RICHIE BENAUD AND Bob Gray have been friends for a long time – all the way back to the sixties when they were also rivals.
In the sixties, Gray was a talented sportswriter for Sydney’s Daily Mirror and Benaud a trained journalist working for the Sydney Sun. Gray occasionally utilised his cutting wit in his colourful writing. One of his final assignments before retiring to business and family life was covering the 1968 Olympics in Mexico. His first column from bustling Mexico City commenced: ‘I have just checked into my room in a brand new hotel. How do I know it’s brand new? The cement mixer is still in the room.’
He could also be harsh in his judgement, too much so in my father’s view. After an innings loss to England at the SCG in the 1965–66 Ashes series, there were a number of changes made to the Australian side for the following Test in Adelaide. I was among the changes, selected to play in my second Test after a hiatus of fifteen months since my debut in 1964. In his column, Gray described the Australian side after all the changes: ‘The selectors have chosen a TAB side; Try Any Body.’
Martin was not amused by the piece – nor was he placated when I told him not to take it personally, as Bob Gray was a good bloke.
While Gray was based in Australia, Richie was a cricket writer in Australia during the season, and then in the northern summer he was a commentator for the BBC. At that stage of his career he had attained the ‘well-respected’ level, rather than the ‘doyen Richie’ version that English commentator David ‘Bumble’ Lloyd heard about at the SCG in 2006–07.
Bumble had finished his day’s commentary with the Sky network and decided to try for an early getaway ahead of the capacity crowd. He headed for his car parked against the Showground wall in the lane between the Football Stadium and the cricket ground. Just short of his destination he encountered a gaggle of security guards who appeared to be readying themselves for action.
‘What’s goin’ on ’ere then, pal?’ Lloyd enquired of one of the security men.
‘We’re preparing for the prime minister’s departure,’ came the reply.
Pointing in the direction of his vehicle, Lloyd asked, ‘Can I quickly get to my car and take off?’
Bumble was given permission as long as he was quick about it. As he reached his car he turned to see what was happening behind him. He noticed a florid-faced, middle-aged Australian who appeared to have had a very good day at the cricket. Just as Lloyd was about to clamber into his car, he heard the gentleman ask the security guards, who had now linked arms to clear a path for the PM, ‘What’s happenin’ here, mate?’
A security guard politely informed the gentleman they were waiting on the PM.
His reply was short and to the point. ‘Fuck the prime minister, I’m here to see Richie.’
His comment was a rather succinct appraisal of the average Australian’s preference for sport over politics.
Despite the fact that it was often open warfare between Sydney’s two afternoon papers – The Mirror and The Sun – Benaud and Gray didn’t let the rivalry spill over into their friendship.
It was a relationship built along similar lines to many of the rivalries between the interstate cricket teams. On the field it was intense, off the field it was friendly. Friendly to the point where Benaud and Gray could often be found playing golf together on tour.
They were a marvellous contrast on the golf course: the dapper Benaud, immaculately attired, while Gray was an extrovert dresser who mixed gaudy colours that rarely matched. If you ignored skill, Gray resembled the outlandish American professional Doug Sanders, ‘The peacock of the fairways’.
At the start of the 1965–66 Ashes tour, the pair were covering the Combined XI playing against the MCC at the WACA. The deadlines from Perth can be a nightmare with daylight saving, but prior to the clocks being turned forward, and with afternoon dailies still around in the sixties, it was horrendous. The deadline for both The Sun and The Mirror was around 5 am Perth time and the dilemma was whether to write first and have dinner afterwards, or vice versa.
Benaud and Gray decided on the latter. The company was good, the food excellent and the wine even better, so by the time they reached their motel, Gray decided to take a nap before tackling his column.
Richie opted to write his column immediately and when he’d finished he tried to wake Gray. The Mirror man wasn’t to be stirred so Benaud decided he’d help out his mate and tapped out twenty pars on Graham McKenzie recovering from injury.
As the deadline neared, Benaud phoned through his copy to The Sun. Finally able to extract a phone number from Gray, Richie then called ‘Bob’s copy’ through to The Mirror. Two hours later, Richie was slumbering peacefully when he was jolted awake by the loud ringing of his phone. An agitated voice at the other end of the line yelled, ‘What’s wrong with you, Benaud – you’ve been scooped by The Mirror.’
It was an angry sports editor from The Sun in Sydney – so much for helping out a mate and doing a good deed.
Having the extreme patience required of an outstanding leg-spinner, Richie waited for his chance to get one back on Gray. When the right moment arrived, he didn’t waste the opportunity.
The pair were covering Australia’s 1966–67 tour of South Africa. It was an off day on the schedule and they decided to have an afternoon game of golf at the Wanderers club in Johannesburg.
The day before, Gray had been shopping in the city and returned to the Langham Hotel all excited. ‘Look at these marvellous blue shoes,’ he implored Richie, ‘they’re the only pair like it in the world. I’m going to wear them at golf tomorrow.’
‘How do you know,’ asked Richie, ‘that they’re the only pair like it in the world?’
‘The shop assistant told me,’ beamed Gray.
Given Bob’s penchant for putting everything on the world stage – something was always either the best in the world, or the worst in the world – the claim did sound as though it contained a modicum of Gray hyperbole.
Always ready for a challenge, Benaud didn’t waste his morning hitting golf balls or practising his putting – he went shopping. He scoured Johannesburg’s shops until he found a pair of blue shoes, exactly like those Gray had bought the previous day. There was only one pair left in the shop and they were size nine – not ideal, but Benaud bought them nonetheless.
Benaud and Gray then took a cab to golf. On arrival at the Wanderers course, Richie sent Bob on ahead. ‘You clear things with the secretary, while I engage a couple of caddies.’
As Gray disappeared inside the clubhouse, Benaud reached the caddie master’s hut and asked for ‘two caddies, one with size nine feet’. He added, ‘I want the caddie with the size nine feet to wear these blue shoes for the whole round, and afterwards he can keep them.’
The caddie master was a bit perplexed. Firstly it would be difficult – almost impossible – to find one with such small feet, and secondly, African caddies hated wearing shoes. Looking a little bewildered, the caddie master trudged off to try and fulfil this near-impossible request. Among the African caddies, those with long toes were in great demand because they could manoeuvre a ball in the rough into a more favourable position, without using their hands. Consequently no one ever requested a caddie wearing shoes.
Eventually, the caddie master returned with a young man in tow. He was introduced to Richie as ‘Baruti’ and, being on the small side, there was a chance his feet would fit the blue shoes.
Richie explained to Baruti that he would be caddying for ‘the other master’ and he had to stand very close to him wearing the blue shoes. ‘The other master,’ explained Richie, ‘is very shortsighted and a bit hard of hearing, so, Baruti, you need to stay very close.’
Richie wasn’t exaggerating about Gray being shortsighted, as we’d found out when he had played golf with wicket-keeper Brian Taber earlier in the tour. Gray was renowned for being a steady player who didn’t hit his drives far, but kept them on the fairway with his gentle fade. Gray teed off first and hit his driver. ‘Where did that go?’ he quickly asked Tabsy.
Tabsy stood by the edge of the tee shaking his head. ‘You’ve hooked it,’ he mumbled quietly, ‘I think it’s out of bounds.’
‘But I never hook,’ exploded Gray, ‘I’m the best fader in the world.’
With Tabsy still shaking his head, Gray took another ball from its wrapping and hit a provisional drive. ‘Where did that one go?’ asked an anxious Gray.
‘Aw, mate, you’ve overcompensated,’ a serious-looking Taber replied. ‘That one is out of bounds to the right.’
‘Jaysus,’ mumbled Gray, ‘I’ve got to be the worst driver in the world.’
With that he took another ball from his caddie and proceeded to hit a third drive. ‘Where did that one go?’ he enquired again.
‘That one will be alright,’ explained Tabsy, ‘about 150 metres and near the middle of the fairway.’
Following Taber’s drive, the pair strode off the tee and marched down the fairway to where the caddies were waiting with the bags. ‘You’re a bit short off the tee today, Tabsy,’ observed Gray as he spied two balls in the middle of the fairway.
When he noticed a third ball in the group, he turned to Tabsy. ‘Whose ball is that one?’ On closer inspection he realised all three balls belonged to him. His three drives had come to rest in a circle no bigger than your average dartboard and that was why Taber was doubled over laughing.
Considering the state of Gray’s eyesight it wasn’t surprising then that, despite Baruti’s close attention, the Australian didn’t notice the caddy’s blue shoes until they were standing on the sixth tee.
There was a hold-up ahead and while Benaud was discussing the racing form for the day, Gray happened to look down. ‘Where did you get those bloody shoes?’ he screamed at Baruti, who looked, at least in the footwear department, like an identical twin.
The poor caddie didn’t know where to look, let alone what to say, and he just shrugged. He did, however, happen to take a peek at Richie.
‘Benaud,’ growled Gray, ‘is this your doing?’
‘Well, Bob,’ replied Richie, ‘I really didn’t want you completing the tour not knowing you’d been had by the salesman.’
Clothing often seemed to be a point of difference when Benaud and Gray got together. Years after Gray had retired from journalism and was running the family sporting-goods business, he invited the Benauds to join him for an outing on his boat.
The boat was aptly named Pissed As Newt and it was anchored in Port Hacking. It was quite a decent-sized boat and consequently had to be anchored in deeper water, away from the Grays’ marina. This required a short trip in a runabout, which Gray had tied to the marina.
The day of the outing dawned brightly and Gray was casually dressed in sports shirt, thongs and a pair of shorts. Down the side of his shorts was written one word – ‘Sharks’. Most people assumed that Gray, being in the sports apparel business, had these specially made to show his support for the local Cronulla rugby league team.
‘No, no, that’s not the reason,’ he explained. ‘If I finish in the water, I want those bastards to know I’m on their side.’
Gray’s attire was in contrast to Benaud’s more formal outfit. Richie turned up in a neatly pressed pair of slacks, with a turtleneck sweater and a pair of Gucci loafers. He was also carrying a picnic basket, which featured delicacies that Daphne had ordered from the David Jones catering department. Out of respect for his French ancestry, he’d also included a few bottles of Veuve Clicquot.
Gray clambered into the boat first in order to assist his wife, Grace, and Daphne Benaud into the runabout. Richie then boarded and sat on the cross-seat near the bow of the boat. Despite an offer from Grace, Gray was adamant he would drive the boat. Speaking later in defence of his erratic nautical skills, he explained, ‘I only made one mistake.’
He was right about that, but it was a big one and he made it early.
Once Gray was assured that everybody was comfortable, he put the boat into gear, revved the motor and turned the rudder. This is where he made the mistake. ‘I just turned left, instead of right,’ Gray explained.
Right would’ve taken him towards the Pissed As Newt, the desired result. Left actually took the boat towards the marina – well, to be more precise, up the wharf. The runabout climbed quickly, nose in the air, which meant that Richie was the first to be thrown into the water, closely followed by the other occupants, along with the food and beverages.
When Gray surfaced he quickly looked around. The shorts had worked – there wasn’t a shark in sight. Being a gentleman, he headed first for Mrs Benaud to lend her a hand. ‘You pillock,’ responded a rather annoyed Daphne, as she resisted Gray’s attempts to further his lifeguard training. ‘Go and save Richie. I can swim, he can’t.’
Gray eventually managed to guide Richie back to the marina, and once he’d established everyone was safe it was decision time. The first one wasn’t whether to make another attempt to reach the Pissed As Newt, but rather how to recover some of the goodies that had gone overboard.
It was decided that they needed someone with diving capabilities to recover the loot lying on the bottom. And that’s why the Grays’ eldest daughter, Katherine, was summoned early from school that day.
On her first dive she triumphantly resurfaced clutching a bottle of Chardonnay, which she handed to ‘Uncle’ Richie, now standing on the wharf. Benaud took one look at the label and tossed the bottle back into the water. ‘That’s rubbish,’ he snapped. ‘Go back down, Katherine, there are bottles of Veuve Clicquot on the bottom.’
Gray’s one mistake may have ruined a good day out, but it hadn’t dampened Richie’s sense of perspective.