Brough Scott: my final memory of Howard was at last year's St Leger - he was keen to remind us he'd been to every one since 1948

In the early 70s Howard Wright did jockeys' safety a great service by campaigning against concrete posts. It was an unequal contest. Concrete never had a chance against Howard's implacable Northern stubbornness. Imagine what it was like for us "Southern Softies" born somewhere lower down the map than his beloved Doncaster. 

When we were starting the Racing Post in 1985, Howard was one of the first names on the roster and one we were least likely to regret. He was not only quite tirelessly industrious but was never happier than when confronted by the latest impenetrable racing review. To have so solid a centre back was a quite wonderful bonus for our emerging team. The ball was safe when you passed it to Howard. Even if you might not get it back for a while.

He was one of racing's most committed friends, both internationally and locally. Any visit to a county racing club would find Howard a previous visitor or more likely chairman for the evening, but everything else paled when it came to Doncaster and his twin passions for the St Leger and for Doncaster Rovers.

My final memory of him was at last year's race and as ever he was keen to remind us that he had been at every St Leger since Black Tarquin won in 1948 with the King and Queen and an estimated 500,000 crowd also in attendance. On St Leger Eve some 40 years later the somewhat dilapidated Belle Vue stadium hosted a charity match between a "Celebrity Team" and our "Racing XI", with all 5ft 8in of H. Wright guarding the goal in woolly gloves and a flat cap.

We went ahead with a goal from a Michael Dickinson corner which landed on the top of John Oaksey's unwitting head and looped unerringly over the keeper and in by the far post. This stung the "Celebrities", which in those days included all sorts of stars like Mick Channon, Franny Lee, Mick Quinn, and in this case Jack Charlton and Ian St John. Again and again "The Saint" sliced through our molten butter defence and hammered in a shot only to be denied by the unlikely figure between the uprights. Maybe it was more of a case of St John hitting the man more than the target but it was one of Howard's finest hours.

Implacable to the last. What a man.

Howard Wright . . .

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