Trevor Francis was one of the nicest guys who ever pulled on the famous old Rangers shirt, as well as being a player with a prized pedigree when he first walked through the front door at Ibrox.

And therein lies a tale. I was then working for the Sunday Mail and had got hold of information that Francis might be joining Rangers. So I took a chance and made my way across to the Stadium. And I got lucky.

For no sooner had I walked into the Marble Hall and started speaking to Stan, the immaculately uniformed Corps of Commissioners Sergeant who stood sentinel at the foot of the Marble stairs, than I heard a familiar voice call "Leggo", the nickname I have answered to for more than half a century.

But it wasn’t Trevor calling. It was Helen, his charming wife. I had become friendly with both when I joined the then-biggest-selling sports newspaper in Britain, the Birmingham Sports Argus. In fact, when I arrived in August 1974, Trevor, who had become a Birmingham City first-team regular when still just 16 years old, still answered to the nickname of "Superboy".

He was the first player I interviewed in my new job. The chat took place in the D Club, a members’ only club attached to the ground where players and press mixed after matches. Trevor was easy to like with his soft-spoken West Country accent, as was Helen with her Welsh lilt. So, all those years later our lives took different directions, Trevor to Italy and me back to Glasgow, it was a happy reunion as I got my interview with him before he made his Rangers debut in a 4-0 win over Dunfermline at Ibrox when McCoist netted a hat-trick and Sounes chipped in with the other.

Francis was 33 by the time his old Sampdoria teammate Graeme Souness paid Atalanta £75,000 for him and there is no doubt his best days were behind him.

In his heyday in the 1970s and 80s, the tackle from behind had yet to be outlawed and there were some seriously wild men around. Men who tackled with studs flashing at the shin and even knee height, whose studs could find the Achilles easier than the ball. Chopper Harris didn’t get his nickname for nothing and neither did Norman “bites yer legs” Hunter. For all his skill, ability to turn on a coin, close control and electric acceleration, Francis suffered a series of serious injuries which robbed him of his speed.

However, nothing could dim his astute football brain, nothing could rob him of his classy passing and even the passing of the years did not stop him from finding space in even the most congested midfield or packed defence. The season he spent as a Ranger was the one during which Terry Butcher was badly injured against Aberdeen, leading to the defence becoming upset and causing a degree of inconsistency which led to the defence of the title slipping from the club’s grasp, while a bad day in Dunfermline ended interest in the Scottish Cup.

But there was a silver lining of sorts and Trevor Francis played a considerable role in the way Rangers eventually triumphed after extra time and penalties in a classic Scottish League Cup Final against Aberdeen.

My seat that day was in the old Hampden Press box, which was perched on the roof of the rickety old South Stand, tilted precariously over the pitch. It was a dark autumn afternoon and the lights were on when Francis made his appearance as a substitute, operating where Souness preferred him, hugging the touchline on the right wing, dropping deep, finding space and using the ball cleverly, keeping possession and taking the pace out of what had been a frenetic struggle. Francis would score in the penalty shootout that Rangers won 5-3.

In many ways, it was no more than a cameo role. But it was vital and he had more than played his part when the trophy was paraded around Hampden. In all his contribution to his single season at Ibrox was a mere 25 appearances, which, unfortunately, did not yield a single goal.

After he left our paths seldom crossed, but when they did he always spoke in glowing terms of how much he had enjoyed his time at Ibrox, adding that he wished he had made the move a couple of seasons sooner. I always followed his career in management and as a pundit and was sad to hear some years ago that Helen had died.

During his time as a player, there were many milestones in his professional life, including becoming Britain’s first £1million player when Brian Clough signed him for Nottingham Forest. The previous year "TF", as he was often referred to, had been named by the Midland Soccer Writers’ Association as their player of the year. The award was presented by Clough at a dinner held in a Central TV studio and televised.

Francis, who was always shy and uneasy in the public eye away from the pitch, shuffled up with his hands nervously stuffed in his pockets, only to be ordered by Clough to: “Get your hands out of your pockets, young man."

It was a line that brought the house down, leaving Francis slightly sheepish.

He looked grateful earlier that same season when I was able to break some really good news to him. Throughout the Midlands, there had been a campaign to get Francis capped for England. The Friday before the squad was due to be announced for a friendly against Johan Cruyff’s Holland at Wembley, I telephoned the England manager, Don Revie, at his home. Even though I did not know Revie, reporters worth their salt had the home telephone number of important managers.

It was a woman with a Scottish voice who answered and when I gave my name and my newspaper she laughed that I didn’t have a Brummie accent, to which I replied that I came from Glasgow. The next question related to what team I supported and when I told her, Rangers, she laughed and said that was fine and that she would make sure her man gave me what I wanted.

When Revie came on the line he was laughing and told me he was under orders to answer my question, which was, 'Would Trevor Francis be in the squad for the game against Holland?' Revie confirmed that he would and that he would also be in the team, but warned me not to quote him.

My exclusive appeared on page one of the Sports Argus the next day and when copies arrived at the ground after the game I was able to confirm quietly to Trevor and Helen the source of my story. The closeness I had with him, the fondness I always felt for him and my awed admiration for his astonishing ability, made his arrival at Ibrox especially personally pleasing.

What a pity Trevor Francis, who had died aged 69, did not pull on the blue jersey a few years before he finally did. For he was one of the best Britain footballers of the last 60 years.

And one of the nicest too.