– 4 – IN THE PRESS BOX

‘Few former Test players have been so generous about the abilities and attitudes of the next generation of players.’

— Christopher Martin-Jenkins

JOHN WOODCOCK

John Woodcock first toured Australia as a BBC cameraman with Freddie Brown’s 1950–51 MCC team. He graduated to cricket correspondent for The Times in 1954 and retained this position until 1988. He was editor of Wisden for six years, and is renowned as a brilliant and principled writer, and one of cricket’s true gentlemen. Dubbed the ‘Sage of Longparish’, in his 90th year he penned these recollections of Richie.

I HAVE ANY NUMBER of friends who are proud to boast, and never miss a chance of doing so, that they batted in partnership with Richie or held a catch off his bowling. That it was in a village match is of no significance. What matters is that somewhere there is, or was, a scorecard on which appears the magic words: c Muggins b Benaud. I know a little of the feeling, having stumped someone once off the equally great Bill O’Reilly during the England tour of Australia in 1950–51, when things were much less rushed than they are today, and time was made for the press to play the occasional cricket match.

I used to raise a side each year to play against Longparish, the Hampshire village 65 miles south-west of London where I was born and still live, and no one entered into the spirit of the occasion more readily than Richie. Among other Australians who came and played, when they were teaching, coaching or holidaying in England, were John Inverarity, Ian McLachlan, Ian Redpath and Paul Sheahan. Longparish were a good enough side to win, from a field of more than 500 villages, the national village knockout competition, the final being played at Lord’s.

So the cricket, played on a lovely ground with a thatched pavilion, was of a decent standard. ‘Invers’ never fails, whenever I see him, to ask after ‘that blacksmith [not that he was one] who kept hitting me out of the ground’. His analysis that day was 9–1–82–1, prompting the headline in the local paper: ‘Aussie Star Humbled!’ On another occasion, when Graeme Pollock was in England playing for a World XI, Richie joined him at the wicket when we were 8 for 3. It was probably the only time they played on the same side, and they added 149.

Richie and ‘Daphers’ did some of their courting in Longparish, as Ian and Christine Redpath did, and very welcome they were, too! The village is on the banks of the River Test, the world’s most famous trout stream, and Richie and Redders both loved fishing, wading up the river side by side and casting a dry fly like a pair of spin bowlers in action. Anything they caught would be smoked by Daph, to be had for supper with a glass or three of something white and still.

Oh! The great days, in the distance enchanted …

PHIL WILKINS

Phil Wilkins became chief cricket writer at The Sydney Morning Herald in 1967, succeeding the legendary Tom Goodman. He was cricket correspondent for The Australian for 11 years and finished his career with a return stint of 16 years as the Herald’s chief cricket writer. He also served as Australian correspondent for Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack, Agence France-Presse and London’s Daily Telegraph. At heart, he has always been a country boy who never lost the heroes of his youth.

GONE, AND NEVER FORGOTTEN … the man in the mind’s eye, the face, the voice, the stride, the figure in coat and tie. From 60 years past he emerges, with Keith Miller and Lindy, Griz Grout and Slasher Mackay, Ninna Harvey and the Little Fave, Johnny Martin … mirages of youth and the game of decades beyond, disappearing, seen from the boundary, of feats and heroism past, memories gleaming like brass buttons on a trench coat, flashes of light in encroaching mists, men of our youth, men who made our lives, men who delighted us, crushed us, inspired us.

From the radio and the crackling voices of Alan McGilvray, Vic Richardson and Arthur Gilligan, calling the nation from England and South Africa, the words of Bill O’Reilly and Jack Fingleton, relating stories, painting the picture, day into night.

From Tasmania and the dying tin mine to the Hereford beef country and gold reef never found in the New England ranges, to the mining sands and dairying fields of the far north coast, we listened to them and their accounts of play. Richie seemed always to be there, the all-rounder not so supreme, at least early on in the eyes of the national selectors.

They were wrong and we, the army of Benaud men and women, knew they were wrong. We were proved correct, watching and listening to the feats of the tall all-rounder from Cumberland club, son of Lou, the middle-order batsman and bold striker, artful leg-break bowler, sometimes quick through the air, as Tiger fiercely advocated, sometimes over the eyes, the splendid gully fieldsman. And when he was struck in the face that day, the Benaud horde recoiled with him, bled with him.

And as Richie advanced, climbing the first-class ladder, so did the boy from the scrub move into grade cricket, every game fashioned on the hero, from when Lismore Norths played Mallanganee in a trial with Jack McLean and Len Henley, to calamity at the hand of John McMahon at Riverview Park. And the patriots realised Richie was part of a long-term plan for Australia to regain its standing, its glory, when they sent him to South Africa in 1957–58, Benaud and the broad-shouldered bull of an all-rounder from the Lisarow bush on the Central Coast, Alan Davidson. And the horde was proved right.

Ian Craig’s Australians won 3–0. And what a team South Africa had: the batting might of ‘Jackie’ McGlew, Trevor Goddard, Russell Endean and Johnny Waite, and the attack of the fast-bowling fiends, Neil Adcock and Peter Heine, and the spin of Hugh Tayfield. Then we knew we had a team.

Later that summer, in the Broadway foyer of The Sydney Morning Herald, there he was, quiet, distinguished, lost in another world, not in creams but dressed for work, as police roundsman for The Sun afternoon newspaper, always impeccable, never dressed casually, never, as of more recent eras of the journalistic class, resembling something the cat dragged in. He entered the lift and alighted on the editorial fifth floor and the cadet followed him out and watched him walk away, and remembered he had forgotten to breathe.

When the majestic Peter May led his England team to Australia for the summer of 1958–59, Richie Benaud was Test captain. Australia won the Ashes back, 4–0. They had been conceded twice by Ian Johnson’s teams through the bleak ’50s, a period darkened by the storm clouds of Frank ‘Typhoon’ Tyson and Brian Statham and the mystique of spinners Jim Laker and Tony Lock.

In 1960–61, the dawning broke through into full sunlight. The West Indies replaced wicketkeeper Gerry Alexander as captain with the young, vibrant Barbadian, Frank Worrell, and in a glorious conspiracy, Worrell and Benaud brought the game shining into every cricket household in Australia. As the first Test entered its last day at the Gabba, and with cheerful optimism the Australians confronted the formality of a 233-run chase in just over five hours, so the tide turned on Newcastle Harbour.

Belief began turning to trepidation, nerve ends were disintegrating and tremors quaked across the nation. With every wicket fall, the crowd grew around the little transistor radio outside the cabin on the Stockton ferry. With every passing over, the passengers inside the cabin emerged, until every person on board was there, listening, tilting the vessel precariously, a difficult thing to do on a flat-bottomed punt. Even the skipper was involved, one eye on the waterway, one ear against his cabin windshield.

‘Turn it up! Turn it up!’

Even then, with the second-last ball of the final over, when Joey Solomon’s throw struck the wicket from side on, nobody really knew, at the Gabba or on Newcastle Harbour, who had won the game and who had lost it. Even the ABC broadcasters were momentarily flummoxed. Then the penny dropped: a tie! The first tied Test!

But when, weeks later, the final ball was delivered in Melbourne for Australia’s two-wicket victory and 2–1 Test series success, many in the sunburnt country would gladly have settled for a series-levelling draw by the West Indies, if not another tie. No, not the Gabba again. That was too damaging to the nation’s nerves, whatever we thought later and whatever the rest of the world thought of the game’s eternal inspiration.

It’s the little things that count, that make the suit fit the man, the little things you remember. The Nawab of Pataudi led the Indians to Australia in 1967–68. It was Christmas Day and Adelaide’s churches were doing a brisk business and the restaurants were closed tight, every one of them.

By midday, the Indians were starving. We were all booked into the ‘Little Travelodge’, players and journalists alike, and no food was available, not by customary means, anyway. Richie and Daphne and the journalist’s wife, Jeanette, stormed the manager’s office, obtained the key to the kitchen and raided the larder. An hour or so later, the Indians were gorging on the best food in the house.

In 1972, returning to England as cricket correspondent for the Herald for Ian Chappell’s campaign to regain the Ashes, the Ashes lost in Australia in 1970–71 to the battle-scarred warrior, Ray Illingworth, it was a pleasurable privilege to share the John Fairfax car with Richie and Daphne, experiencing the once fabulous travelogue of counties between the five Tests, sometimes necessitating long overnight journeys on the motorways. Richie would occasionally sit in the back seat, assembling his thoughts and dictating newspaper copy to Fleet Street.

On those trips, when he was driver, generally on isolated back-road byways, he had the curious practice of beeping the car horn with not a car in sight. It was only after a number of experiences of this perplexing nature that it dawned on the co-driver: Richie was warning the sparrows and other birds feeding on the roadway of the car’s approach. Dear old bird-lover Benaud.

It was on one such car trip that the co-driver began having an inkling of what might come. In the privacy of the car, Richie sometimes mused out loud, almost daydreaming, not seeking confirmation from a whippersnapper, merely bouncing ideas around in his head.

Somewhere after Dennis Lillee’s early-tour side strain at the Lord’s nets, translated as a back-joint injury, and before Bob Massie’s injury in his second over of the MCC game at Lord’s, leaving David Colley heroically shouldering the pace attack, Richie said before the Old Trafford first Test: ‘We’ll be all right, I think.’ And he lapsed into silence.

It became so prolonged that the co-driver eventually prompted: ‘What’s all right, Rich?’

‘Lillee’s bowling better now. If he’s fit, we’ll be okay.’ Silence, and then: ‘What do they call him — FOT?’

‘Flipping Old Tart.’

‘Him and Massie, they’re a good pair.’

‘Fergie — as in Massey Ferguson, the earthmoving company, tractors and so on.’

Long silence. The co-driver tossed a coin in the pool: ‘What do you think of those Bankstown blokes, Thomson and Pascoe?’

‘They’re no value here. They’re back in Australia.’

‘True. But they’re both quick — and they’re definitely mad, mad as meat axes, actually.’

‘Good. It helps.’

Bob Massie took no part in the first Test. He’d torn abdominal muscles and watched his Western Australian teammate rattle through England’s batsmen in the second innings at Old Trafford, finishing with 6–66 from 30 overs, and eight wickets for the match.

But Australia’s batsmen could not handle the cold, greasy Manchester conditions against John Snow, Geoff Arnold and Tony Greig, and went down by 89 runs.

Massie was fit for the second Test at Lord’s, and it was Massie who went mad. In a strange, still befogged Test, the splendid Ross Edwards made his Test debut, Greg Chappell hit a hundred and Massie took 16 wickets in the game.

Lillee bowled just as well as at Old Trafford and claimed the other four wickets. Australia won by eight wickets to level the series, and drew the third Test at Trent Bridge. Then came Headingley, Leeds, and the Australians were greeted with a strangely mottled pitch. No one had seen its like before. A grass disease called fusarium had riddled the strip.

Derek Underwood ran amok, captured 10 wickets and Australia lost by nine wickets. Justice was done at the Oval, Kennington, when DK Lillee satisfied all that Australia had bred another champion, capturing five wickets in each innings. Both Chappell brothers, Ian and Greg, struck first-innings hundreds and Australia thundered home by five wickets to draw the series, two-all.

And all the way through the tour Richie’s thought in the car kept ringing like a bell: ‘I think we’ll be all right.’ Over the next four years, truer words were never spoken.

Then television took him away. Locked in the commentary room behind the arm, rarely sighted in the press box, he became a near-ghostly figure, passing in the corridor with a cheerful smile, always brisk, always busy, striding somewhere else.

And now he has gone. Will we remember him? Always. Can we forget him? Never.

NORMAN TASKER

Norman Tasker started writing on cricket when Richie Benaud was captain of Australia, replaced him as The Sun’s cricket correspondent, and saw close-hand how he operated in press boxes around the world.

RICHIE BENAUD ALWAYS LOOKED upon the time he teamed up with Noel Bailey as one of the luckiest breaks of his life. Richie graduated to the role of Australian cricket captain in the time he worked with Bailey as a crime reporter on the Sydney afternoon paper The Sun. Bailey was old school, a hard-nosed reporter with a keen news sense and the ability to grab a phone and quickly dictate a story with clarity, straight off the top. Richie learned the lessons and always considered himself a journalist first, a commentator second. It was his choice to learn the newspaper business from the bottom up.

My career in journalism began at Frank Packer’s Daily Telegraph in 1959, at 16 years of age and straight out of school. One of my first jobs as a copyboy was to monitor the police radio in the police rounds room, and I was listening in when Kevin John Simmonds and Leslie Alan Newcombe made their escape from Long Bay gaol. They killed a prison guard and the manhunt that followed was one of the biggest Sydney had seen.

My shift was ending in the early hours of the morning and the senior reporters invited me along for the ride as word got out that the escapees had been sighted in the northern suburb of Frenchs Forest. The chase was on. That’s where I first saw Richie Benaud. He was standing in for Noel Bailey, was Australian captain at the time, and he cut a dapper figure among the hard-bitten reporters and coppers on the job.

I remember thinking even then how evident was his work ethic, despite the fact that this was a time before the high-end professionalisation of sport, when champions still needed ordinary jobs and real work was something everybody did. Richie was just one of the boys, interviewing policemen, notebook in hand, filing his words, keeping the early editions of the paper well fed.

The following year I was transferred to sport and my first serious cricket job was to cover a Sheffield Shield match between NSW and Queensland at the SCG. Frank Worrell’s 1960–61 West Indians were playing South Australia in Adelaide, as they worked their way around the country towards Brisbane and the first Test, and the Telegraph’s lead cricket writer, Phil Tresidder, was reporting on that match. NSW batted first. Brian Booth scored 51, Ian Craig 146. At stumps Neil Harvey was 210 not out and NSW were 2–424. A good day’s play, I thought, and I wrote with enthusiasm. I thought I had done okay, commanding the back page of the paper.

Back at the office the sports editor bellowed at me: ‘Do you have quotes from the captain?’

‘Well, er, no,’ I responded.

Talking to the captain of Australia was not something a teenage novice did easily. ‘Well, get some,’ he ordered.

So I had to ring Richie at home, with great trepidation. As I announced myself, ‘umming’ and ‘ahhing’ and wondering what to say, Richie picked up on my floundering nervousness.

‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘you could ask me this.’ He then suggested a question to ask him. ‘If you asked me that,’ he went on, ‘I would answer like this.’ He then gave me an answer. The questions were no dorothy dixers either. That went on for four or five questions until I relaxed. I included them in my story and everybody thought I was very clever and had done a fine job. I wrote about cricket on and off for the next 55 years, and I never forgot that initial kindness.

By the time of the next West Indies tour of Australia, in 1968–69, I had joined The Sun, principally as their rugby writer. Richie was specialising as The Sun’s cricket correspondent. The newspaper world had gone through some serious upheaval the previous year, with a major journalists’ strike and a settlement that redrew the grading system under which journalists were employed. Richie, looking for new opportunities anyway, objected to the new rules. He redefined his role at The Sun to write specialist columns and I was conscripted into the day-to-day role of cricket correspondent. Through the Tests of that summer Richie would ring me each morning to discuss how we would attack the first edition. He often would volunteer to write about the toss. It never ceased to fascinate me how much knowledge he could put into discussing the toss of a coin and just what it would all mean to the outcome of the game.

Knowledge was one thing, but the real success that Richie achieved through those early years in the media came through his work ethic. Whether he was rattling away on an ancient typewriter or running to a microphone somewhere, he never seemed to stop. I remember a Test match in New Zealand in 1974, when he was doing radio work that required a connection in the big open stand at the Basin Reserve. It was bitterly cold as an icy wind blew in off Cook Strait. Richie got himself a sheepskin coat that looked like something Shackleton might have worn in Antarctica and cut a lonely, forlorn figure at the front of the stand as the Chappell brothers went about hitting 646 runs between them.

I can remember him too at the WACA Ground in Perth, when his schedule required press filing on one side of the field and radio reports on the other, and he seemed to be lapping the field every 10 minutes as he worked his way through the day.

By the 1990s, I had started a cricket magazine called Inside Edge. I called Richie and asked if he would write a column each month. He agreed, with the proviso that his material was carefully subedited and that we were especially careful that there should be no split infinitives in his material. Such was his concern for the English language. He never missed a month and became a centrepiece of the magazine for a decade or more.

Richie finished up a legendary commentator and a celebrity with an international presence, but he always saw himself as a working journo and everything he achieved was achieved through hard work, relentless preparation and a determined eye for detail. He was, when all is said and done, the ultimate professional.

MIKE COWARD

Mike Coward is an internationally renowned cricket writer, author, commentator and filmmaker. He was chief cricket correspondent at the Adelaide Advertiser and the Sydney Morning Herald, cricket columnist with The Australian, and has contributed to a range of international publications. He has also applied himself to the continuing benefit of the Bradman Museum and International Cricket Hall of Fame, and to the leading cricket charities, the Primary Club and the LBW Trust.

AS A TRENCHANT 14-YEAR-OLD critic I blamed Richie Benaud for not interceding on my hero Les Favell’s behalf when the selectors chose to leave Les out of the Australian team for the 1961 tour of England. In those days, and like so many South Australian teenage boys, I only had eyes for Favell, who played the glorious game in the manner Sir Donald Bradman demanded at the start of what was destined to become the first series for the Frank Worrell Trophy … the unforgettable summer of 1960–61.

Why should Favell be deprived of the opportunity to realise his dream of playing in England? After all, he had been good enough to tour the West Indies under Ian Johnson in 1955, South Africa with Ian Craig’s party in 1957–58, and Pakistan and India with Benaud in 1959–60.

The fact Favelli, as his peers called him, failed in each innings of the fourth Test at the Adelaide Oval at the very moment he could not afford to fail did not mollify me. From my position behind the pickets on the eastern boundary, he could do no wrong even when he fell for four and one — hooking and cutting to the very end of his 19-Test career. He was in a class of his own.

Twelve years later, in the front-row corner of the old press box at Lord’s during the second Ashes Test, I was battling unforgiving deadlines as a reporter for Australian Associated Press when Benaud suddenly appeared at my side. We were barely on nodding terms at this point in my career in sports journalism, yet such was his capacity to care and mentor that he wanted to make sure I was managing the pressure as swing bowler Bob Massie decimated the flummoxed England batsmen. With characteristic quietness, he offered a hand if it was needed.

I have never forgotten the generosity of this gesture and, of course, in an instant I emphatically absolved him of any guilt in the axing of Favell. As summers passed and I became entrenched as a cricket writer and commentator, I had the great fortune to work with both Benaud and Favell and to learn of their great respect for each other. Both were amused when I somewhat self-consciously recounted my boyhood railings and frustrations.

In 1972 I did not dare to dream my career would enable me to associate with Benaud and so many luminaries of the cricket community. A voracious consumer of all media but with an abiding love of newspapers, Benaud quietly monitored the writing of aspiring and emerging cricket scribes and, at times, gently made criticisms and suggestions. He was generous with his time and always offered encouragement and perspective.

Later, as a senior member of the cricket writing fraternity, I had the good fortune to conduct long interviews with Richie for ABC-TV’s Cricket History Series and for the precious archive at the Bradman Museum and International Cricket Hall of Fame at Bowral, which he served as patron. A stickler for accuracy, he was as renowned for the thoroughness of his research as he was for his precision in recalling time, people, places and events. He was considered in his opinions and utterances; sage-like as the doyen of the international cricket commentariat.

Always self-contained and self-protective, Richie possessed a delightful if restrained sense of humour often evident when he was in conversation before an audience with whom he could interact. Whether he was doing a mate a favour at a cricket or golf club dinner or making his annual guest appearance at the chairman’s lunch at the Sydney Swans Football Club, invariably he shared a pearl of wisdom or a pithy observation with his myriad admirers.

I also had the pleasure of witnessing first-hand his philanthropic work with the Primary Club of Australia and the Bradman Museum and International Cricket Hall of Fame and had the privilege of introducing him when he delivered the third Sir Donald Bradman Oration at Government House, Hobart, in January 2005.

I will long value my association with Richie and be forever thankful for his spontaneous and gracious offer of help when Bob Massie so famously ran amok at Lord’s in June 1972.

MAX WOOLDRIDGE

Max Wooldridge is a freelance journalist and author. His stories, mainly about travel and music, have appeared in many of Britain’s leading newspapers and magazines. His memories of Richie go back to his early childhood.

WHEN YOU’RE A CHILD you are too obsessed with playing with wheeled toys or if Mum is making mashed potato for dinner to realise you’re in the presence of greatness.

Richie was a close friend of my father, Ian Wooldridge, the late, decorated British sportswriter who died in 2007. In a touch of gentle sledging that still makes me smile, they addressed each other by their surnames, ‘Benaud’ and ‘Wooldridge’, throughout their 45-year friendship.

Of course, as a kid I didn’t see Richie like the majority of people did, as ‘Richie Benaud, the Australian cricket legend’. He was just ‘my dad’s friend, Richie’, a welcoming and amusing visitor to the family home in west London. He and Dad would chuckle over glasses of wine, their witty banter imbued with pearls of wisdom.

An early childhood recollection is a personal tutorial Richie gave me in the art of leg-breaks and googlies, using an orange bowled across our lounge-room floor. I never kept the piece of fruit. Sadly, I probably consumed it soon after my masterclass.

It was a memorable encounter, but it wasn’t until my teens, when I started to grow up and learn more about cricket, that I became aware that Richie was such an unwavering icon of sport. Much later, when I started to make my living as a travel writer, I was lucky enough to fly to Australia on several assignments: daring rodeo school, dusty cattle drives, even crazy outback pub crawls by helicopter. It was on these trips that I learnt of the tremendous affection with which Richie was held in Australian hearts.

If you’re a Brit travelling around Oz, the sport of cricket inevitably comes up and naturally whoever currently holds the Ashes will usually raise the subject. A few times, probably after too many bottles of Coopers Pale Ale, I mentioned that Richie was a longstanding family friend and one of my father’s great mates.

The reaction was always the same. The cynical, third-generation squints of drinkers bored with dodgy politicians and overconfident reality TV stars suddenly became bug-eyed stares. Their hearts warmed at the mention of a true hero and I was afforded new status by association, instant elevation from being just another soft Pommy bastard to a good bloke.

This is pretty much the highest accolade any British male can hope for down-under. Warm embraces and back slaps were accompanied by ‘Good on ya, mate’ and ‘Get this guy a beer!’

I worked with Richie only once. In 2012, I interviewed him for a short documentary about the 1960 Tied Test for the BBC World Service’s Sporting Witness. The series producer was a big cricket fan and was aware my father and Richie were close.

As I knew he would be, Richie was marvellous to work with. One morning, the producer and I sat down and devised a long list of carefully thought-out questions. We needn’t have bothered. After the opening question, Richie launched a beautiful delivery: a continuous, fascinating recollection from more than half a century earlier.

As he spoke, we began to tick off our questions one by one until there were none left. Richie answered every question without any interference. The producer and I swapped glances that said, ‘Wow, what an utter pro.’

I did nothing that day except turn up. Richie did everything. I had witnessed another personal masterclass from Richie, this time as a broadcaster.

GEOFF ROACH

For many years variously editor and sports editor of Adelaide’s newspapers — The News, Sunday Mail and The Advertiser — Geoff Roach was also a long-time sports columnist with a passion for golf. Richie and Daphne were involved with the international golf circuit for many years through their work with the head of the International Management Group (IMG), Mark McCormack, so their paths crossed often. Geoff looks back on some epic encounters.

OKAY, I ADMIT IT. As far as can be verified, I am the only imbecile ever to have sacked Richie Benaud. From anything. Yet if, because this is supposed to be a chronicle of justifiable praise for the life and times of a truly splendid man, you are now anticipating some sort of fulsome apology for so doing, forget it! The truth is I will always regard that action, and its outcome, as one of the best, most fortunate decisions of my life.

Perhaps, though, it might help allay your gathering contempt if I explain the circumstances — and consequences — that provoked such a reckless deed.

It so happened that back in the mid-1970s Rupert Murdoch made one of his rare mistakes by appointing me editor of The Sunday Mail, a position I neither sought nor wanted but was persuaded to accept for fear of otherwise getting the flick. No sooner had I done so, my worst fear was confirmed.

Apart from a few seasoned operators and contributors, the paper — then an unholy joint venture of The News and The Advertiser devoted to gleaning advertising revenue from the burgeoning real-estate and furniture entities — was what might charitably be called sparsely staffed and with a budget that gave no possibility of enhancement in that area.

What transpired was a review of all existing arrangements, one which revealed ‘DE Benaud and Associates’ was in weekly receipt of a D-Grade journo’s salary as part of a News group contract for Richie’s column.

Now have no doubt that like most of my generation, I revered Richie and all he represented and wrote. But as a callow editor bereft of any youthful troops, I couldn’t help but consider the output which might eventuate from hiring an enthusiastic D-grade recruit. Hence the fateful decision was made to ‘let go’ the Benaud column, at least for the time being. Trouble was I then had to communicate this to my idol, a deed eventually done by phone after an afternoon’s consumption of suitably bracing liquid. To my utmost relief, the news was taken with equanimity.

However, it was then suggested, I might not perhaps be fully aware of the scope and opportunities encompassed in the current arrangement — a situation that might be remedied if we were to meet for dinner when he and Daphne were in Adelaide a week hence.

The initial contact point was a motel on Hindley Street, which at that time hosted most of the city’s visiting celebrity cavalcade. And there, lying impressively bronzed and resplendent among a sizeable crowd on the pool deck, was the great man himself.

Now at any other time, there is no doubt Richie would have been the focus of the gathering’s scrutiny. But not this time. For just a few lounges away sat an exquisitely formed female clad in the most fetching of bikinis. One immediately identified her as Miss Britt Ekland, in town with her latest beau, Mr Rod Stewart.

Now it is entirely possible, of course, that Richie was already well aware of her presence and would not have been averse to a meeting with her. But sensing a rare and stupendous opportunity, I asked if he would consent to a photo with the Swedish bombshell. Permission was swiftly granted, a photographer summoned, and the picture — of Richie watching appreciatively as Britt strolled by — made a huge hit on the front page of the following Sunday’s Mail.

Suffice to say that when dinner followed, a chord was struck, one based chiefly around joint passions for journalism, golf, cricket, consumption of Yalumba’s Pewsey Vale wine, horse racing and Daphne’s ethereal loveliness.

As a result, the Benaud arrangement was not only restored forthwith but a friendship evolved that would not merely enrich my life for the next 30-plus years but influence many of the decisions I later had to make.

Golf was very much the fulcrum around which we revolved, both as participants and correspondents at the great tournaments around the world. Richie’s ardour for the game knew no bounds. During Adelaide Test matches, I would pick him up at 5.15am and we would hit off in the dark at Royal Adelaide or Kooyonga. We would be back at the Hilton for breakfast by 8.30.

On one occasion we were joined by the redoubtable News Corp golf writer Tom Ramsey, who was the instigator and organiser of many of our excursions. As we walked from the 18th tee, Richie suddenly let out a cry and stood frozen with one leg in the air as a large black snake slithered at speed past him.

He remained thus as we continued on, until Ramsey looked back and called, ‘Come on, Richie, keep up. The snake was more frightened than you.’

The Benaud head was raised, the look produced and the answer firmly given: ‘No it wasn’t, Tom.’

At incomparable Royal County Down in Northern Ireland for the first time, Richie accepted a traditional Ramsey bet (con) that he could not break 100 from the back markers and without a caddie. On the blind fifth tee, Tom had the honour and drove in one direction. I, following, drove in the opposite.

‘How droll, gentlemen,’ Richie responded.

Then, after a moment’s pause, he correctly followed my lead. Asked how he came to that decision, he explained that as Tom got his supply of golf balls free but I hated to lose one, it was a logical conclusion. Sadly, it didn’t help. Much to his dismay, his 100th shot came on the 17th hole.

In England, our favoured venue was stately Woburn Golf Club, to which we travelled — on the rare occasions it actually started — in Richie’s navy Jaguar that was the UK equivalent of the infamous Sunbeam Alpine he drove in Sydney. On one such occasion, I somehow managed to go six up after six holes and smugly suggested we adjourn to the clubhouse for a glass of wine.

Instead, the lip pushed forward, the glare was produced and Richie played the next 12 holes in one over par to win on the 18th. I was never in the rooms after a Test match, but I doubt that Richie was ever more visibly jubilant after victory than on that day.

‘Perhaps you might like to have that wine now,’ he declared.

Fine food, wine and company were Benaud constants. I was never more privileged than one year at Wimbledon when Rich and Daphne hosted luncheons in the Nine Network marquee. My fellow table guests included luminaries such as James Hunt and his ever-present dog, Imran Khan and an English beauty, Tim Rice and Elaine Paige.

It was a sublime occasion until the notoriously irascible Nine boss Sam Chisholm walked past, glared and loudly demanded to know: ‘Why are we feeding one of Rupert’s men, Richie? Can’t he afford a sandwich?’

‘Don’t worry about it, Sam,’ Richie instantly replied. ‘It’s part of our charity program and fully tax-deductible.’

What turned out to be our last meal together took place not far from where we had enjoyed our first. This time, we were at Adelaide’s Georges restaurant as guests of Yalumba’s Rob and Annabel Hill Smith, who had assembled an international group of friends. The restaurant had in fact been booked out for a 40th birthday party, but room had been found for us and we were seated in a discreet outer area.

Even so, we were spotted by a fellow with whom I was vaguely familiar. He came over and asked would it be possible to have a very brief word with Richie. Consent was given, the exchange took place, Richie smiled, nodded a couple of times and the chap departed.

A moment later, this same fellow could be heard on a microphone, delivering a paean of praise to the birthday boy and telling his audience how he had agonised over the choice of a suitable present for him.

‘Then it struck me,’ he said. ‘David loves his cricket. So I got in touch with Richie Benaud and he readily consented to come here tonight to mark the occasion.’

The elation which followed as Richie appeared and said a few suitable words would have sent the Richter scale soaring. It was followed by David proposing to his girlfriend and ordering French champagne to flow for the remainder of the night.

‘I think that went reasonably well,’ said Richie when he returned to our table.

A typically understated appraisal, I am thinking now, of his own magnificent life.

DAVID NORRIE

David Norrie became the rugby correspondent for the News of the World in London in 1979 and the cricket correspondent seven years later. When he left the newspaper in 2007, the UK Sports Journalists Association paid tribute: ‘Norrie has always been a prolific writer, ghosting a library’s-worth of sports books, most recently the official biography of Darren Gough, as well as working with commentary legends Richie Benaud and Murray Walker, former England rugby captains Will Carling and Roger Uttley, and with cricket skipper Michael Atherton.’

WHAT A PLEASURE AND a privilege it was to enjoy Richie’s friendship for nearly 30 years; had it been just 30 days, it would still have been a pleasure and a privilege. I can’t help wishing we could sit down at Langan’s in Piccadilly for lunch just one more time.

I was a brash, opinionated upstart of 32 with an extremely limited knowledge of cricket when I was given the ultimate journalistic colleague in 1986. When I took over as cricket correspondent of the News of the World, Richie had already been the paper’s cricket columnist for over a quarter of a century.

What with the phone hacking, Old Bailey court cases, editors on trial (and one going to prison) and the News of the World’s closure in 2011, there have been times recently when I’ve wondered whether it was all worth it. Richie answers that in a split second; he was still the paper’s cricket columnist when it was closed.

I had departed four years earlier, shortly after ‘my’ award-winning sports story regarding Andrew ‘Freddie’ Flintoff’s pedalo escapade in St Lucia. I did know that Fred had been out late and drinking after England’s World Cup defeat by New Zealand, but those water antics were as much a mystery to me then as they are today. When I couldn’t get a straight answer about the story’s source, it was time to move on.

Richie was the first person I spoke to about leaving. Invariably, when there was a decision to be made, his counsel was my first port of call. Richie might have been known as the voice of cricket around the globe, but he was a great listener; no rushed judgments, just considered commonsense and observations. Occasionally, when I eventually reached an obvious conclusion, he would smile with the look of slight bemusement as to why it had taken me so long to get there.

We seemed to hit it off from our first lunch, when the News of the World sports editor, Bill Bateson, brought us together. I was on a summer’s trial and Bill kept me on tenterhooks until the end of that period before confessing that I’d had the job after a few weeks when Richie reported, ‘He’ll be fine.’ He’d added that my contacts’ book was already about the best in the business; complete tosh, of course, but yet another example of Richie’s generosity of spirit.

There was another test to pass that summer: being accepted by the Benauds — not just Richie, but also Daphne. Theirs was a cricket partnership as productive, complementing and successful as Lillee and Thomson. Daphne, like Richie, showed me great kindness and friendship from the very start.

Although Richie spent his time in the commentary box and I was in the press box — often at opposite ends of the ground — we kept in touch by phone during Test matches. On a Saturday, I would wander round before play and at lunchtime; we’d discuss the topics of the day so there was no duplication in our copy.

After the day’s play, we would meet up in the facility hosted by the Test sponsors, Cornhill Insurance, to raise a glass or two. One night, I was approached by Raman Subba Row, then chairman of the Test and County Cricket Board (TCCB), explaining there was something serious he wanted to talk to Richie about. They were soon locked in conversation, but it didn’t last very long. Richie explained that Raman was worried there was far too much Test cricket being played and wanted to know what could be done about it. ‘Play less’ had been Richie’s solution, although this simple approach seemed to confuse Raman.

One memorable series was the return of South Africa in 1994 for their first tour to England in the post-apartheid era. The first inkling of the Michael Atherton ‘dirt in the pocket’ incident came from South Africa, where the live television images were being shown. In the UK, the cricket was sharing the BBC’s Saturday afternoon coverage with horse racing. Richie rang me and the office to say we were about to see some pictures that needed explaining and might just be the story of the day.

How right he was. That night at Lord’s, after several hours of hanging around, a statement from match referee Peter Burge was read out, ending with the usual: ‘The match referee will be making no further pronouncements. The matter is now closed.’

I rang Richie and gave him the good news. ‘Oh, they think so, do they?’ was his verdict. He had seen it all before and, lo and behold, there were further statements the following night after England had been bowled out for 99 and lost by 356 runs. Atherton was fined £2000, there were calls for him to resign, and the fallout rumbled on for weeks.

Atherton answered his critics with a battling 99 at Headingley in the next Test, then claimed a century would have been the perfect riposte to the ‘gutter press’. Richie did not take kindly to being described as such and let Atherton know that prior to dinner on the first night of the third Test, at the Oval. Bollocking over, Richie carried on as before and was a great champion and supporter of Athers when he moved seamlessly into the commentary box.

Athers did not dine with us that night, but Sir Tim Rice did. In his typically modest way, Sir Tim handed each of us a copy of a yet-to-be-released CD that he had just finished for Disney with Elton John. ‘I think it’s turned out okay,’ he said.

Sir Tim wasn’t wrong; The Lion King is still going strong!

Richie and I played a lot of golf in the early years, at Woburn, at the RAC in Epsom and in Australia. I recall turning up to play at Adelaide at the crack of dawn without any clubs. Richie was not best pleased, but he handed me a four-iron, a wedge, his spare putter and three golf balls, with the clear message to keep my ball in play, not forgetting his usual, ‘Go well.’

Eventually, the golf matches and our time together in press boxes ended, but, fortunately, the lunches and dinners continued, as did trips to the theatre. In the early days, we would lunch with the News of the World editor and sports editor to welcome Richie over for another English summer, and there was always dinner with the ladies to mark the return to Australia. The Benauds moved from Pont Street in London to Beaulieu-sur-Mer in the south of France and there was more fine dining.

Richie bowed out of the commentary box in England after perhaps the greatest Ashes series of all time in 2005. I vacated the press box midway through the summer two years later; that’s about the time the Benaud lunches at Langan’s gained a momentum of their own. The arrival of Richie and Daphne’s England itinerary was the starting point. Several dates would be suggested and firmed up.

Richie would leave the guest list to me, although Daphne laid down some ground rules. After one rather chaotic meal when we waited a couple of hours for a guest who never appeared, it was decreed that Richie must raise a fork no later than 30 minutes after raising the first glass.

Early in 2013, I listened to Desert Island Discs and learned of the amazing life and career of the castaway Sir Sydney Kentridge QC. Then 90, Sir Sydney had been part of Nelson Mandela’s defence team in his treason trial and lawyer for the Biko family at Stephen Biko’s inquest. He had then moved to England. He was also a cricket nut and his father had taken him to a South Africa-England Test at the Wanderers Ground in Johannesburg in 1928. I wrote to his chambers, inviting him to one of our lunches and a few weeks later Sir Sydney and Richie were in deep conversation discussing the finer points of cricket and the law.

A regular dining companion was the great racecaller Sir Peter O’Sullevan, who had been Richie’s broadcasting mentor and inspiration. ‘The most organised man I have ever come across,’ was Richie’s verdict. Their friendship began in 1956 when Richie was on a BBC training course, which included ‘shadowing’ Sir Peter at a race meeting to see how the commentator operated.

O’Sullevan was clear: ‘I don’t want to hear a peep out of you. Just make notes and we will sit down at the end of the day over a glass of wine and chat.’ That suited Sir Peter and it suited Richie. It seemed to work, too.

Their relationship extended more than 50 years. At one lunch, the actor Stephen Mangan, another cricket fanatic, was delighted to point out that not only was he sitting between Sir Peter, the voice of racing, and Richie, the voice of cricket, but that he had just signed up to be the voice of Postman Pat in a new movie!

It was Nigel Wray, the owner of probably the finest sporting memorabilia collection in the UK as well as Saracens rugby club, who reunited Richie with a match ball from the famous Tied Test at Brisbane in 1960.

From a collection of more than 7000 items, this was Nigel’s favourite and 52 years down the road, Richie’s signature was added to Frank Worrell’s, Gerry Alexander’s and Wes Hall’s at Langan’s. After Nigel headed for a taxi, Richie asked the remaining guests how we thought Nigel might react when he got home and discovered his most treasured item was no longer in his possession. It was now languishing in the breadbasket!

Theatre trips with Richie and Daphne in recent years included Waiting for Godot with Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart, The Queen with Helen Mirren and The Sunshine Boys with Danny DeVito and Richard Griffiths. I liked the plays to be a surprise, but one night the best-laid plans went amiss after a flash flood delayed our arrival at Victoria Station. I had arranged to meet the Benauds in Her Majesty’s Theatre, which was across the road from the Haymarket where we were actually going. Daphne saved time by getting the programs; there were some confused looks as we walked in to see Waiting for Godot with programs for The Phantom of the Opera.

The Benauds’ renowned organisational skills only failed once as far as I’m aware — or perhaps they were just too good. The date we had chosen for a Benaud visit for lunch in 2013 just happened to be the same day as the Prudential RideLondon cycle event to the Surrey Hills, which are very close to our home, south of London. The city’s bridges were closing at the crack of dawn but Richie, or more likely Daphne, got to work, planning their journey with all the precision of the D-Day landings to beat the various obstacles that were being placed in their path.

That was the background to taking a call from Daphne at 9.15am. A few minutes later, the Benauds had set a new record for the earliest-ever arrival for lunch. We had a great day. Richie visited Newdigate Cricket Club, on the Surrey-Sussex border, to open a new artificial pitch before making a presentation to the club’s best youngster, in which he explained that whenever someone in the Benaud family received an award they had to make a speech. Seconds later, the lad was making his first ever public utterance. Everything was done for a purpose.

The highlight for me, though, was Richie’s adoption by a team of plasterers who were on tour in Sussex. Their Sunday game had been cancelled and Newdigate were helping them out. Their shouting and comments were rather loud and earthy until they finally realised that it really was the Richie Benaud just a few yards away. A couple of minutes later, he was in the middle of this group, posing for pictures they will treasure for a lifetime.

They are not the only ones!

DAY OF THE SHIPWRECK

In the immediate aftermath of his retirement from cricket, Richie Benaud worked as the cricket correspondent on The Sun, an afternoon paper in Sydney. The Sun was fighting a full-scale circulation war with the Daily Mirror, Rupert Murdoch’s first Sydney base and an early platform for his assault on the world media market. The Mirror’s cricket correspondent, and thus Richie’s direct competition, was Robert Gray, a flamboyant character and a brilliant journalist. The pair became lifelong friends.

In many ways they were an odd couple: Richie immaculate and measured; Gray extroverted and knockabout. But they had personalities and a sense of humour that clicked. Bob made Richie laugh.

Ian Chappell’s first-class cricket career started just before Richie retired, so he was a contemporary of both men. Chappell marvelled at their escapades and delights in recounting them. The most dramatic was the saga of the shipwreck, when a planned day out in Gray’s cabin cruiser turned to disaster. It was 1981. Gray had long left journalism to set up a business in sporting apparel, but the friendship continued and a day out on Port Hacking, suitably fed and watered, was the sort of thing that appealed to them.

To set the scene for the sort of relationship that Benaud and Gray had, their working demands at the start of the MCC’s 1965–66 Ashes tour of Australia are a good starting point. The tour began with a Combined XI game in Perth, where the deadline demands of Sydney afternoon papers required copy for the first edition to be dispatched prior to 5am, Western Australian time. Bob and Richie worked a system where they would file at night, either before or after dinner. On this particular occasion they decided they would eat first.

The dinner was a good one. The wines were fine, the conversation stimulating and time flew. When time came to file copy, Richie opted to do so straight after dinner. Feeling a little diminished by the conviviality of the occasion, Bob decided to take a nap first. After Richie sent off his piece, he tried to wake Gray so that he could do likewise. Waking him proved impossible, so Richie did the right thing and filed his copy for him, alerting the Mirror to a significant change in the condition of injured Australian fast bowler Graham McKenzie.

Next day Bob was grateful, the Sydney Sun sporting editor less so. He rang Richie as soon as the Mirror appeared, complaining vociferously that he had been scooped and demanding to know why he had not known about the McKenzie story.

Move forward 16 years. Gray and his wife Grace have invited Richie and Daphne to a lovely afternoon on Port Hacking in Gray’s cabin cruiser, cheekily christened Pissed as Newt. Ian Chappell sets the scene:

‘Bob’s boat was moored out from the beach, requiring a short trip in a rowing boat with a small outboard motor attached to get there. Bob was all set, in shirt, shorts and thongs. Richie was a bit more formal in cashmere sweater, slacks and Gucci shoes, and Daphne had packed a picnic basket filled with all sorts of delicacies. Once aboard the runabout, a challenge in itself, Gray gunned the motor. Then he made his only mistake, but it was a big one.

‘He turned right when he should have turned left. The runabout headed for the wharf, which it climbed spectacularly, sending the bow spiralling into the air and throwing all aboard and their provisions into the water …’

Such was the magnitude of the disaster, Richie wrote to his insurance broker Warren Saunders, a former NSW teammate said by many to be one of the finest batsmen never to play for Australia. Under the letterhead of DE Benaud and Associates, the letter read:

October 16, 1981

Mr Warren Saunders

Warren Saunders (Insurances) Pty Ltd.,

3 Forest Road,

Hurstville.

NSW. 2220.

Dear Mr Saunders,

My name is Benaud, a partner in the firm of Benaud and Associates (a division of Cesana Pty Ltd). You will note from your records that, over the years, our claims for loss, damage, and other extraordinary matters, have been almost non-existent.

However … On October 15th, 1981, there occurred a series of happenings of such quaint curiosity I feel we must ask you for a claim form so the details may be filled in for the Insurance Company concerned.

I list in advance, for your information, the happenings of the day, in as close to chronological order as I can manage through the haze of shock and rust, so you may be able to judge for yourself the possible success of our claim. I shall try to keep the story as brief as possible, as, even now, 24 hours after the event, it brings back painful memories.

My wife Daphne and I were invited for a day’s outing with business clients and friends, Mr and Mrs Robert Gray, with whom you are acquainted. The outing to be on a cabin cruiser, moored off Cronulla, the cruiser owned by Mr and Mrs Gray. The previous evening, the 14th, Mr Gray had been warmly elected to the exclusive membership of the Royal Port Hacking Yacht Club.

He spent the early part of the morning of the 15th carefully studying the tides, checking the force of the wind and charting the course for the voyage. To indicate to you that the other three members of the group were endeavouring to match Mr Gray’s Admiral’s Cup-like dedication, I should mention we addressed ourselves to the task of arranging matters such as lobster, prawns, champagne, white wine, chicken and all other such minor affairs.

It was revealed to us by the captain, Mr Gray, that to get to the cabin cruiser it would be necessary to place all four people plus bags and food, etc, in a rowboat, to which we had attached an outdoor motor. I feel now that I should list the happenings as they occurred so you and your insurance companies will have a clear picture of events.

Our captain, with the assistance of several four-letter phrases and Mrs Benaud, eventually managed to push the rowboat four metres, to the water’s edge. This was achieved with some difficulty as Mr Benaud was unable to assist. He was wearing a neck brace because of a recent injury and, in any case, was lying on the ground in helpless laughter. It took the captain only 20 minutes to start the outboard motor, during which time Mrs Gray and Mrs Benaud busied themselves, on Mr Gray’s instructions, carrying equipment, food, drink and bags of ice a few hundred yards from house to wharf.

On the captain’s orders, Mrs Benaud now positioned herself in the rowboat. Mrs Gray followed and Mr Benaud was instructed: ‘For Christ’s sake, take the rope off the thing on the wharf.’ Mr Benaud was then told to board. He did this, rope in hand, and the captain announced the day’s adventure was about to begin. He was exuding an air of quiet confidence.

We will now endeavour to recount what next occurred, though events are somewhat blurred, with the whole sequence seemingly taking a few seconds. The general consensus of thinking is that the captain was facing north and the boat was facing south, though this, even now, is by no means a unanimous opinion. Where there is no argument is that, with everyone seated and relaxed, our captain, as he should have done, gunned the motor. He then suffered what can only be termed a piece of indescribable bad luck.

He turned right, instead of left.

On our left, several hundred metres from the rowboat, was the cabin cruiser. On our right, one metre from the rowboat (39.37 inches on the old scale) was the wharf. When I came up from underneath the rowboat, I had a moment of panic. I could not see any of the others. But I was able to hear them … quite clearly!

At this stage, I would like to commend Daphne for some version of ‘Wife of the Year Award’. When our captain yelled to her that he would come and save her, she shouted, ‘Don’t worry about me, you pillock. Save Richie. He can’t swim.’

This was shown, in fact, to be a slight exaggeration, because, although the tide was going out and although I was weighted down by a Pringle navy blue cashmere sweater, white Gucci shoes and Gucci slacks, I made it back to where the water was only four feet deep. I was helped, I might add, by my neck brace which, amusingly enough, seemed to act as a pair of water wings, keeping my head out of the water, but my body rigidly vertical.

Our band now regrouped in the four feet deep water and guided the rowboat, with the outboard motor dormant but attached, around the left-hand corner of the wharf. The captain was by now fully back in command and offering much helpful advice.

Unfortunately, not all the bags, food, equipment, etc, were recoverable, though we did manage to salvage some items. We would like to pay tribute to our captain’s ingenuity. He sent for his daughter, Miss Katherine Ann Gray (13), who was at school at the time, and despite a water temperature of five degrees instructed her in complicated diving techniques, so that many of the important items could be recovered.

The other tribute must be to his knowledge of the lore and history of the sea. When Mrs Benaud, Mrs Gray and Mr Benaud were hurled into the turbulent ocean, the captain somehow managed to be the last to go down with the rowboat.

At the end of the day, Mr Gray was of the opinion that he had solved all the problems and asked if we would like to come back for another try in 24 hours. We said we thought that to do this we would require the permission of our insurance company. Is this correct?

Yours sincerely,

Richie Benaud

As Ian Chappell points out, Richie omitted one detail from his account of proceedings. Katherine Gray on her first dive retrieved a pleasantly cooled bottle of chardonnay that she triumphantly handed to ‘Uncle Richie’, who promptly threw it back into the water.

‘That’s rubbish,’ he said. ‘Go back down, Katherine. There are bottles of Veuve Clicquot on the bottom.’

Richie’s sense of perspective clearly was undiminished by the day’s events.