– 8 – SEASONS IN THE SUN

‘Benaud was always a meticulous man with a great love of the fine things in life.’

— Alan McGilvray

VICKI JONES

Vicki Jones was at the coalface in the struggling early days of World Series Cricket, co-opted to do what she could to ‘spread the word’. History judges today how an exciting, if bumpy beginning turned into a revolutionary sporting success story. For Vicki, the opportunity that came her way led to a mighty bonus: a long, enjoyable and much-valued friendship with Richie and Daphne Benaud.

I WAS THE YOUNG public relations director for Channel Nine when I first met Richie in those early, heady days of the 1970s — when World Series Cricket was not going too well at all, to say the least! Executives were scrambling for new promotional ideas and heads were rolling.

I was summoned to Kerry Packer’s office one day to join a meeting of Channel Nine executives who were trying to come up with ideas and solutions to better promote their breakaway games. It was a baptism of fire for me, because I had absolutely no idea about cricket, but after a tumultuous two-hour meeting, I found myself taking on the PR job for WSC, while continuing with my regular job promoting all of Nine’s on-air programs.

In part because of my lack of knowledge of the finer points of cricket, I focused promotion on the broader media, steering clear of the sports pages. The sporting media were initially hostile, so I decided to treat my new-found ‘stars’ — Richie, Tony, Bill and Ian — like ‘TV personalities’, wheeling them out to the latest movie premiere or arranging photo shoots with visiting celebrities. I will always fondly remember our time with the visiting rock star and cricket lover Elton John.

As WSC evolved into a ratings tour de force for Nine, Richie’s fame and his fan club grew exponentially. His informative commentary, timing and dry wit made him a favourite with diehard cricket fans and newcomers alike. A public relations dream in his cream jacket, Richie’s commentary became the soundtrack of our summers. Elegantly attired and ever-punctual, Richie was a joy to work with. He was a stickler for detail, well prepared for any media interview.

The elegance of Richie Benaud continued throughout his life. In the rough-and-tumble world of commercial television and sport, Richie’s impeccable manners and welcoming smile remain a stand-out for me. He loved a glass of chardonnay and had a particular way of holding the stem of the glass, twirling it between thumb and forefinger. And he was a great listener. Whether he was at a crowded cocktail party or at the dinner table, he would listen intently, twirling his glass, never interrupting … waiting until his dining companion had finished his or her story before commenting.

In the years that followed I spent so many fun times with Richie and Daphne, here in Australia, and in London and Europe.

Through mutual English friends, Libby Reeves-Purdie and John Chalk, we were invited to Royal Ascot races each year. Richie was resplendent in grey morning suit and top hat; no cream jacket here! And Daphne with her glorious English complexion and fetching hat … they made such an elegant couple. Together with his great friend, the famous English sportswriter Ian Wooldridge, and Ian’s wife Sarah, we spent many a happy hour at Ascot, studying the form and placing our bets with the bookies, usually assisted by a glass of champagne or chardonnay, of course! Richie was a very well informed and quite successful punter — nothing too large but successful nonetheless.

I was always astounded at Richie’s star quality in England and Europe. I guess when you know someone like Richie for a long time, you tend to forget how famous they are — and that they are part of so many people’s daily lives. Even though there were many notable stars in the marquee at Royal Ascot — among them the likes of Sir David Frost, Nigel Havers and Joan Collins, plus large numbers of lords and ladies, knights and dames, barons and baronesses — Richie always attracted attention. He was ever-gracious in granting photo requests from fans and stopped regularly to sign autographs on his way to the Royal Enclosure with Daphne.

At the beginning of July each year, Richie and Daphne hosted Nine’s hospitality marquee at Wimbledon. I was fortunate enough to be sent to London to assist them in ensuring that our important clients and major international stars were entertained royally at the tennis. On many occasions, I observed a big international star or corporate heavyweight quite overwhelmed by the fact they were being greeted by the great Richie Benaud! The marquee was a wonderful forum for networking and many lucrative deals were concluded by network executives over lunch there.

Following Wimbledon, we often met up with mutual friends holidaying on the Amalfi Coast in Italy or in the south of France. There were many occasions when touring Australian cricket fans couldn’t believe their luck at spotting Richie and Daphne having lunch in one of the small local restaurants. Most approached the table respectfully to request an autograph or a photo. It never seemed to bother Richie that they had interrupted his lunch; inevitably, he took time out to chat.

I remember a day in Positano when a group of gorgeous bikini-clad Aussie girls in their twenties recognised Richie and draped themselves around him for a souvenir photo. Richie, tanned and relaxed, was beaming throughout, clearly chuffed by the attention of this bevy of beauties. The girls got their photo and immediately texted it back home with the caption: ‘You’re not going to believe who we met in Italy!!!’

Even on holiday in these exotic locations, Richie always took his work commitments very seriously. On many an evening, after having spent the day enjoying lunch and the sun, Richie would slip quietly away to write a piece for one of the many publications to which he contributed. His work followed him everywhere, and he loved it.

It was a tradition of Christmas mornings that I would receive a call from Richie and Daphne to wish me the compliments of the season. They knew exactly where I would be — most often in my car driving to the west of Sydney to visit my mum and dad. Rich and Daph would be making the same trip: travelling west to see Richie’s mum.

I grew up in Sydney’s western suburbs and attended Parramatta High School. When I was there — and I’m sure in the years before and after — every student was aware that the school’s two most famous ex-pupils were the actor Rod Taylor and Richie Benaud. Little did I know back in those schooldays that I would become a friend of Richie and his gorgeous wife.

It was a great pleasure to have had him as a part of my life. I will miss his Christmas morning phone calls, although I suspect Daphne will keep up the tradition.

The Benauds are like that.

RENTON LAIDLAW

Renton Laidlaw is a highly respected golf writer and broadcaster who has been honoured with lifetime achievement awards in Britain and America. The first Open Championship Renton saw as a reporter was at Muirfield in 1959; in 2013, he was recognised as the first non-American to cover 40 Masters tournaments. His commentary is familiar to viewers of golf on television all over the world, not least because of his work with the BBC, ITV, Sky TV and in recent years as the ‘voice of the European Tour’ for Golf Channel.

RICHIE BENAUD HAD MANY golf partners and I was fortunate to be one of them. The games we played around the world were always enjoyable but had to be taken seriously because that was Richie’s way.

We reigned unbeaten for more than four years, thanks mainly to amateur golfer Richie’s determination and innate professionalism — a feature of everything he did. He was always well prepared. He always thought long and hard about the shot he was about to play. Nothing was rushed. He played his golf the way he lived, in a measured, organised and sensible manner.

Ironically, one of sport’s greatest captains insisted that I should captain our golf partnership. Maybe he thought I was captaincy material or maybe — more than likely — he wanted to be relieved of making all the decisions. Cricket was his business; golf was his recreation, something to enjoy.

Mind you, I found it tough trying to emulate the master! On one occasion when playing in Kenya at the beautiful Karen Country Club, where there was a sign saying that golfers were permitted to take cover if a lion emerged from the scrub, I hit the green at one of the short holes — I cannot remember which one — and Richie hit into the trees, found the ball and played out short of the putting surface.

He walked over and went to pick the ball up, indicating he was out of it. Sternly, I ordered him to leave it where it was. He rocked back on his heels. I explained I might three-putt — a not unusual occurrence as I did not have my favourite Maxwell hickory shafted putter with me — and he might chip in and win the hole.

For a moment I worried about what I had done. Few people dared to speak to Richie in that manner, or indeed needed to, but there was no cause for my anxiety. I made the three, we won the hole and we moved to the next tee. Richie never ever raised the matter and we went on to win the match and enjoy a jar or two in the delightful clubhouse.

I was fortunate to have Richie as a partner because he hated to lose. On another occasion we were playing a two-day double-header over the Old Course at St Andrews and the beautifully manicured Muirfield course, home of the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers. The opposition was provided by a top executive from Rupert Murdoch’s empire and the late Tom Ramsey, who at the time was golf correspondent for The Australian. It was a tight match. After nine at St Andrews, the game was all square. Richie and I were one-up after 17 only for the redoubtable Ramsey to hole a far-from-easy putt across the green at the 18th to even the match.

After the first nine at Muirfield, it remained all square and it was still that way playing the last — in this instance the par-five ninth because the club’s secretary had informed us that the course was very busy, which meant we had started at the 10th. The rough was up for the soon-to-be-held Open Championship and a tough westerly breeze was against us, and I hit into a particularly thick patch at our final hole. I could only hack out and was still short of the green in three. Richie hit a majestic drive and second shot which left him with just a gentle wedge to the green. We could sense victory … and as usual Richie was poised to guarantee our success.

Only this time the unbelievable happened. Richie had cross-checked the yardage several times, thrown up grass to gauge the strength and direction of the wind again, and carefully — ever so carefully — selected the club that he felt would ensure our success. He was looking for the ball to nestle close to the hole for a winning birdie four, but in an untypical, never-to-be-explained moment of heartbreaking drama he hooked his shot violently, 30 yards offline. The ball hit the boundary wall. Had it bounced to the right, it would have ended by the pin but instead it shot left and finished out of bounds. My first thought was he must have had a bad lie. The ensuing silence was deafening. I am sure the disappointment he felt was similar to being bowled out in a Test when one short of a century.

Yet minutes later, after our opponents had won the hole to beat us, Richie, always the proper gentleman, was showing us just how gracious to be in defeat. Mind you, over lunch he was still working out why that approach to the last — the worst shot he hit in two days of intense competition — had gone so wrong.

Having been brought up in Scotland, where cricket — because so many games are rained off — has limited appeal and despite being taught French by RHE Chisholm, opening bat for Scotland, my knowledge of the game is limited. Of course, I knew Richie by reputation and it was my good luck that after I moved to London we became good friends.

Indeed, my first full-length interview for BBC Radio’s Sport on 2, which I anchored for more than two-and-a-half years, was with Richie. I trotted along to his home in Pont Street, Belgravia, with my trusty Uher recorder. Surprisingly nervous in the presence of undoubted sporting royalty, I recorded the interview in his little office under the stairs, simply a table in a corridor. It could not have gone better. In a gesture that I found out was typical, he corrected me gently when I got a fact wrong and we were able to re-record that bit.

Sometimes meeting for the first time a personality whom you have admired can be a big disappointment, but this was not the case with Richie. He was amiable, understanding, generous with his comments and put me at my ease. The result was an excellent interview. He also helped my colleague, Ryder Cup golfer Ken Brown, when he was starting his commentating career by pointing out when and — more importantly — when not to speak. He also explained that he wore his hair long over his ears to hide his earpiece.

Little did I think then what the future would bring. Richie and I would meet up many times at the parties of mutual friends, and we would often have dinner in the south of France, where his apartment at Beaulieu was just 15 minutes from where I lived at Villefranche-sur-Mer.

It was at Beaulieu during the European summers in between Test matches that he did much of his writing and where his wife Daphne seemed forever to be diligently correcting proofs. Richie and Daphne were a team. They powerwalked around the village. Richie knew, because he had carefully paced it out, how many steps it was from his home to the coffee shop, to the newsagents and even to the railway station. He was the most organised man I have ever known. He knew what he would be doing on any day for months in advance and you were lucky if you caught him when he had a ‘free window’. He was always in demand.

Richie, who so loved his visits to France, was patron of the French Cricket Association. He was a welcome visitor at most of the top restaurants on the Riviera, including his particular favourites: the African Queen, Les Vents d’Anges and La Mère Germaine. He remains the only person I have known who has asked the waiter in a Sydney restaurant what waters were available.

I count myself fortunate to have known Richie not only as a top-class cricketer but more importantly as a generous friend with a puckish sense of humour. In Britain, Peter O’Sullevan in racing, Bill McLaren in rugby, Dan Maskell in tennis and Henry Longhurst in golf were unforgettable commentating geniuses, respected by all. So, too, was Richie Benaud — the much-loved, always authoritative, entertaining and irreplaceable voice of cricket. What he achieved for the game could well be summed up by one of the phrases he regularly used … and I can hear him saying now …

‘Pretty good effort there.’

BASIL SELLERS

Irene and Alf Sellers and their sons, Basil and Rex, came to Australia from India in the late 1940s, to forge an extraordinary success story. They landed in Adelaide, from where Rex, a leg-spinner, earned a place in Australia’s Ashes touring team of 1964. Basil became a giant of the Australian business world, a renowned philanthropist, and a keen and generous backer of sport. He has financed sports sculpture projects at the SCG and the Adelaide Oval. His support for the Sydney Swans has helped that AFL club become a model for other sporting organisations, while his long-running cricket scholarship program has benefited many fine young players who have gone on to represent Australia.

IN 1988, A TEST match between Australia and England was played at the SCG to celebrate Australia’s bicentenary. As part of the celebrations, a Captains’ Dinner was staged at the Regent Hotel. I was the benefactor of that dinner and it was a fabulous night. The next day, I was invited to Channel Nine at Willoughby to be interviewed by Richie Benaud about my background, my love of cricket and how I came to be involved with the dinner. As you can imagine I was extremely nervous. I was in awe of this great cricketer and broadcaster, and very humbled that he was talking with me.

Of course, I remembered him as one of the finest Test players of my youth; his retirement in 1964 opened up the opportunity for my brother Rex to be picked for that year’s Ashes tour. I might have met him briefly at functions before 1988, but this was certainly the first time that I could remember being involved in a one-on-one conversation with him.

I had never done an interview like this before. What I will never forget is the way Richie calmed my nerves through his manner and his professionalism. He eased me into the interview, he had done his research and he was genuinely interested in my story. I went into that studio with no pre-conceived idea about what I wanted to say, but came out having expressed my belief that whatever you do in life, you must always be prepared to ‘give it a go’. This is a mantra of mine. Richie recalled examples where I’d had a go and achieved some success, and talked me through them. The result was a much more satisfying interview experience than I had expected. My respect for Richie was immense.

Five years later, I was lucky enough to purchase a villa, ‘Cuccia Noya’, at Saint-Jean, a coastal village on Cap Ferrat, in south-eastern France. My intention was to spend some months each year in this beautiful part of the world. Soon, I learned that during northern hemisphere summers Richie and Daphne lived nearby — they had recently bought an apartment in Beaulieu, which is the next village on the peninsula, perhaps a 30-minute walk away.

The first time my wife Clare and I visited our new ‘neighbours’, we worked out they could see Cuccia Noya from their terrace. Richie promised to raise a glass to us from time to time. We became firm friends.

Over the next 20 years, we had some wonderful days and nights. Richie was always so comfortable at Beaulieu, out of the limelight, he and Daphne doing their thing. He wrote his books there: Richie writing, Daphne editing. They got on so well, two peas in a pod. When we saw one, we saw the other. Their favourite restaurant was the African Queen, where we had many great meals together. In late July 2013, Clare and I caught up with them there. Richie was wearing shorts, and he was nice and relaxed. ‘We’ll have dinner again in Australia,’ he said as we parted. Sadly, we never did.

The Richie I came to know was never bombastic. The word that comes to mind when I think of him is ‘immaculate’: he was always well dressed, had superb manners and never got flustered.

One day in Sydney, we had arranged to go to lunch with some friends. I remember Bob Cowper was one person who joined us — he had arrived at our home and we were waiting for Richie and Daphne and another couple before we headed across to the restaurant. Bob must have been early, because Richie was never late. Suddenly, it got a bit dark, as a storm approached. There was some lightning and thunder, and then the lights flickered and went out. It was a blackout. And still no Richie. Soon, it was raining and raining hard. Then it occurred to me: If the power is out, the electronic doorbell won’t be working. I ran outside and there they were — huddled under what little protection they could find near my high front gate, and Richie jumping up and down, his head bobbing in and out of view, as he tried to catch someone’s attention.

I pressed the button to let them in, but of course that needed electricity, too. All I could offer was a feeble, ‘Sorry about this. I’ll run and get the key.’

The key was in a drawer that, for security’s sake, was locked. Just enter the security code and it’s open. But, of course, that needed power, too. By now I was scurrying around madly, and I could still see Richie’s head bobbing up occasionally as the rain got even harder. For a moment I wasn’t sure what to do; I was locked in my own house. Then a friend from America who was staying at our house emerged to ask what all the fuss was about. I thought she had gone out. She had the spare key. Only then could I let my wet and shivering friends into the house.

Richie was entitled to be upset and angry and frustrated. I certainly was. But he was none of those things. He handled it all with the same aplomb he used to show in the commentary box if something went awry. Despite the stress the weather and I had put him through, he was still Richie. We had a terrific lunch.

During the 2007–08 Australian summer, I hosted a cocktail party in Adelaide, at which Barrie Robran was a special guest. Barrie is a hero of mine — in my view (and in the view of plenty of others), the greatest footballer South Australia has ever produced.

He was also a cricketer of some ability, good enough to play Sheffield Shield cricket in the early 1970s.

Barrie played his club football for the SANFL team I supported, the North Adelaide Roosters, who wear red and white, same colours as the Sydney Swans. At the time of this cocktail party, Barrie had recently celebrated his 60th birthday, and his wife Taimi had told me that his all-time idol was Richie Benaud.

‘If you could get something from Richie as a present,’ she said, ‘it would make his night.’ She was thinking I might be able to organise an autographed bat, a book or a photo.

As soon as I knew Barrie was coming to my small function, I rang Richie and asked if he could come, too. I explained that Barrie was a close friend and that I’d like Richie to meet him. He agreed.

Barrie was already there when Richie arrived. I took Richie over and said, ‘Barrie, this is Richie Benaud.’

The reaction was priceless. Barrie’s jaw dropped. He actually started crying, an extraordinary reaction coming from such a brilliant, brave footballer, a man accustomed to meeting celebrities and sports stars of all eras. ‘One of the best moments of my life’ is how he later described meeting Richie to me.

For me, what was most magnificent was this: once I’d introduced them, I stood back a couple of metres and just let these two great men chat. Initially Richie did most of the talking, asking Barrie about all the wonderful things he had done in football, talking of specific matches and achievements. Then he asked about Barrie’s cricket career, about playing with Les Favell and the Chappells and the like. Once again, Richie had done his homework.

Little wonder then that I was keen to have Richie as the first of the sculptures that are now a feature of the SCG precinct. The choice of subjects was a joint decision between me and then SCG Trust chairman, Rodney Cavalier. Once we agreed we wanted four distinct periods recognised (pre-World War I; between the wars; 1946–1970; and the ‘modern era’) it took about five minutes of conversation to decide who the four would be: Fred Spofforth, Stan McCabe, Richie and Steve Waugh. Because Richie meant so much to so many people, as a cricketer, captain and commentator, we felt he was a natural choice to lead things off.

Next, we had to decide how we wanted the sculptor, Terrance Plowright, to interpret Richie. Interestingly, when Rodney put this question to Richie, he replied: ‘It is best to leave such matters to the artist. Point out the error of his ways very, very gently, if necessary.’ I actually suggested to Terrance that we have a Janus-type figure: on one side, there would be Richie as a cricketer; on the other, Richie, the broadcaster, perhaps with a microphone. That was quickly dismissed as being too complicated.

We settled on Richie as a cricketer. One thing that took a while to resolve was getting his shirt right. He was renowned for playing with his chest uncovered, with some of his shirt buttons undone … but how many? This took much longer to get right than we had imagined. Secondly, we wanted to capture Richie the leg-spinner and Richie the captain, a figure of authority. How could we emphasise this?

One day in France, I was discussing with Richie the problems we were having and I asked, ‘How did you change the field when you were bowling?’

‘Often,’ he said, ‘I’d look around and I might just twitch my eyebrow.’

‘Richie,’ I said, ‘we can’t twitch eyebrows on a sculpture.’

He smiled knowingly. His dry humour had got me again.

‘Sometimes, at the end of my run, I’d just go like that,’ he offered. As he said this, he waved his hand slightly, fingers bent a little, the palm of his hand facing upwards, as if he was motioning for the fieldsman at mid-wicket to come closer, or for the man at cover to move around more towards cover point.

I said, ‘Stop, stop, that’s it!’

That is the gesture Terrance so brilliantly captures in the sculpture. Richie has the ball in one hand, ready to bowl; the other hand is asking for a small but important alteration to the field.

Richie had said that he didn’t want to see the sculpture before it was unveiled. Daphne didn’t want to see it, either. This meant that the 15 minutes before NSW governor Marie Bashir performed the unveiling on day three of the 2007–08 Test against India were among the most nerve-racking of my life. I felt as if all the responsibility for getting it right was on my shoulders, though in truth, of course, Rodney and Terrance shared the load. Adding to the tension, the governor had trouble removing the cloth that had been keeping the identity secret. Rodney had to step up to help her. Finally, it was there for all to see.

Richie was required to make a speech. He walked over to the bronzed sculpture, looked up and down at it, taking his time, and then he told us all that he approved. Daphne was happy. Richie was never a man to show much emotion, but when I spoke to him a few minutes later I could sense he was chuffed.

The relief I felt is beyond description.

CLARE OLDRIDGE

Clare Oldridge’s association with Richie began in 1961, when she was 10. She first met him at her home, during the annual party her parents — Brian (the great BBC commentator) and Pauline Johnston — hosted on the Friday of the Lord’s Test.

I BEGAN WORKING FOR Richie and Daphne in London in 1989. Three years later, they decided to sell their London flat and buy an apartment in Beaulieu-sur-Mer, a few miles from Nice, having fallen in love with the area while on a short holiday. Quite by chance I spoke French fluently, which proved to be a huge asset in the circumstances.

Richie was very interested in researching his family history — his paternal family sailed from La Rochelle, a coastal city in south-west France, to Sydney in 1838 — and he had already made a visit to the tiny hamlet of Benaud, near Clermont-Ferrand. In order to learn more about his ancestors he asked me to contact the local mayor, through whom I was able to trace more documents and who, in turn, invited Richie to lunch. It turned out that the mayor shared Richie’s love of wine and, according to the mayor’s secretary, despite neither speaking the other’s language, the lunch went on late into the afternoon. At one point, the mayor invited Richie to inspect his precious wine cellar. The mayor’s secretary told me that she had never, in all her long association with him, known him to share this with anyone!

Having only learnt basic French at school, Richie threw himself into all things French. He and Daphne enrolled themselves at the Institut de Français in Villefranche for an intensive one month’s tuition. Thereafter, Richie would take his audiotapes with him everywhere, listening intently on long-haul flights and even on the beach to the conjugation of verbs and grammar lessons. He was never able to speak with a good accent, but he made every effort to converse with the locals and managed to make himself understood. One of my more arduous tasks was translating the rules of cricket — as taken from the well-known tea towel — into French for their local taxi driver. Trying to make a Frenchman understand ‘Each man that’s in the side that’s in goes out, and when he’s out, he comes in and the next man goes in until he’s out’ is not easy!

I got to know Richie and Daphne well when I went to live in Australia for three years from 1972. From that point on, Richie always showed an immense interest in my life and that of my family. When my two sons, Nicholas and Rupert, were young he gave up his valuable time and coached them in the nets at Lord’s. In later years, he gave my daughter Sophie an important lesson on how to open a bottle of champagne while we gathered at the annual picnic on the Coronation Garden during the Friday of the Lord’s Test. This picnic became a fixture on the calendar for many decades, as several of us contributed food and drink and various friends sought us out in the melee of picnickers on the lawn. However, after the commentary box moved from the Warner Stand to the media centre on the far side of Lord’s, Richie’s hoped-for time with us became shorter and shorter, as he was constantly stopped en route by ardent fans.

When I moved to South London with my three children after my divorce in 2000, Richie was so concerned about our safety he insisted that I install bars on my windows and put locks on the windows and doors, at his expense. He and Daphne also ensured that the children could each buy something they really wanted for their new rooms to make the move a little easier for them. He would always ask me what the family was doing and was always there with advice. My children, in turn, treasured their link with him. If any of them were in Australia, he would invite them for drinks or dinner. He would visit my son Nicholas, who has lived in Melbourne since 2009.

When I was in Sydney in February 2014, Nicholas came up with his girlfriend Lisa and baby Charlotte, and Richie made his first public outing since his car accident in the previous October. Despite undergoing debilitating radiotherapy and chemotherapy treatment and obviously being not at all well, he and Daphne joined us for a drink. It was an enormous effort on his part. He knew how much it meant to them and to me, and we were all very touched. Sadly, I never saw him again.

DAVID COX

As with many others, David Cox’s first connection with Richie came through the Sydney sportswriter Phil Tresidder. All three were members of the Australian Golf Club in Sydney. Following his retirement from a successful real-estate business, David and his wife Helen several times experienced the Benauds’ ‘Mediterranean life’ in Beaulieu.

ONLY ONCE DID I decisively beat Richie Benaud to the draw. It happened at a favourite hotel and restaurant, La Colombe d’Or (The Golden Dove), which is situated on the edge of the French village of Saint-Paul-de-Vence, not far inland from Beaulieu.

Richie was ferociously hard to top when it came to settling a bill, as I found out at the very first luncheon Helen and I had with Daphne and him at a beautiful poolside restaurant at Cap Ferrat. That day, on the presentation of what would have been a huge bill, I demanded to pay a hefty share. ‘I don’t let Australians pay!’ declared Richie, leaving no room for debate. He proved equally hard to catch whenever we socialised in times ahead. He was the most generous bloke I ever met.

The ‘victory’ at St-Paul-de-Vence was manufactured only via a careful pre-emptive strike by Helen. She made it unobtrusively to the counter very early, a winning move, though one followed by Richie’s inevitable protests at what we had managed. Richie had picked the wines and blued most about not being allowed at least to pay for those. And when it came to wine, he knew what to order. On summer days in France, he especially liked rosé and it was a great enjoyment of my life — and remains a wonderful memory — to have sat there on occasions and talked cricket and golf and other things with him, while sipping some Benaud-selected French rosé.

We became friends comparatively late, largely through his lifelong friendship with Phil Tresidder, who was also a very special mate of mine. Phil died suddenly in 2003 at a time when I had been going through some health problems, and Richie and Daphne stepped into the gap.

The accident he had in his Sunbeam Alpine — a car that was nearly as famous as he was — came in late 2013, the day after a dinner a few of us had at Catalina restaurant in Sydney’s Rose Bay. Next day, Richie was at the Australian to hit some practice balls. He was a touch unsteady when he carried his clubs up to the car park afterwards, and fell and hit his head on a concrete curb. My brother John was in the locker room, and when Richie came in he noticed that there was blood on his head. Richie assured John he was ‘okay’, rinsed the blood and headed off for the drive home. On the way he hit a nature strip and a fence, and ended up in Prince of Wales Hospital with some severe injuries.

John regrets that he didn’t insist on driving Richie home that day, but I’ve reassured him: ‘It’s pretty hard to insist with someone like Richie.’

Richie was a bloody great bloke, and also a man of character and firm opinions. He was always going to drive himself home.

LIBBY REEVES-PURDIE

Libby Reeves-Purdie’s association with Richie and Daphne proved to be an unforgettable spin-off from her days working as a valued overseas associate of Kerry Packer. There were wonderful trips, and wonderful food chased down by fine wines …

MY CONNECTION WITH RICHIE and Daphne started in the 1980s when I was a vice-president of Channel Nine Australia, based in Los Angeles. Nine was broadcasting Wimbledon and signed up for a hospitality marquee that became my responsibility. Without a UK office, we based the operation at the Benauds’ London residence and I would arrive each year for the tournament. Richie and Daphne helped to host the marquee and for several years we laughed our way through days of rain, sun, too few tickets and too many guests — some glorious, some demanding. A special friendship was born.

Richie Benaud was an awe-inspiring sportsman, commentator and all-round hero. But how many knew that beneath that cool and clinical exterior beat the heart of a passionate foodie and sous-chef extraordinaire?

Over many shared holidays, we witnessed Richie slice and dice his way through Europe. His precision with bat, ball and words was rivalled only by his knife skills. With a holiday glass of something cold and crisp by his side, we have watched him expertly bone a Dover sole, perfectly cube meat for cassoulet and finely slice a tomato. In fact, at breakfast one morning in Gascony, we once saw him slice a tomato with such finesse and concentration we gave him a huge round of applause.

Cricket’s gain was surely brain surgery’s loss. Without the wine, of course!

So many wonderful feasts have been shared around tables with Richie and Daphne: creamy risottos on sunny beaches in Positano; loup de mer under the ancient figs on the terrace at La Colombe d’Or; moules aux curry at the African Queen in Beaulieu; flying fish cutters between matches in Barbados; baby lobsters at Ascot; corned beef hash with poached eggs in London; truffled mashed potatoes in Sydney.

Every dish will remind us of him.

Most of all, our abiding memory will always be of crème brûlée, his favourite and one of the last things we shared on our final outing to Lucio’s in Paddington shortly before he died. Someone once said, ‘All sorrows are less with bread.’ Perhaps so, but sadly for us now, all sorrows will be greater with crème brûlée.

JACK BANNISTER

Jack Bannister was a right-arm fast-medium bowler for Warwickshire in English county cricket, taking 1198 first-class wickets at 21.91 in a career that spanned the years 1950 to 1969. At the end of his playing days, Bannister worked as a bookmaker in Wolverhampton before moving into the cricket media, where he became a familiar voice on BBC-TV’s coverage. Jack and Richie became great friends, bound together in their shared interest in cricket, golf and the turf. He continues to commentate on cricket for talkSPORT radio in the UK.

WHEN THE YOUNG AUSTRALIAN batsman Phillip Hughes tragically died in November 2014, my dear friend Richie Benaud was asked to provide the voiceover for a short tribute video. As always, it was pitch perfect.

Afterwards, his fellow commentator Bill Lawry asked about Richie’s own condition — he had been receiving treatment for skin cancer — and queried whether a refusal to wear a sun hat during his playing career, which Richie blamed for the illness, was due to a commercial deal with Brylcreem.

In true Richie fashion, he paused and considered the response. ‘I’m not going to tell you whether I had a contract or not, Bill,’ he replied with a glint in his eye. ‘Nor am I going to tell you how much the fee was.’

That was the humour of the man — always slightly off-key and understated.

As a commentator, you arrive early before the start of play and often finish past seven in the evening. That was a long time for seven or eight people to share a small space and often tempers would fray, fall-outs would occur. But never involving Richie. He was always the coolest of the lot.

After every stint on air he would simply retire to a small table in the corner of the room to watch the play, quietly reading the newspaper or studying the Racing Post. He always brought sandwiches to the ground and was so meticulous when it came to organising his day.

Richie became my best friend in life. We first met when I was playing club cricket in Johannesburg during the 1957–58 season and the Australians were touring. He took more than 100 first-class wickets on that trip, a feat I do not believe has been achieved since. I then played against him for Warwickshire in the early 1960s before I joined him on the BBC television team in 1987 following a spell with the radio team.

That was where I really got to know him. We discovered early on in our time working together that we shared two passions away from cricket: golf and horse racing. We would play a round of golf before every Test at Trent Bridge, Headingley and Edgbaston, and Richie, who had a single-figure handicap, won more often than not.

His love for horse racing was infectious. And from 1987 to only three weeks before his passing we had a personal nap competition. Every Saturday for 28 years, we would talk on the telephone and swap the names of our horses, totalling up the wins from April to September in England and October to April in Australia, with the winner buying a slap-up meal for the other. I would study the form day and night and still the bugger would win.

On one of the last times I called, his wife Daphne told me he was back in hospital receiving treatment. I, of course, said to put off the nap competition but he insisted it went ahead and told me his horses. But on the final Saturday she said he was coming home and there would be no more treatment; it would be a matter of days.

Daphne was his rock. They met through the cricket writer Jim Swanton — she was his secretary — and in 1967 Jim told her to make an honest man of him. They bought a house in the south of France due to Richie’s Huguenot heritage and during the English summer they would commute from there to the Test matches.

His other big passion was his car, a 1963 Sunbeam Alpine. When he crashed it in October 2013 he was more concerned about it than his own health. He had a great sense of humour but would never set out to take the mickey. That did not stop him making gentle, witty points about people or situations, though. In short, Richie Benaud was a true gentleman.

SARAH WOOLDRIDGE

The story of the friendship of Sarah Wooldridge and her husband Ian Wooldridge, the peerless sportswriter, with Daphne and Richie Benaud reaches across half a century. Sport at its highest levels — and especially cricket — was at its heart, but equally so the enjoyment of life itself through many golden summers.

ON THE DAY THE world changed, September 11, 2001, Richie Benaud was taking a siesta in the warm sunshine of a beautiful beach at Positano, Italy. A group of us had just enjoyed a delicious and very jolly lunch at Da Adolfo, a restaurant on the beach.

It was the first day of a holiday break in Positano for the Benauds, after Richie’s long summer of broadcasting in England, and for the Wooldridges, after Ian had written about many of the major sporting events of the previous months, including the just completed Ashes series. After lunch, Richie had headed off alone, to sunbathe. Before long the restaurant owner came rushing out with the news: ‘Something is going on in New York!’ We headed into this man’s kitchen — where he had an old black-and-white TV — and it was there that we watched BBC World’s coverage of the unfolding tragedy. Almost immediately, the second plane crashed into the South Tower. Ian’s nephew, Mike Wooldridge, was involved in the BBC’s coverage, another reason why this day stays indelibly in my memory. Initially, we thought it best to let Richie rest, but soon we realised it was such an appalling, momentous event that we had to rouse him. I shall never forget that day.

Positano holidays were usually great fun, though it was scary going on the boats with Richie and ‘Woollers’, as neither of them could swim. But the only way to reach the lovely little seafood restaurants along the coast was via wooden boats. So we went.

By then, I had known the Benauds for many years. I had first met Richie in 1964, when I had begun working in London for Mark McCormack at IMG. Richie was a friend of George Blumberg, who was an IMG director, renowned in the world of golf as the generous benefactor who put Gary Player, one of McCormack’s highest-profile clients, on the road to stardom. However, I didn’t really get to know Richie and Daphne well until 1980, when I married Ian. Over the following years, I spent wonderful times with them in Australia, France, India, Italy, the West Indies and, of course, London.

Ian adored and admired Richie; they were the very best of friends. The pair of them used to enjoy gin and tonics together discussing the world of sport. They were a joy to listen to. Ian particularly enjoyed discussing Richie’s career after he retired as a player, when he was a journalist and broadcaster, and especially when he was involved in the launch of World Series Cricket. Ian broke the Kerry Packer/WSC story exclusively in the Daily Mail, but he would never tell me how he secured the information … even after many whiskies! I don’t think it was from Richie, but we will never know for sure.

Richie always called Ian by his surname and Ian did the same whenever he greeted Richie. It was ‘Benaud’ and ‘Wooldridge’. They had first met when Richie was captain of Australia and Ian was the cricket correspondent of the Daily Mail. They got on immediately.

Towards the end of Ian’s life, when he was very frail, he insisted on flying out to Sydney for his annual visit to Australia. Emirates kindly helped us with the long flight in first-class comfort. It was Christmas time. Ian was on a lot of medication and I had placed all the relevant pills to be taken during the flight in an envelope. But when we arrived in Dubai I realised I had posted them at Heathrow airport with a bunch of last-minute Christmas cards! Ian drank bloody marys for the entire flight and when we finally landed in Sydney I was so relieved. We headed immediately to have lunch with the Benauds and other friends, and I recall how impressed and amused Richie was by Ian’s courage and determination. It was a very special lunch.

They were tough and generous men. For the 1996 World Cup, I was hired — via IMG for the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) — to arrange the official hospitality at all the key matches around the country. It turned out to be a most challenging project.

The first game I was assigned to was a big one: India v Australia in Mumbai. Some bright spark at IMG had guaranteed via our sales brochure that celebrities would be attending lunch in the hospitality village, but at the last minute I discovered that nothing had been organised. We were really stuck, but dear Richie agreed to walk out of the ground to visit our official, non-air-conditioned tented village and shake hands with and chat to lots of clients. It was so kind of him and so typical.

It was an arduous tournament. I recall that Richie had a terrible time on a train travelling from Delhi to Jaipur, where Australia played the West Indies. The air-conditioning in his carriage was on full, and he caught a chest cold and lost his voice. At other times, we wrapped ourselves up in newspapers to try to keep warm on the trains during that World Cup. But he soldiered on.

On Woollers’ death in 2007, Richie was a commanding figure at the Memorial Service, which was attended by 1000 people at the Guard’s Chapel, near Buckingham Palace. He delivered the most magnificent address, taking so much care with some wonderful Wooldridge stories. I had asked Richie if he could introduce a special musical item — Waltzing Matilda, sung by the Australian Opera singer, Dean Robinson — and he was brilliant, ending his address very slowly and gently, leading into the music. It was such a special moment for me and I knew that Ian (up there) would have been so thrilled. He just loved Australians and Australia.

The Benauds continued to invite me to France for holidays and I was so lucky to spend many happy hours with Richie and Daphne, drinking chablis on their wonderful terrace at Beaulieu. We’d discuss sport, IMG, food and a great deal more. Richie was always very interested in how IMG was going, in part, I’m sure, because they had helped Mark McCormack set up the company’s Sydney office many years ago. For lunch, I used to buy cooked chickens on the spit and Richie would carve them precisely and beautifully, to accompany his superbly sliced ripe tomatoes, plus mozzarella with chopped basil and plenty of black pepper.

For Richie, the black pepper was a crucial ingredient. On his travels, he invariably carried a favourite pepper grinder.

Everything was delicious and perfect. That’s how I will remember him.

TONY LEWIS

A Welshman to his bootstraps, Tony Lewis played cricket for Glamorgan and captained England on his Test debut, leading the MCC to India and Pakistan in 1972. He also won a Cambridge Blue for rugby, and played senior rugby for Neath and Gloucester. He was a brilliant writer on cricket and rugby, and worked with Richie Benaud on the BBC television coverage of cricket for more than a decade.

I FIRST MET RICHIE early in the Australians’ 1961 tour of England, when he led his side in a three-day match against Cambridge University. He appeared to glide onto the Fenner’s ground, stardust sparkling from the crown we undergraduates imagined he was wearing following the Gabba Tied Test.

We had the chance to talk about hopes and fears at the Black Velvet drinks party on the lawns of Queens’ College — champagne and Guinness — but scarcely got a word in past Dai Davies, the old Glamorgan cricketer who had umpired Australia in Tests on eight occasions.

Spin on to 1968. Richie, although retired from big-time cricket, agreed to lead a short Commonwealth XI tour of Pakistan. It was here that I first experienced and admired the Benaud leadership as a member of his team, which extended beyond the boundary. I see him sitting opposite the hotel manager who was trying to rip us off in multi-rupees after a five-day stay.

The mathematics were too tough for our tour manager, Alex Bannister of the Daily Mail in London, but I watched our captain remove his jacket, take out his pen and proceed to scrutinise each sheet of paper of the final account made out for 14 cricketers. Richie, without help from anyone else, stood up after more than an hour, shook hands with the hotel manager, slipped on his jacket, and announced that he was very grateful for the help he had been given in spotting the back office slip-up and that a 50 per cent reduction would be fine.

Famously, he recommended being ahead of the game. ‘Think two overs ahead and be lucky.’ That was certainly the strength of his leadership at Old Trafford back in 1961, when he came on to bowl wrist-spin from around the wicket at England’s best, and demolished them.

The Benaud style on the field was a considerable education to the Commonwealth boys. In the second four-day match at Lahore, he decided that the Pakistan Universities opening batsman, Aftab Gul, was simply incapable of playing even the simplest of strokes to the offside; everything, even the defensive blocks, went to leg.

In the second innings, satisfied with his research, he alarmed his team by placing every Commonwealth fielder on the legside and advised his bowlers to bowl straight. Aftab was rendered strokeless and runless and retired hurt.

But the captain would also draw attention to his own lack of foresight. There was the journey of the team across the Thal Desert down to Karachi, winding along a narrow, twisting road over burned-out terrain and a million miles of sandy dust.

The ‘first-class luxury coach — air-conditioned’ was a tricky beast to handle. To begin with, it was air-conditioned only because it had no doors. The luxury was elusive and comfort doubtful. When the driver slammed the giant gearstick into fourth, it rattled, screeched and shot down to first again. A boy, aged about 15, was hired to wait for the crunch and to stretch forward to grab the gearstick and hold on like hell. His shoulders shook violently all the way across 80 miles of desert!

Well into our second hour, the driver shouted ‘wagon is coming’. True, there was a dark speck on the horizon. We had been told that the strip of hard road was not wide enough for two drivers to pass each other without both vehicles having their outside wheels on sand off the highway.

I was sitting immediately behind Richie almost at the back of the bus on the right offside.

The speck grew larger over 10 minutes, at which point our driver was face to face with a giant transcontinental wagon. He refused to give way. The wagon claimed right of way on account of size and the inevitable game of chicken ended with the scrunch of serious contact. Our windows were smashed on the offside; glass flew inwards. The driver stopped. Cricketers shouted and jostled to the front exit, all intent on making panicked examinations of the bus.

It was at this moment in life that Richie and I discovered that we shared a similar temperament. We did not do panic. He stood up, kept on reading his paperback, grabbed his suit-holder from the rack and moved across the aisle of the bus without a single word. I did similar, but I could see he was annoyed with himself. How could he have failed to foresee a possible game of transcontinental chicken in the subcontinent? The bottom lip curled.

In 1980, I entered Richie Benaud’s BBC television commentary box on a permanent basis. I left in 1998 when I became the president of the Marylebone Cricket Club in the days when the club did not wish to have a president who earned his living from the game.

Together thereafter we found golf to play, cool drinks to sip, cruises to Test series, Italian vineyards to explore, a couple of Bob Hope Classic golf charity tournaments and visits to Beaulieu-sur-Mer.

On a couple of sunny Septembers, Mr and Mrs Lewis with Mr and Mrs Benaud took coffee and cognac on the pavement cafe opposite their Beaulieu apartment. The English cricket season was over again. Not that the computers of Rich and Daph would close down.

We were off to visit the home of our mutual friends, Graham and Angela Chidgey, Graham deeply involved in the wine trade, but also a scorer of a first-class century as an amateur batsman playing for the Free Foresters, and Angela an internationally known artist.

We relaxed daily in the shades of the olive groves on the slopes of their old granary in the village of Cetinale, opposite the 17th-century villa belonging to the Lambton family. We took important tasting experiences in the vintages of Chassagne-Montrachet, Puligny-Montrachet and Meursault, plus all the Italian wines that Graham was himself discovering. Richie and I walked for an hour each morning and I guess Daphne, also a walker, could not have been far away. The note in my diary confirms that the stopwatch was out to keep our speed at 4.3 miles per hour.

Hardly a word of cricket was ever spoken.

BOB HAWKE

Bob Hawke, prime minister of Australia from 1983 to 1991 and a noted cricket aficionado, pays tribute.

OTHERS WILL PROVIDE THE statistical evidence to support the fact that Richie Benaud was one of the most effective all-rounders ever to represent Australia. No statistics however can explain the flair and intelligence that made him one of the best captains to lead our country.

But of course beyond these great achievements on the field I, like millions of others, am always going to remember Richie for his post-playing career as arguably the best television commentator and analyst the game has seen.

He combined unrivalled knowledge with a sharp analytical mind and also a generosity of spirit that made him unique.

Thank you Richie Benaud for all that you did throughout such a distinguished and honourable career, for the tradition of our great game.

THE CALM VOICE OF REASON

In the balmy days of late summer and early autumn 2015, Steve Crawley, head of sport at Channel Nine, calmly steered an endeavour that ensured Richie Benaud would be remembered by the television station he had graced for almost 40 years. As Richie’s health faded, Nine’s CEO David Gyngell quietly reminded his team of their duty to farewell Richie in the best possible way — as he deserved, with real class.

The ongoing contact between Nine and Daphne through Richie’s final days was respectful, caring and regular. ‘We knew from a week out that things weren’t good,’ Crawley explains. The door had been kept ajar for the great commentator at Nine ever since his motoring accident in October 2013. Richie’s distinctive voice was occasionally still heard, such as when Phillip Hughes died in late November 2014, then when the 2014–15 cricketing summer began and finally — in what is now seen as his farewell piece — in an introduction to Nine’s coverage of the Boxing Day Test, when he talked of Coogee, his beloved Sydney home.

Without fuss, Nine began recording some reflections on Richie, the man and his life from some of those who had known him, worked with him, played with or against him, socialised with him, admired him. The project stretched across the globe, from Australia to England via the West Indies, taking in an eclectic bunch of friends and admirers. These included renowned English broadcaster, journalist and author Sir Michael Parkinson, the great fast bowler Dennis Lillee, and businessman James Packer, who was nine years old when his father Kerry launched World Series Cricket. There were exceptional cricketers-turned-commentators such as Sir Ian Botham, David Gower, Michael Holding, Michael Slater and Ian Smith. There were the high-profile media figures, Ray Hadley and Eddie McGuire, whose influence as commentators goes well beyond sport, and a number of Nine’s best sports presenters and callers, including James Brayshaw, Phil Gould and Ken Sutcliffe. And there were, inevitably, many who have contributed so willingly to these pages.

‘So many people were close to Richie,’ says Crawley. He remembers the process as a ‘difficult assignment’, one built on pending and inherent sadness.

When the sombre news came, on the dawning of Thursday, April 10, 2015, that Richie had died in his sleep during the night, Nine went into overdrive. On the Saturday night, a program went to air — Richie Benaud: A Marvellous Life — that was at various moments brilliant, touching, funny, sad and revealing.

Here are some excerpts from that program, offered generously by Nine for use in this book …

Sir Ian Botham

A player when I was a youngster, he was a great leader of teams and men. I got to know Richie much better when he was a commentator. He was a fascinating man. I did interviews with him, shared some glasses of red wine with him in various parts of the world. An amazing guy.

James Brayshaw

The first time I ever worked with him was at a domestic one-dayer in Adelaide. It was terrific when I went on with him and I thought, I know my place. I won’t speak until he speaks. Well, he didn’t say a word for an entire over. In the ad break the producer got into my ear and asked me, ‘Whose name is first on the roster?’ And it was ‘JB’, then ‘RB’.

‘That means you’re on lead, mate. Start talking!’

The sweat was dripping off me and I turned to Richie, who was looking straight ahead. ‘I’m so sorry, Richie,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realise I was supposed to lead.’

And he said: ‘That’s all right, young man. I just thought you were easing into it.’

Phil Gould

He was just like part of the family. Every year at this time of the year he’d come around with his descriptions of the cricket. Richie was one of the sounds of summer.

David Gower

The Benaud voice was outstanding … unique. Everyone picked up on the way he said his ‘twos’. If anyone does a Richie Benaud impression you can guarantee straightaway they’re going to go: It’s chew for chwenty-chew. But obviously he was much more than just a voice. There was the way he looked down the camera, very directly at you, in effect, to address you on the game of cricket.

Ray Hadley

Wit and entertainment … he did it in a way that no one had done before or probably will do into the future. I remember sitting next to him at a function and we talked about what he did and what I did, and he reminded me that all of us commentators are guests in someone’s lounge room and we should always maintain dignity. He did that right through his career.

Michael Holding

When I was playing I never paid too much attention to what journalists wrote or what commentators said, but when Richie was on television you would always want to hear what he had to say. When I started in commentary and got the opportunity to work with Richie Benaud, it was a great feeling.

Dennis Lillee

On the day in Melbourne in 1981, during the third Test against India when I broke his Test wicket-taking record, Richie was upstairs in the commentary box. When the wicket fell — Chetan Chauhan, caught by Bruce Yardley — I turned and gave the thumbs up to the box. Then I saw Rich out the front of the box, waving, and I waved back.

Later, Richie came into the dressing-room with a beautiful bottle of champagne. ‘Enjoy that,’ he said. It was a lovely gesture. I thanked him and got out a few words along the lines of, ‘I don’t think I’ll have it right now, but I’ll have it after the game!’ I recall Richie then made some comment about there being enough problems already with the variable bounce out there. We shook hands. ‘Anyhow, a great performance,’ he said. And he was gone. It was typical Richie, thoughtful, succinct and to the point.

There was a sense of awe in any meeting with him. We remained friends after my cricketing days were over and I would ring him now and then just to see how he was going.

Eddie McGuire

He was a force of nature. He was a cricketer, the Australian captain, a journalist, an author, a broadcaster, a father, a husband, a great friend, a leader, a pillar of society. He did all those things and did them with elan and dash. He had his own way of dressing … the Richie Benaud coat. He did ads before other sportsmen even knew what they were. He was that far ahead of everybody in just about every facet of life. When you looked at him, analysed him and scratched beneath the surface, you realised how smart he was.

James Packer

There’s a story I remember my dad telling me. He was chuffed that he’d been able to sign up so many players without the news of World Series Cricket leaking to the media. He’d bring Tony Greig and Ian Chappell and other members of the Australian team into the office and say, ‘What I’m going to speak to you about is confidential. And you mustn’t talk to anyone about it.’ And they agreed. Dad was a great salesman and by the end of these meetings he’d got their signatures.

Then he told me of the day that Rich came into the office. My father said to Richie, ‘What I’m about to talk to you about, you must not tell anyone else. Can I have your word on that?’

And Richie said, ‘No.’

Dad was a bit surprised. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

And Richie replied, ‘Well, I have to speak to Daphne about it.’

There was a pause. Then Dad said, ‘Okay, okay, I can accept that.’

They kept going with the meeting and talked about Richie joining World Series Cricket. From all accounts from my dad, the meeting went very, very well. At the end of it, Dad said to Richie, ‘Do we have a deal?’

And Richie said, ‘I’m not sure.’

Dad said, ‘What do you mean?’

And Richie said, ‘I’ve got to speak to Daphne.’

Next morning, Richie rang back. ‘You’ve got a deal,’ he said.

Sir Michael Parkinson

Richie managed to commentate all his life without resorting to cliché, but more than that he was the calm voice of reason, sitting there and analysing exactly what was happening when others were getting hysterical. That’s what I want from a commentator.

Michael Slater

He was as revered in England as he was in Australia. At The Oval in 2005, I was in the commentary box when he was saying his farewell [from the Channel 4 coverage]. England were winning that famous series and everyone in the box was emotional …

At the end of the game, the England crowd — a packed house — was going ballistic because England had won. And Richie had to walk across the hallowed turf for the presentation.

When the crowd spotted Richie coming out onto the oval, they all stopped their chanting for England and they all started … ‘Richie! Richie!’ … right the way across. It’s a memory I will never forget.

Ian Smith

He was a fantastic bloke and with his skills and his presence, and what he brought to cricket will never be replaced. He was an absolute icon and an absolute genius. I am privileged to say I was a friend and a colleague.

Ken Sutcliffe

He was a great commentator, but he was also a terrific listener. What I admired about Richie as much as anything else was that he was always relevant; he never lived in the past. He embraced the future, he embraced technology, the new ways of doing things and he encouraged new commentators. Richie never imposed his view on you until you sought it. Then he would provide an honest and considered opinion — one with which you may or may not have agreed.

Something I liked about him was that he never got lost in nationalistic fervour when he commentated. He loved Australia to do well, but more than that he wanted cricket to do well. Richie to me is no greater in death than he was in life: a giant.