My father always considered himself unlucky not to have been a British Lion.
In all fairness, he also considered himself unlucky not to have been British Open golf champion and Prime Minister, so perhaps it wasn't ill luck at all, just a lack of ability and an overinflated sense of his own.
But as a 6-year-old boy, shivering besides the pitch on a damp, windy Saturday afternoon, watching him chase Gareth Edwards, tackle JPR Williams or later, in the warm welcoming glow of the Wanderers clubhouse, sharing a few post-match pints with Graeme Price, I felt sure he was good enough.
In the late 60s and early 70s, rugby ruled South Wales. And the kings of the rugby men were the Lions, legendary figures striding like giants across the world stage. To play for Wales was the pinnacle of ambition, to be selected for the Lions the pinnacle of acknowledgement.
To be able, in a few short weeks, to put aside the divisions born of centuries, and then unite into a team who depended upon each other for their very lives, aye, that took more than great rugby players, it took great men.