The following article is one of the eulogies to all-round sportsman Sammy Wilson which will be be read at his funeral today at St John's Church by Harold Minors of The Centre.

Sammy Wilson was a great man. Of course, being his godson, I am inclined to invoke licence for bias. But, as no doubt you will have heard already and will continue to do so, many others share my opinion of a person who has left an indelible mark on the lives of anyone he has come across.

Whether it be playing football for or coaching Young Men's Social Club, running the Pembroke Youth Centre, playing tennis and table tennis or, in his later years, providing valuable service and care for one of the country's great benefactors, the late W.F. (Chummy) Hayward, Sammy knew only one way – to give it his all and to do so with an unrelenting gusto.

Along blood lines, Sammy may have fathered seven children, but there were so many, many more who benefited from what could best be described as ''tough love''.

And how lucky was I? I had a godfather, during my formative years from the mid-Seventies, who literally unlocked the door to me delving into all manner of indoor sport – from the obvious football and cricket to table tennis, badminton, pool, snooker, tennis and boxing (ouch!).

Sammy actually bought me my first cricket bat, a man-sized one at that, which stayed with me for about 12 years until my team-mates at Western Stars used it as the centrepiece of an end-of-season bonfire. Obviously, they didn't share my sentimental attachment to a bat that had deteriorated to the point that it spewed splinters with every shot of attacking intent.

Sammy's guiding hand at PYC helped to fulfil the needs of many a youngster, male and female alike. These young people were in search of direction, or simply required an outlet. And he was assisted by an extraordinary core of lieutenants, too. In later years, I would learn that some of these ''older'' boys were effectively taken in off the streets, obviously against the wishes of his superiors at the Department of Youth, Sport and Recreation.

But that's how Sammy was. As long as you were willing to make progress for good, his door was open and the legacy of that goodwill is that many of his lieutenants have become respectable members of the community and more.

However, there was also a flipside. Ever heard of the Alex Ferguson hairdryer treatment, dished out when one of his Manchester United footballers stepped out of line? Well, that bears no comparison to Sammy's bellowed cry whenever someone acted the fool or worse at PYC.

''Get Oout of Heeeere!!!'

It was the stuff of legend – and need only be said once. But on the rare occasion that the poor miscreant suffered from selective hearing, the next missive to follow was:

''99 Years!!!''

I always wondered how someone could ever recover from that, for, with all that PYC had to offer, such a suspension seemed a fate worse than death. But, as I intimated before, Sammy had a good heart and if the offender showed a genuine willingness to change his ways, he would welcome him back after a significant reduction in sentence.

I knew little of Sammy as a footballer, but by all accounts he was an uncompromising defender. You know the sort, the type who would growl: ''The ball can go by and so can you, but not at the same time.''

While others are perhaps better qualified to highlight his importance and longevity among the tennis community, I witnessed an undeniable evidence of his love of that sport when the table tennis league was relaunched in the '80s. His long, languid strokeplay, borne from the Tennis Stadium courts, was a feature of his defensive technique and he stayed active in the game just long enough so that fresh blood could be brought into the league, with PYC (by now rebranded as The Centre) taking the lead in introducing a junior programme that spawned many of Bermuda's top players approaching the dawn of a new millennium.

Sammy was very competitive and cursed a little – sometimes a lot, especially after the invention of the fancy rubber that allowed less talented opponents to gain an advantage through the mysteries of spin – and he made you fight for everything.

One of the more humbling experiences of my youth was administered by Sammy on the table tennis table. Having determined that I had spent enough time at PYC one midweek evening, he suggested that I should be getting home to prepare for school.

He gave in to my desperate plea for "just one more game to 21" and stepped in himself as the opposition. No more than two minutes later came the dreaded words: "11-0, that's game and there's the door. Good night, godson."

You, too, Sammy. Sleep well.

Dexter Smith

London, England