workmates in Docklands where he was a valued, popular contributor to an editorial team, just as he had been in Hawera all those years earlier.

Part Two On that trip, he joined me for a magical weekend on Merseyside. We stood together on The Kop watching Steve McManaman make his league debut and Liverpool take full points on the back of goals from club legends, Ian Rush and John Barnes. I covered a fair bit of international sport in my day but that day with Geoff was, without doubt, the biggest sports buzz I will ever have. The following day we travelled to Maine Rd, Manchester, for a Rugby League knock-out semi-final. Geoff and I scored free rides, to and from Lancashire, on the St Helens wives’ bus, but that is another story. When I arrived at Geoff and Patrice’s three years’ later, after covering a Kiwi tour of the UK and France, the hospitality was just the same. By then, I think, Geoff had knocked over four London Marathons. A few years back, he turned the tables, spending a week with Ngaire and I in Sydney. The excuse, unsurprisingly, was a cricket test. By then the Dystrophy was taking a noticeable toll but Geoff was still a newspaperman, commenting on type faces and the quality, or otherwise, of intros but the fire had dimmed. Beer, often as not, had become tea. The effect on his physical condition was noticeable. It was even starting to take a toll on his personality but he fought on. It had been obvious for decades that Geoff knew, back home, he had something worth fighting for.

Part Three Appropriately, I thought, the week Geoff died saw New Zealand and England fight out a historic cricket Test at the Basin Reserve. It took me all the way back to 1978 and New Zealand’s first test victory over England at the same venue. Among the delirious crowd were a couple of hairy youngsters, just exiting their teens with no idea where life would take them. Geoff went on to play a classy innings, a gutsy knock in the most important Test of all. Over the years, Geoff, we had a couple of good arguments and, I reckon, we might have another one left in us yet because, like it or not, I will be saying a prayer for you. Go well, my brave friend.