Tom Cryan, who has died in Dublin at the age of 66, was one of the most respected sports journalists of his generation.

For close on 50 years, first at the Irish Press and later at the Irish Independent, where he succeeded Arthur McWeeney in 1958, his was the authentic voice of Irish boxing.

A large, avuncular man, easily identifiable in the throng, he served his sport and his profession in a manner which laid down the benchmark for those of his contemporaries who saw in his work the essence of their calling.

Boxing, of course, was not his only subject. He wrote powerfully on a variety of other sports which fitted him perfectly for the task of covering the Olympic Games for his paper.

And it was on those challenging occasions that the rest of us came to admire his professionalism under the pressure of unforgiving deadlines and even more unforgiving sub-editors.

Yet it was boxing which inspired his best work. Nobody read a contest more astutely, few understood the workings of the fight game and those involved in it better than the man we called The Squire.

The enjoyment of his readers demanded that he type lengthy reports for the following day's paper, but for those of us at ringside he could sum it up in a succinct sentence. And invariably, he was spot on.

Nor was the recognition of that talent confined to Ireland; throughout Europe and America, wherever the roped square was a focal point, his opinion was canvassed by fellow practitioners in need of expert counsel.

That was the public face of Tom Cryan. The other was a unique facility for story-telling which qualified him easily for any list of Dublin's best raconteurs.

The punchline was invariably preceded by laughter which defied suppression, but we enjoyed it all and marvelled at the humour which sustained us on damp, dreary nights when the work was done.

Nor was he averse to telling the odd story against himself. Like those early, spartan days at the Irish Press where, as a cub reporter, he was required to file the match reports of other more senior colleagues.

It was scarcely a job to stimulate enthusiasm and when, three years later, the editor of the day dropped in somewhat unexpectedly to examine the records books, he discovered to his horror that all but one of the pages were blank.

Enraged, he demanded an explanation. And it came in just six faltering words: "Sir," Cryan replied, "I ran out of paste".