He was Hogan, the captain who led the New Zealand team from the front in true Boys' Own fashion.
He had every shot in the book, would play them all against the cocky Australians, and seemed to bat forever.
Even Dad got excited watching him, like he used to when Hadlee bowled.
I still have vivid memories of watching Hogan mercilessly compile 299 against Sri Lanka, on the hallowed Basin Reserve turf in Wellington, although they actually centre on the lounge and kitchen of my family's Wellington home.
I can recall being dragged from the cushion on the lounge floor - strategically positioned in front of the television set - each mealtime.
It was a race to wolf down mum's offerings before the mad dash back to the cushion, hoping and praying I hadn't missed anything.
Each time there was the breathless wait for the score, and my hero's image, to reappear on the slowly brightening screen.
And each time he did, again and again, safe and sound and his personal tally mounting remorselessly . . . 100, 200, 250 . . .
Childhood's memories can confuse, but in my mind it was a routine that seemed to go on forever.
Until - stunningly - it didn't.
Returning to the cushion after mum's mashed potatoes for tea, he was missing.
Gone. Out. Dismissed.
And just one run short of 300 - "staggering", was the commentator's summation I recall from the replay.
National disaster, was mine.
So, too, was the day I fell just short of my own ultimate milestone - meeting the great man himself.
It was another of those shimmering summer days, and my father had gamely taken me - jumping and running and whirling a pint-sized bat - to watch Wellington play for glory in the 1991 Shell Cup one-day final.
The Basin was packed, Hogan opened the batting and scored runs, Wellington's score topped 200 - a big tally in those days - and their opponents, Central Districts, crumbled to be all out for 140.
Apart from Hogan's efforts - out hit wicket for 33 - I barely noticed, focused as I was on stalking the boundary fence, seeking out autographs from anyone in a coloured uniform dispatched to long on or fine leg.
Even the umpires were fair game during a break.
Thankfully, Dad gave me a warning when the game was all but over - with Wellington in the field, and only one wicket needed, my chance was coming to dash on and target the signature of the man to avoid me so far - Hogan, of course.
And, when it came, the storming of the middle was a footrace - a horde of youngsters, seemingly all heading towards the same man.
Hogan saw us coming and began to make a funnelling motion with his arms, trying to marshall the unruly mob into a line.
Most, like me, did just as they were told - you couldn't argue with the captain.
Some didn't, pushing to the front and thrusting their bats, T-shirts and programmes forward.
The number of precious signatures issued mounting, the great man appeared to grow in stature as I got closer, getting bigger, bigger, bigger, until he seemed 10ft tall.
Then there was three of us - me, two boys in front, and Hogan.
The boy in front had the cheek to ask for Hogan's hat as a souvenir, and just about fell over when he handed it over.
The lucky blighter ran off with a smile as wide as the Basin itself, clutching the hat like an All Black winger with a rugby ball tucked under his arm, fend at the ready.
Then Hogan called time on the signing session.
He had to go and receive the silverware, he said, and turned away.
I had missed out. I was gutted. Staggering.
I was too deflated to even chase after him as the swarm of others did, still milling about him as he edged off the ground.
Later, Dad seemed impressed by the names on my bat - some good players here, he said, reading them aloud.
It didn't help.
A few years later, after a move south to Dunedin, I ran into my hero again when Hogan turned up at a cricket coaching clinic for young players.
His job was to encourage keen cricketers hitting plastic yellow balls off plastic yellow cones.
"Good shot" he commented, after I thrashed mine through an imaginary gap in the field.
Years ago I would've been embarrassed, or maybe asked for an autograph.
Instead I just placed another ball on the tee, wondering absently as I did what happened to his hat.
