I have recently heard Don Bates, the Sussex cricketer and Brighton and Hove Albion footballer, has died from cancer, aged 72.

Don had a dramatic impact upon my life while I was a young professional footballer at Brighton and Hove Albion. Indirectly, he was responsible for so many important things which governed my life.

He and I stood out a bit because we both read broadsheet newspapers, we didn't smoke, we didn't swear and we were always struggling to get into the first team.

I always envied Don because he seemed to have an ideal life. He was good enough to play professional cricket in the summer and professional football in the winter.

He drove a swish Ford Consul convertible, which, one day, I happened to praise. Without a moment's hesitation, lent it to me for the following evening.

I will always remember driving along the seafront on a glorious sunny evening with the roof down, thinking I was the bees knees and waving and smiling at the girls on the promenade.

Unknown to Don, this kind gesture had a dramatic effect upon my life, for I subsequently thought of nothing else but to procure a Ford Consul convertible, which then cost about £650.

Though it seemed a lot of money at the time - I was only on wages of £12 per week - I started to save in earnest and a few years later, had amassed the required amount.

I then realised a thousand pounds suddenly didn't seem so far away and, with it, a possible home of my own.

Another two years on and I had £1,500 and with that, and the aid of a bank loan, I bought my first home in Brighton for £3,000 and I was as happy as a sandboy.

Who knows what would have happened had I not met Don and he not lent me his car?

Failed footballers who never really made it were all too common in those days and there, but for Don, I could have gone. I would probably still be feeling sorry for myself and wondering what might have been.

My only regret is that by the time I heard Don was unwell, my postcard to him offering recuperation at our property on the seafront in the south of France was just too late.

-Charles Holcombe, Dorset Gardens, Brighton