– 9 – A MARVELLOUS INNINGS

‘Richie was a truly remarkable man with his own place in the history of broadcasting. His standards never changed at all throughout the years.’

— Sir Michael Parkinson

IAN CHAPPELL

When the great Australian captains of living memory are recalled, Ian Chappell sits with Sir Donald Bradman and Richie Benaud as the very best. They were players and leaders to shape and reshape the game. Richie was still playing when Ian started out. He mirrored many of the Benaud traits, including aggressive and positive captaincy, and down-to-earth public relations. They were key figures together in the revolution that began with World Series Cricket, and for more than three decades they worked together as members of a pioneering Channel Nine commentary team. Ian Chappell will tell anyone who cares to listen that being around Richie Benaud enriched his life.

‘AFTER YOU, IAN.’ THEY were the first words spoken to me by Richie Benaud.

It was 1962 and South Australia had just enjoyed a rare victory over a star-studded NSW line-up. Richie, as the notout batsman, magnanimously stood back, allowing Les Favell to lead his team off the Adelaide Oval and soak up the enthusiastic applause. I was on the field as 12th man and wasn’t about to leave ahead of the Australian captain — a man whose leadership style I’d admired from afar. But he insisted.

That story is indicative of Richie. He was a thorough gentleman and meticulous in his preparation. I was staggered he knew my name.

He was also a generous man. Not long after the Adelaide Oval experience, a Gray-Nicolls bat arrived in the post while I was playing in the Lancashire League. It was from Richie, and so began a relationship that only ended after 52 rewarding years with his passing.

I say rewarding — that was from my perspective, but I’m not sure what Benords received in return. Often, when I spoke to him or called, he had a helpful suggestion, which emanated from a mind that was regularly in lateral-thinking mode.

When I was a young man, he told me, ‘Ian, cricket’s a simple game. The simpler you keep it the better off you’ll be.’

Not long after I’d taken over the Australian captaincy, I called to explain how a mate had told me, ‘You’ve got the field in the wrong place for Garry Sobers.’

Richie laughed. ‘There’s no right place for the field when Sobers is going,’ he explained. ‘All I’d say is you’re wasting a fieldsman by putting someone in the gully. He hits the ball in the air in that direction, but it’s six inches off the ground and going like a bullet. No one can catch it.’

When I retired and turned my hand to writing and television, he organised for me to commentate for the BBC during the 1977 Ashes series. He also suggested — Richie rarely advised — that I become a member of the Australian Journalists Association so no one in the industry would object to me writing columns.

Generally, Richie’s response to any situation was measured, subtle and quite often humorous. His good friend Phil Tresidder regularly visited Richie and Daphne’s unit for New Year’s drinks. In December 1999, Phil selected his ‘team of the century’ for the Inside Edge cricket magazine. Unable to restrict himself to purely one team, Phil picked a second XI to ‘placate those cricketing buffs who still find their heroes missing’. In two Australian teams of the century, Phil hadn’t found a place for Greg Chappell.

Normally, for obvious reasons, I avoid passing comment on my brother’s prowess, but I couldn’t let that one pass through to the keeper. In the following issue of the magazine, I wrote in my ‘Stumps’ column: ‘Call it nepotism or accuse me of bias, but I think Phil Tresidder’s second Inside Edge team of the century lacked credibility. If there was room in that XI for Steve Waugh and Allan Border, then there had to be a spot for Greg Chappell.’

My comment obviously stung Phil and he was keen to discuss it when he arrived at Richie’s place. Only seconds into his first drink Phil said, ‘Richie, I think Ian’s a bit upset with me.’

A sip of white wine and then Richie responded, ‘With good reason, Phil.’

Becoming very defensive about his selections, Phil spluttered, ‘Well, you can’t pick everyone.’

Richie took another sip. ‘No, you can’t, Phil,’ he said. ‘But at least you can pick the good bastards.’

ENGLISH COMMENTATOR DAVID LLOYD stumbled upon the doyen status Richie had achieved 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 where his car and all the other commentators’ cars were 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?’

He was given permission as long as he was quick about it.

As Bumble 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.

ONE OF MY FAVOURITE Richie stories concerns his old mate, Bob Gray. Richie and Bob were friends for a long time, all the way back to the 1960s when Bob was the cricket correspondent for the Sydney Daily Mirror and Richie wrote for The Sun. Despite the fact that it was often open warfare between these two afternoon papers, 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 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, who was described as ‘the peacock of the fairways’.

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 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, Richie 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 exactly ideal for a typically large-footed African caddie, but Richie bought them nonetheless.

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, Richie reached the caddie master’s hut and asked for ‘two caddies, one with size-nine feet’. He then 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 hate wearing shoes. Looking a little bewildered, the caddie master trudged off to try to fulfil this near-impossible request. Eventually, he 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 his friend and he had to stand very close to him wearing the blue shoes. ‘My friend,’ explained Richie, ‘is very short-sighted and a bit hard of hearing, so you will need to stay very close.’

Richie wasn’t exaggerating about Gray being shortsighted, as we’d found out when he played golf with wicketkeeper 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.

‘Oh, mate, you’ve over-compensated,’ 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 all right,’ explained Tabsy. ‘About 150 metres and near the middle of the fairway.’

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 attendance, the Australian didn’t notice the caddie’s blue shoes until they were standing on the sixth tee.

There was a hold-up ahead and while Richie 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 his identical twin.

The poor caddie didn’t know where to look, let alone what to say, and 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.’

FOR A MAN WHO lived up to his ‘keep the game simple’ advice on the cricket field, Richie had a propensity for complicating golf. I remember when he proudly announced he’d bought an odometer so he could measure courses and distances. I was quick to remind him that his good friend and five-time British Open champion Peter Thomson always said, ‘It’s a hand and eye game.’

However, Richie did live up to his ‘keep it simple’ advice as a television commentator and presenter. ‘Don’t say anything unless you can add to the pictures’ was his mantra. He also had that marvellous ability to make it look like everything was progressing without a wrinkle, when in reality all hell was breaking loose in the studio.

It was illuminating to hear people’s comments on Richie Benaud. Occasionally they would say: ‘I love Richie’s commentary but it’s a pity he hasn’t got a sense of humour.’

I felt like replying, ‘So you watch television but you don’t listen to it.’

His was a droll sense of humour and at times it could border on wicked. Michael Slater once described a batsman as ‘having snuck a ball to the boundary’, and immediately had reservations about his English.

Turning to Richie, he enquired, ‘Is there such a word as “snuck”, Rich?’

Following the trademark Benaud pause, Richie raised the microphone and purred: ‘Michael, there are a number of “uck” words in the English language, but “sn” isn’t one of them.’

On another occasion, Richie and I were discussing the supposed unwritten rule concerning fast bowlers not bouncing fellow speedsters, when I turned to him and brought up an incident where Ray Lindwall hit Englishman Frank ‘Typhoon’ Tyson in the head at the SCG in 1954–55.

Tyson had taken a pounding in the first Test of that series at the Gabba, as Australia thrashed England. However, the roles were quickly reversed when Tyson took 10 wickets after being hit in the head by Lindwall. In conclusion, I said: ‘But you were playing in that game at the SCG, Richie. What happened?’

He slowly picked up the microphone and said of Lindwall bouncing Tyson: ‘It was a mistake.’ Then he gently rested it back on his knee. I was still laughing when, uncharacteristically, he raised his microphone again.

‘I’ll rephrase that,’ he said. ‘It was a very big mistake.’

Richie made very few mistakes in his life and he certainly didn’t with his choice of life partner. If anything, wife Daphne is even more organised than he was, and apart from cricket they also had a shared love of ballet and cats, both the animals and the musical.

At his 2007 induction into the Australian Cricket Hall of Fame, Richie finished his speech with a number of thank you’s and concluded with: ‘And Daphne, who is much loved.’

The same could be said of Richie Benaud. He was much loved and will be widely and sorely missed.

MICHAEL ATHERTON

Mike Atherton worked with Richie Benaud in the Channel 4 commentary box, learning a new trade from the master. Mike had captained England in 54 of his 115 Tests. Since 2002, he has carved for himself an outstanding career as a commentator and as cricket correspondent for The Times.

‘WATCH RICHIE.’

Like most sportsmen starting out on a second career in broadcasting, I did so without formal training. So, like any sensible novice, I sought advice. Gary Franses was the producer of Channel 4’s cricket coverage in 2002 and that was the advice he gave me.

‘Watch Richie.’

So I did. One of my early broadcasts was from Lord’s and, before the start of play, the cameras were to alight on each of the commentators in various parts of the ground, from where they were to analyse a particular aspect of the day’s play. We were to come to Richie last of all, up in his eyrie in the commentary box, and he was to be the scene-setter for the day — the last voice to be heard before live play.

I had finished my bit down below and hurried up to the commentary box to listen to the great man do his bit — to watch and learn as instructed. I stood behind the camera at the back of the box and waited. Richie’s turn came; on the director’s cue, he turned to the camera, with that one-eye-half-closed look, and began to speak. Maybe he thought he had a lapel microphone attached to his (beige/cream/off-white/bone) jacket. He did not. Richie spoke, but the viewers heard nothing.

Franses stood behind the camera, frantically waving and pointing to the hand-held microphone on the desk and instructing Richie to pick it up. Without moving his stare from the camera, Richie felt around blindly on the desk, picked up what he thought was the microphone, lifted it to his mouth, and began talking into his glasses.

He didn’t miss a beat and later laughed the mistake off and was happy to be the butt of everyone’s humour. Therein, I suppose, lies Richie’s first Law of Broadcasting: ‘It’s live telly; mistakes happen.’ It’s also sport on telly and not the most important thing in the world, so don’t get too hung up about it and don’t imagine yourself to be more important than you really are. You are only a television commentator.

That links in to his second Law — these laws by the way were not written on stone (or tablet these days, I guess) but rather as I imagined them to be, having worked with and watched him for four years and listened to his advice — which is, as he said to me once, ‘Remember, above all, that you are a guest in someone’s living room, often for six hours a day, so try not to irritate them.’

Not irritating the viewer may sound like a limited ambition for a commentator but — as countless viewers of live sport would attest, no doubt — it is not as straightforward as it sounds, especially in cricket where a game might progress for five days, six hours a day. Ideally, you don’t want the viewer switching off, or over, or turning the sound down. So remember, above all, that he or she is there to watch the action and the cricketers and not listen to you. Don’t impose yourself too heavy-handedly between the viewer and the action. You are a conduit — no more, no less.

If you can succeed in that, Richie may allow you to progress to his third Law which is: ‘If you can add to the picture, do so.’ Aside from not irritating the viewer into switching off, you are there to add some insight and to inform, based on your knowledge and experience. That insight may be in the form of an anecdote or technical or tactical or human observation, and may be more suitable when the action is slow rather than dramatic, according to your discretion. But anyone can read the score and tell the viewer what has just happened. It’s not radio.

Richie’s third Law links into his fourth: ‘Michael, always engage brain before speaking.’ I can’t remember what particular bit of commentary of mine prompted that from Richie, but it is good advice nonetheless. Radio demands immediacy, since, obviously, people cannot see what is happening. Television occasionally — not always, but occasionally — allows for a momentary distance from the action, just enough time for the brain to function. Use it.

Richie’s fifth Law — ‘Nobody ever complained about silence’ — is an old-fashioned notion these days, as increasingly television companies move to three commentators in action rather than two, and so there is a battle for air-time. It also might not apply to an Indian audience who, I am told, enjoy a full-on visual and audio experience — one reason perhaps why Bill Lawry, say, was always more popular on the subcontinent than Richie. Richie was always immensely popular in England where, I think, audiences enjoyed his understated style, pauses and silences.

And finally: ‘Never use the term “we” when talking about a team.’ Neutrality and fairness are non-negotiable for two very good reasons: first, you are an observer, not a cheerleader; second, although there will be a home audience, within that there may be many people cheering for the other team. You need to be fair to both sides. Most broadcasts these days go around the world in any case, so you are speaking to cricket-lovers of all nationalities.

Richie understood television. He played in an era before television gripped cricket, became a key mover in the Packer revolution, and knew how television could help to sell and grow the game.

He was not averse to a little understated showmanship: the beige jackets that came to define him; the sayings — ‘morning, everyone’ — that did the same. He worked the camera beautifully. The best commentators provoke imitation and Richie had thousands of those. Who, among us, has not said some phrase or other in Benaud-speak?

He saw television commentary as a craft, and one to try to excel at. So, in meetings before the start of a Test series, he was meticulous about the pronunciation of names, especially so if, for example, Sri Lanka were touring. And I have lost count of the number of times he said to me: ‘It’s a pitch, Michael, not a wicket. The three bits of wood are wickets.’ Or, ‘Please don’t start interview questions with “must”.’ (‘You must be pleased with, etc, etc,’ being a statement and not a question.) Small things, but important nonetheless.

Richie never morphed into an old-school bore. He rarely talked about his playing days or his considerable achievements as a player.

He never began a commentary stint or a sentence with, ‘In my day…’; he admired the modern player; he loved twenty20 and all the technological advances, especially his beloved ‘Snicko’. He wore his playing achievements lightly. He recognised that times change and comparisons are pointless. Because of that, the modern players loved him.

He was loved. For longer than people care to remember he was the voice of the English summer, just as he was in Australia. Thinking now, I can hear him, at the culmination of the greatest Test match I have seen, at Edgbaston in 2005, exactly the right man for the moment, as he followed the pictures with succinct but dramatic precision: ‘Jones! Bowden! Kasprowicz the man to go and Harmison has done it! Despair on the faces of the batsmen and joy for every England player on the field!’ Benaud’s Laws distilled.

BILLY BIRMINGHAM

As ‘The 12th Man’, Billy Birmingham has introduced cricket to a whole new audience over the past 30 years, through his mimicry of Richie and the other members of Channel Nine’s commentary team. The 12th Man phenomenon began in 1984, with the release of the It’s Just Not Cricket maxi-single. Three years later, Billy released his first full album, Wired World of Sports. Over the next 25 years, he made six more 12th Man albums and two singles, all of which went to No. 1 on the national ARIA charts. On Richie’s passing in April 2015, Fox Sports in Australia invited Billy to pay tribute …

IT WAS ALWAYS MY hope that Richie would get a standing ovation at every Test ground in Australia whenever he announced his intention to hang up the 50 Shades of Beige jacket once and for all. But unfortunately that bloody Sunbeam Alpine got in the way!

It’s hard to put into words the way I’ve been feeling since I heard Richie ‘From The Body Of The Same Name’ Benaud has passed away. Very sad. Quite nauseous, actually. Struggling to find the right words. Disoriented.

What is the appropriate response to the passing of a man who has been such an integral part of your life, your career, your identity for more than 30 years? How are you supposed to feel when the bloke with whom millions associate you has delivered his last chew for chwenty-chew?

I know I won’t be alone in feeling this way. Richie has occupied a special place in our homes and our hearts for decades. The world changed so much over that time. Richie didn’t seem to. The hair was always cut halfway over his ears and fastidiously swept across from one side. The cream, bone, white, off-white, ivory and beige wardrobe was unchanging. The ‘Welcome back to the MCG’ intro was almost reassuring in its familiarity.

And the calls of ‘Marvellous!’ and ‘Shuuuper effort, that!’ and ‘What a catch! What. A. Catch!’ were the soundtrack to summer for generations of Australians.

Richie certainly had some reservations about my 12th Man stuff over the years. My colourful use of language didn’t sit too well with a man who always tried to exude an image as white as his jacket. That said, as an old media man from way back, he couldn’t fail to see how the 12th Man albums were transforming him into a cult hero and Nine’s cricket coverage into one of the most iconic broadcasts in Australian TV history.

I was nervous about the first album. It didn’t have my name on it, because I naively thought that if I left it as ‘The 12th Man’, Richie wouldn’t know where it came from.

Then I got a call out of the blue from a Melbourne disc jockey called Kevin Hillier. He said he knew it was me on the record, he’d sent Richie a copy to listen to over the weekend, and he was interviewing him the following Monday.

I’d hoped the record would have a bit more time to get some airplay and sell a few copies, just in case an injunction was slapped on me. But the horse had bolted. So I listened to Richie’s interview on Melbourne radio station 3XY.

It went something along the lines of: ‘My wife and I have been listening to it all weekend in the flat. We’ve just packed it in our bags before we head to England. We’re looking forward to playing it over there. I’m sure everyone will be rolling around with laughter.’

I was absolutely thrilled.

In the early days, I would send Richie a copy of each album upon release, figuring that attack was the best form of defence. He would write me letters in response — on that beautifully embossed ‘Benaud & Associates’ letterhead of his — critiquing my work like it was a bloody Broadway stage production.

Here’s what he wrote to me after Wired World of Sports was released:

Dear Billy,

Thanks for the cassette and record of your latest creation.

Plus mark: excellent entertainment as always. Minus mark: the same as last time. A bit too long, too much swearing for the sake of it and Chappelli’s voice still not right.

But in a word: brilliant.

Kind regards and good luck,

richie

And this is what he wrote after The 12th Man Again! was released:

Dear Billy,

Thanks for the LP, tape and CD of the ‘12th Man Again’.

The usual critique follows, the fee for which will be $A87,000. [To this day, I have no idea what this meant or where the amount came from.]

There are some wonderfully funny and brilliant sequences again and the production is excellent.

Demerit marks: too much swearing just for the sake of swearing. In this, I’m right on the side of your daughter with her published remark about Daddy using the F-word … and possibly your mum as well! [I used to record at home and my daughter heard me swearing and reported it to Mum. Mum then had to explain that it was part of Daddy’s work.]

Some of the voices don’t seem quite right, particularly Chappelli’s again. It seems I have a voice that is easy to copy. But in general terms, other than Greigy, they don’t seem quite as spot on this time.

I see you’ve hit Number 1 again. Perhaps I should reconsider my retirement!

In a word, as the tautology kings would say, wonderfully amusing.

Cheers and salaams,

richie

I found it interesting that he always signed in fountain pen and spelled his name in all lower-case letters. But what a fabulous piece of correspondence for me to receive from the great man.

For a bloke who spent so much of his life in the media, he remained a private man. Richie wasn’t a fan of people fussing over his work or accomplishments. I remember getting a call from 60 Minutes once asking whether I’d be part of a story they were wanting to do on Richie. ‘Sure,’ I said. No sooner had I hung up than the producer was back on the blower to tell me Richie had no interest at all in the idea of being on 60 Minutes. The flagship program on his own network!

I must admit that I was quite shocked to see how his health had deteriorated when we shot his brilliant Australia Day ‘lamb’ commercial together at the start of the summer.

The first thing I noticed was that his always impeccably coiffed hair had succumbed to the ravages of chemotherapy. Then, when I put my arm around him and felt just how much he had wasted away, I was profoundly shocked and saddened. The recovery from the accident in the Sunbeam had clearly taken it out of him, but he was now facing an even bigger battle as his years of playing cricket hatless had resulted in skin cancer.

There was something in his eyes, too. If you asked him how he was, the reply was always along the lines of, ‘Pleased to report I’m on the mend.’ But you knew that was stoicism, not reality. I was bloody amazed that he even had the strength to show up at all.

How thrilled I was to have been able to catch up with the great man one more time and to be a small part of his fabulous TV ad. I took the piss out of him for more than 30 years and now here I was working with him on what turned out to be his last major project.

How marvellous!

It’s hard to imagine there is another Australian out there as universally loved as Richie. It was a kind of affection that isn’t conditional on cricketing skills or commentary work. People just adored the man.

That’s why everyone gives their mate a knowing nudge when the scoreboard ticks over to 2–22, why entire sections of the crowd don silver wigs and beige jackets at the Sydney Test each year, why reciting Richie’s commentary gems has become a national pastime.

Rest in peace, Richie.

Incomparable, irreplaceable, the one and only (it always seemed to me he didn’t like the word ‘doyen’).

Billy Birmingham,

April 10, 2015

IAN HEALY

Ian Healy made his Test debut against Pakistan in September 1988. Ten years later, Healy broke Rod Marsh’s then world Test record for most wicketkeeping dismissals. Through that decade, ‘Heals’ became the major on‑field voice and a driving force for the Australian team. On his retirement in 1999, he had completed 395 Test, 233 ODI and 767 first-class dismissals. His subsequent move from the playing field to the commentary box was seamless and successful.

RICHIE WAS A PRIVATE colleague in the commentary box, continually tapping away on the laptop at his own table, churning out his numerous articles for the wider cricket world — and often managing at the same time to compete fiercely with his good mate Jack Bannister in their ongoing tipping battle at the races. Despite the distractions, at all times he would somehow be keeping an ear on the progress of the game in the middle that he was about to commentate on.

There was a day, however, when a couple of us thought we had caught him napping in the commentary box. He might even have been asleep, we thought, with his head down and an ear resting on the keyboard. Richie was motionless for what seemed a number of minutes. Finally, we were glimpsing a chink in the pro’s ability to fit it all in! Our disappointment was immense as he rose from the table, wide-awake. Turned out he had been listening to a horse race!

The Richie humour was always as dry as dust. He was always gently testing the reactions of people; most would not get it the first time. His wry smile wouldn’t surface until the penny dropped with the helpless victim … who by then might be two rows or two tables away.

In Richie’s world, socialising was for night-time. I remember well an occasion when I asked him out to dinner during a match in Perth in the early 1990s. Would he like to come out and have a bite to eat and meet a couple of the ‘youngies’: our spinners, Shane Warne and Tim May?

‘Yes, I would,’ he said.

It was characteristic Richie that arrangements for such an event had to go through the necessary protocol — in this case, through our coach, Bob Simpson, and then via a handwritten note confirming arrangements for the dinner.

The dinner took place and was fantastic. We talked about everything we possibly could. At one stage, I posed the question: ‘Did you drink much in your playing days?’

He broke into a story from the 1953 Ashes tour …

Well, I didn’t drink at all before then. I was the youngster on that tour and had made three and nought in the first Test at Trent Bridge. The night before the rest day, the Nottingham lace factory put on a party for the touring team and I was sitting in the corner — exactly as a youngster who had made three and nought should — when Mr Hassett [skipper Lindsay Hassett] asked me, ‘What is your drink?’

‘I don’t drink, Mr Hassett,’ I told him.

‘Try this, Benaud,’ he said, reaching for a glass.

‘Ah, that’s terribly strong!’ I said, after taking a sip.

‘Well, try this one, Benaud,’ he said, grabbing a drink out of someone else’s hand.

‘Ah, that’s better,’ was my verdict.

‘Benaud,’ he declared, ‘your drink is a single scotch and water!’

I proceeded to have 11 singles and two doubles that night and I’ve had a bloody good time ever since!

It was his magnificent way of telling us that nothing much had changed in cricket. We had the best of nights.

I’ll value so many memories of knowing and working with Richie: the big things and the small.

He was ‘Believable Benaud’ — whatever he said got over the line. It didn’t matter with whom he was communicating, from Kerry Packer to the fans.

And he was ‘Backseat Benaud’ — unless he had to, he never sat in the front in a car … and never in row one on a plane.

RICHARD FISK

Richard Fisk’s working life encompassed more than 40 years in sport, as an administrator, journalist, radio host and broadcaster. Among his varied roles he has been managing editor of the New York Times’ European sports magazine, sporting director at Sydney radio stations 2GB and 2WS, and a senior executive with two National Rugby League clubs, Cronulla and the Sydney Roosters, and the Hunter Sports Group.

I HAVE SEEN OR experienced many ‘Richie moments’, but two in particular have always stayed with me. At 2GB back in the early 1980s, when I was a rookie sports director and presenter, I had the good fortune of linking with Richie as ‘our man’ in England for the summer of cricket over there. Richie was the cricket correspondent on our Saturday morning sports show, which featured prominent rugby league characters such as Peter ‘Zorba’ Peters, Ray ‘Rabbits’ Warren and Greg ‘Hollywood’ Hartley.

I was hosting the show, which pretty much flew by the seat of its pants from week to week. Very early on we had a particular issue in cricket that required Richie’s expertise, but it meant him staying up until well after midnight in England to make his contribution to the show. He did so in his usual calm, professional and good-humoured way. Being grateful for his input, I felt obliged to ring and thank him early the next morning.

‘There is no need for thanks, Richard,’ he told me. ‘You have employed me to do a job over here and that’s what I’ll be doing to the best of my ability. Don’t ever hesitate to call if you believe I can make a contribution towards us producing the best coverage we can.’

I remember, too, a special night two years later at the SCG when 2GB were having a crack at being the first commercial radio station to cover a one-day international series. Our commentary team comprised Mike Whitney, Kerry O’Keeffe, Len Pascoe, David Colley and me. At the end of our first, nervous night, there was a knock on the door of the 2GB booth and I opened it, to find Richie standing there. His work done with Channel Nine, he had made the effort of walking halfway around the ground to offer a few words.

‘I just wanted to say I caught some of the coverage and it was fantastic,’ he said. ‘It was fresh, positive and different. Congratulations.’

With that, he was gone. I stood there, gobsmacked that he had not only taken such an interest in what we were doing, but had made the effort to deliver his views personally. It meant the world to me.

Always the professional, he was a man who chose his words carefully and, in my experience, always thought of the other person first. Several days later, he rang me with further encouragement, having organised for me to be his nominee as guest speaker at the Fiji Sports Awards later in the year.

‘They are lovely people,’ he said. ‘I thought it would be a good way to help you broaden your experience.’

He was a wonderful man who taught me about the value of professionalism and humility, and about the ongoing obligation we all have to try to help young and less experienced people.

JOHN BRENNAN

John Brennan has been called the ‘Godfather of Sydney radio’ and ‘the man who pioneered talkback radio in Australia’. The titles, from which the modest, gentlemanly ‘Brenno’ flinches, are not hyperbole. In a career spanning well over half a century, he was indeed a pathfinder and a star-maker — a unique figure in a rip ’n’ tear industry. Brenno dearly loves his sport, especially rugby league (through his passion for the Balmain Tigers) and cricket.

WELL BEFORE I TOOK over as program director at Sydney radio’s 2UE in the early 1980s, I was determined to fulfil a long-held hope — that if I ever ran a radio station Richie Benaud would be my cricket expert. When that plan became a reality and he joined up, it was a very special moment in my career and life.

We used Richie on the breakfast show with Alan Jones and in news bulletins. Later in the decade, after Kerry Packer bought 2UE in 1986, our new owner wanted me to cover cricket ball-by-ball. Kerry instructed me to organise broadcasting positions around Australia’s major grounds and to go out and ‘find some commentators’. A bonus existed — we could use his Channel Nine callers as ‘colour men’.

I duly landed the commentators I wanted: Western Australia’s ace caller, Dennis Cometti, and the colourful Henry ‘Blowers’ Blofeld from England. Epping Boys High School graduate Andrew Moore was the third commentator; he would go on to be a top-class caller of cricket and rugby league and an accomplished general radio performer. The Great Benaud was the spearhead of the team … and he loved it. We became good friends. The Christmas card from Richie and Daphne would be the first to arrive at our place each year.

When I shifted to 2GB in 2000 the station didn’t have a cent to spare, and no extras could be hired outside the pool of our main stars. It was a difficult time. Finally, we reached the point where we did have a dollar to throw around, but Richie had signed an exclusive contract with Nine for the Australian summer and with that and his overseas commitments we couldn’t use him. It was one of the great regrets of my years in radio.

Richie was an incomparable commentator and a magnificent man, loved and admired by all whose lives he touched. My life is richer and so blessed for having encountered him along the way.

DENNIS COMETTI

Dennis Cometti began his media career as a disc jockey in Perth. In 1973, he joined the ABC, where he covered a wide variety of sports, called WAFL football, and became known across the country as a cricket commentator. When the West Coast Eagles joined the VFL (now AFL) for the 1987 season, Dennis moved to the Seven Network and in the winters since has become a constant and highly respected figure on the AFL landscape, predominantly as a TV caller but also on radio and in newspapers. His reputation has been boosted, too, by his work in other sports, including Olympic Games swimming and as part of 2UE’s coverage of international cricket in the late 1980s and ’90s.

I’VE BEEN A BROADCASTER since I was eighteen. And in all that time I think there’s only one person I’ve worked with who intimidated me. It was Richie Benaud. Of course, it wasn’t Richie’s fault. It’s just that I was a fan.

I always had been, ever since the West Indies toured Australia in 1960–61. Few sporting events are as vivid in my memory as that Test series. I remember it was a baking summer in Perth, the kind of summer that can grind down even a ten-year-old on school holidays. But somehow Richie Benaud and Frank Worrell managed to build something unforgettable.

The family radio on the fridge top barely got a breather.

Right away, Benaud became my hero. He was the captain, he could bowl, he could bat, and he did it all with a couple of shirt buttons undone and his collar up. There was a lot to like.

Fast forward to the summer of 1986–87. After broadcasting cricket for 13 years on ABC radio, I moved to the Seven Network. I wasn’t at Seven to broadcast cricket; I was there to cover Australian rules football, or so I thought.

Things quickly changed when top-rating Sydney radio station 2UE decided it wanted to broadcast cricket. I was coopted onto the coverage. This was how I first got the chance to meet and then broadcast alongside Richie.

Over nearly a decade, I found him to be both a generous broadcaster and a real gentleman. They say it doesn’t pay to meet your heroes, but I’ve got to say in my experience, particularly in the case of Richie Benaud, it’s best to disregard that advice.

As a broadcaster, he was insightful, he was understated and he was funny, often all in the same moment. He was respected and admired more than any other Australian broadcaster past or present. In the eyes of the Australian public, Richie was the voice of record.

More to the point, there was no sense debating things on air with him, because you couldn’t win. I remember getting a reminder of that late one night in Adelaide.

We were broadcasting an eminently forgettable one-day international. Richie was sitting to my right, obscured beyond our producer and scorer, Andrew Moore.

For some reason, I felt compelled to suggest a couple of changes to the field and perhaps a bowling change as well.

Silence.

Unfortunately, there was a fast bowler bowling. I had all the time I needed. Too much time as it turned out! Calling on all my vast experience as vice-captain of green faction at Tuart Hill High School, I decided to go a little deeper into my tactics.

More silence.

Andrew Moore is a big man, and suddenly I could feel him begin to vibrate.

I turned and saw that he had pulled back to reveal Richie, elegant as always, but appearing to be sound asleep. I quickly came to the conclusion this was my fault — I’d either bored him to sleep or, worse still, forced him into feigning sleep so he wouldn’t have to tell me that he’d ‘never heard such rot’.

As always, Richie Benaud managed to play things perfectly.

Forgettable game, unforgettable memory!

JIM MAXWELL

Since joining the ABC in 1973, Jim Maxwell has covered more than 280 Tests in a career that has included numerous tours — among them those to the West Indies, South Africa and the Indian subcontinent, and to England for Ashes Tests. The distinctive Maxwell voice has been Australian cricket’s ‘sound of summer’ on the radio for many years, just as Alan McGilvray’s was before him. A straight shooter with expert knowledge, Jim has also covered many other sports, most notably both rugby codes, hockey (at three Olympic Games) and golf. He became president of the Primary Club of Australia in 2009.

IF CRICKET HAD EVER anointed a pope it would have been Richie Benaud. He was the most influential, revered and respected person in the game for 50 years. As Australian captain, he never lost a series. As a commentator, he was precise, authoritative and deliciously understated — the master of the pause. Silence marked him as the best exponent of television’s essential craft: let the picture tell the story, then utter, with appropriate gravitas, a memorably droll bon mot.

If you ran a poll today on who is the most popular cricket commentator in Australia, Richie would still rank No. 1. He is immortalised in beige, with that prominent lower lip and his acute analysis, and with Billy Birmingham’s parody recalled by the fans’ refrain: two for two hundred and twenty-two.

As a commentator, he concentrated on the game at hand, rarely dwelt on the past and was always respectful of the players — notwithstanding their foibles and failures. A wild-slog dismissal was ‘clever bowling’; a rank delivery urged a reflective comment, such as, ‘He might have lost his length there.’

He played in an era of austerity. No one earned any money then from playing in the Australian team. In his early years, there were no celebrations at the fall of a wicket. It was a game. Yet Richie was the first tactile captain, breaking the mould of restraint with enthusiastic enjoyment of the moment.

For a young lad at the SCG lucky enough to see so many great NSW and Australian players — the likes of Neil Harvey, Alan Davidson, Norman O’Neill, Bob Simpson, Brian Booth, Bill Lawry, Graham McKenzie and Wally Grout — Richie was one of many heroes. Positioned between the stellar careers of Bill O’Reilly and Shane Warne, he was the match-winning wrist-spinner of his time. The memory of listening on a crackling radio to his around-the-wicket performance at Manchester in 1961 reverberates now as much as does hearing his call of Shane Warne’s ball of the century at the same ground in 1993.

He could surprise us, invariably with great effect. Richie was a long-time patron of the Australian Cricket Media Association, and one day in the 1980s he was asked to say a few words and present the annual ‘emerging cricketer of the year’ award to a young Steve Waugh. We were in Adelaide, in the old stand near the Chappell Bar, and Richie made a few observations about Steve and then added. ‘But what I really like about him is that he’s got a bit of shit in him.’ And that was it.

I first met and interviewed Richie in 1975 for a program on the 1960–61 Tied Test series. Looking back, it was a disappointment that he was never asked to work on the ABCTV coverage in those years leading up to the start of World Series Cricket, which so transformed the presentation of the game on television.

My respect and admiration for him deepened through the last decade when he was Twelfth Man at the Primary Club. Every appearance he made at one of our functions was greeted rapturously by the audience, and he gave an ear to all comers who wanted a moment with him at the annual ‘Marathon Cricket’ matches at the SCG.

Richie Benaud was unique: a great all-rounder and leader whose devotion to the game will be remembered as nothing less than phenomenal.

MARK TAYLOR

Mark ‘Tubby’ Taylor succeeded Allan Border as Australian cricket captain in 1994. In the next four-and-a-half years, he led Australia to three Ashes triumphs, famous series victories in the West Indies, South Africa and Pakistan, and to the 1996 World Cup final. Arguably his two greatest achievements as a batsman came at either end of his playing career: 839 runs in his first full Test series, in England in 1989; and his epic 334 not out in the second Test at Peshawar in 1998, which equalled Sir Donald Bradman’s then Australian record. A few months later, Mark appeared in his 104th and final Test, and was named Australian of the Year. Soon after, he joined the Nine commentary team.

IN THE COMMENTARY BOX, Richie Benaud was not the sort of guy who’d tell you: ‘This is how you do it,’ or, ‘This is when you speak and this is when you don’t speak.’ Richie’s attitude was much more along the lines of: ‘You’ve been employed to commentate on the game. Just go for it. Put forward your opinions. Speak when you think you’ve got something to say and you can add to the pictures.’

I started in the commentating business in 1999 and before too long Channel Nine was putting me in the box from time to time, sharing the hosting role with Richie. He was in the driver’s seat as we ran through various things to be covered before the start of play. He would bounce things off me as I picked up some confidence and progressively I got the hang of it.

One morning at the MCG, in the 2002–03 season from memory, I sat with him during a rain delay. ‘In you go, Richie and Mark,’ was the direction that day. Richie took his time. The fact was he never rushed anywhere, but the way he moved this day was slow even for him. Finally, he arrived. By then, I was all wired up and ‘plugged in’ to the director. A voice came down the line: ‘One minute to air, one minute to air.’ And Richie was sitting there fiddling around with his earpiece. Eventually, he put it down, called the floor manager over and said, ‘This earpiece is not working.’

With that, the floor manager ran from the room to get Richie’s back-up earpiece. Meanwhile, I’m hearing a new message: ‘Thirty seconds to air, thirty seconds to air.’ Finally, Richie gets the second earpiece. But immediately he declares, ‘Ah, no, this isn’t working either.’ Next I hear: ‘Ten seconds to air …’

Alongside me, Richie casually pulls out his earpiece and says, ‘It’s all yours, Mark.’

Gulp!

It was down to me. I had to get us through the next five minutes of live television …

There were butterflies that day, I can tell you. I needed to listen to the director in my ear, set the scene for our audience, direct questions to Richie … provide something that would be worthwhile and make sense to the viewers.

To this day, I hold the deepest suspicions about the events of that morning. ‘This earpiece is not working,’ he claimed. I reckon it was Richie’s way of saying: ‘Here you go, Mark. You handle being in the No. 1 chair for a little while!’

I guess it was a vote of confidence, but I was thinking back then, You bastard! You did that deliberately!

I must have fumbled through okay; the fact being, I’m still around today.

There were many lessons to be learned from Richie, the prince of cricket commentators. Take, for example, the time at the WACA in Perth in 2001–02 when I was doing ball-by-ball commentary and Richie was sitting next to me. Shane Warne was batting and on 99. He had never scored a Test hundred. Australia’s No. 11, Glenn McGrath, was at the other end. Warnie, no doubt, was a bit nervous about being stranded one short of his maiden ton. He blocked three straight deliveries from New Zealand’s Daniel Vettori … we all knew something big was going to happen …

Vettori bowled a nice ‘floater’ and Warnie went after it …

This was my call of the moment: ‘He goes for it … There’s a man out there … He’s getting under it …. And he’s got it! And Shane Warne … tragically … finishes on 99.’

That’s how I left it. And I was thinking, Well, that wasn’t too bad. I’m quite happy with that. I looked at Richie, whose job was to add some colour to my ball-by-ball. He said absolutely nothing. The silence was deafening. Then the director was in my ear, saying, ‘Throw to the break, throw to the break.’

So I said, ‘Australia all out 351. New Zealand’s second innings will start after the break.’

The following morning, I was up the back of the box when Richie arrived. He walked up to me and said, ‘Mark, can I have a little word?’

‘Sure,’ I said.

He steered me into a side room and there reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a note. ‘Do with this as you see fit,’ he said.

It was like Mission: Impossible. I was almost waiting for the note to explode, as I opened it gingerly. It read:

Tragedy. Kids dying in Ethiopia every day is a tragedy. The sinking of the Titanic was a tragedy. Shane Warne making 99 is not a tragedy.

Four weeks later, on the final day of the Boxing Day Test at the MCG, South Africa’s Jacques Kallis was run out for 99. Up in the commentary box, I shouted again, ‘What a tragedy!’ Quickly, I glanced to where Richie was seated. He just gave me a little shake of the head.

Message received … and understood.

It was in South Africa during the 2003 World Cup that I felt I really got to know Richie Benaud, even though by then we had worked together for more than three years. During an Australian summer, you often feel as if the work schedule is something like: go to the ground, commentate, quick dinner, back to the hotel to prepare for the next day, sleep, same again. If there is a gap between games, you head home, however briefly. You don’t really get to know someone all that well with such a routine. But we were in South Africa for seven weeks, with sometimes days between games, so there was a lot of golf played. Richie loved his golf, because he could get away with just two or three other people for five hours or so without all the other distractions. I came to realise that he was really a shy man who didn’t want to be the centre of attention. He enjoyed his own time and his own space.

I have to say that over there in South Africa he took my money regularly on various golf courses. He had a Honma two wood with which he just kept donging the ball down the middle, while I was spraying it everywhere. He kept saying to me, ‘You should get one of these.’ Early on, I was agreeing with him. By the time Ricky Ponting’s team had won the World Cup, I was more inclined to say, ‘Jam your Honma up your …!’

He was in his early 70s by then, playing off 12 or 14 — a steady golfer who enjoyed knocking it down the middle, say 180 to 200 metres, and chipping up. He was pretty competitive, but I think most of all, as I said, he enjoyed the peace and quiet of the golf course.

It was so special to have known Richie and to have worked with him. The experience of commentating with him was an invaluable masterclass. I am now fully aware that it is no easy thing to gaze down the barrel of the camera, with perhaps as many as two million people or more staring back at you, hanging on your every word and gesture. The early, pioneering days of TV cricket commentary must have been particularly nerve-racking. But he did it all supremely well.

Richie was on his own in the commentary business. To have been part of his team and to have worked with him was very special — a privilege and a pleasure.

TONY COZIER

Tony Cozier has been the West Indies’ premier cricket writer and commentator stretching back to the 1960s.

IT WAS AN OPPORTUNITY not to be missed. It was September 2013 and Richie Benaud would be in Barbados for the first time since appropriately delivering the annual Sir Frank Worrell memorial lecture at the University of the West Indies, Barbados campus, 20 years earlier.

At 83, Richie was unlikely to come again; as it sadly turned out, it was his last chance to catch up with five of the West Indian survivors from the unforgettable 1960–61 series in Australia when he, as inventive home captain, and Worrell, his similarly minded West Indies counterpart, influenced their teams into an exuberant approach to the game that revived the fading image of Test cricket.

Immediately sparked by the unprecedented tie first-up in Brisbane, the series captured the public’s imagination to such an extent that 100,000 people thronged the streets of Melbourne to hail their popular visitors at the tour’s end. It was a phenomenon unheard of, before or since.

A lunch at one of Barbados’ top restaurants, overlooking the spectacular Rockley beach on the island’s south coast, seemed the ideal setting for Benaud to be joined by his 1960–61 challengers: Garry Sobers, Wes Hall, Seymour Nurse, Cammie Smith and Peter Lashley. Everton Weekes, 88 at the time, was also along; he had piled up runs while Benaud twirled his leg-spin in the final Test of the 1951–52 series down-under and the 1955 series in the Caribbean. Now they were Sir Garry, Sir Wes and Sir Everton.

I knew them all as friends, principally from years of covering the West Indies wherever they ventured, and Benaud from the eight seasons in Australia as part of the Channel Nine panel, learning the intricacies of television — as opposed to radio — commentary under his guidance. I first met Richie’s wife and soulmate, Daphne, when she was secretary to the renowned cricket writer, EW Swanton.

I was in no doubt they would all be enthusiastic about the idea. Yet the exercise turned out to be not quite as straightforward as it appeared.

As keen as he was, Richie had one caveat. He was coming for an event unrelated to cricket (it was a special birthday celebration of a close friend of the Benauds, a Trinidadian long since resident in Sydney) and he didn’t want any diversion from the occasion.

‘One possible problem that springs to mind is if media outlets demand access with cameras, tape recorders and notebooks, something which, if it happens, would certainly detract from the idea,’ he emailed when I put my lunch proposal to him. He was, after all, then as famous for his second career as television’s most authoritative commentator as he was as captain and player.

I nervously assured him that wouldn’t be the case, that I had it all under control. So the date was set, the restaurant booked, the local contingent confirmed and sponsorship agreed with the Cricket Legends of Barbados group. I got my son Craig busy designing a four-page menu, entitled ‘Remembering the Great Times’, carrying images of the seven players along with the iconic photograph of the final run-out of the Tied Test, the summarised scores of the matches and, of course, the menu: Opening Batsmen (starters); Middle Order (main course); Tail-Enders (sweets).

Then, suddenly, a setback.

Richie had fallen in the shower at his west coast villa and damaged his ribs. After examination at a nearby clinic, he was transferred to a private hospital on the outskirts of Bridgetown for a couple of days’ observation.

Crestfallen, I cancelled the restaurant reservation and advised the others of the situation. Somehow, word got back to Richie. Daphne called to say that whatever I had done, I should undo it since Richie was adamant he wasn’t going to let a little pain and some tight strapping around his upper body put him off. He would be there at the appointed time.

So the lunch arrangements were restored and, to their shared delight, the invitations to the local contingent reinstated. There was only one anxious moment when Richie arrived at the restaurant; as Wes Hall approached as if to greet him with a hug, he recoiled. ‘No hugs today!’ he exclaimed, pointing to his rib cage.

The group — including Daphne, Michele Kennedy-Green, the birthday girl from Sydney, and her sister, Patricia — took their seats at a round table at 1.10pm. We reluctantly broke up three hours later.

After glasses were raised in memory of those of the 1960–61 team who had passed on — Sir Frank, who died of leukaemia, aged 42, Sir Conrad Hunte, Gerry Alexander and Alf Valentine — the banter became increasingly animated, the stories more and more richly embellished, the laughter louder, Cammie Smith’s as infectious as ever.

It was just what everyone had expected.

MARK NICHOLAS

Mark Nicholas, the former Hampshire captain, presents the cricket on Channel Nine in Australia and Channel 5 in Britain.

HE WAS FATHER, UNCLE, brother and friend. He was our conscience and our guiding light. In an age of much madness, he made sense. He held firm when others doubted and let go when those around him needed to fly. His wise counsel was without compare, his kindness unconditional. There was something elemental about him, like the wind and the rain. And he was summer’s sunshine. He was a constant in all our lives. But now he has gone. The memories, the sights and sound of him, will live with us forever.

We, that is the Channel Nine commentary team, last saw him in person at the Sydney Cricket Ground in November 2014. When he arrived on the outfield in front of the Members Pavilion where we had gathered, there was a general shuffling. Richie had been unseen and virtually unheard of for a year since the car crash that all but ended his career in television and the news that he was to appear at the Nine Network’s launch of the ‘Sizzling Summer of Cricket’ was greeted with immense excitement.

The crash had damaged a couple of vertebrae and the suggestion of surgery to the spine had lingered around for most of the previous Australian summer. He made no fuss, of course, but admitted that he was far from ready to bowl 30 overs off the reel on a hot Sydney day. The surgery never happened. Apparently, a natural fusion was already taking place. Instead, the medics found some melanomas. Radiation and chemotherapy are not anyone’s game. The treatment had taken its toll. I suggested that it had been a rough year. ‘Roughish,’ he replied, with the understatement that has hallmarked his life.

Anyway, Richie turned up bang on time for the photo shoot and though the joy in greeting him was uninhibited, we were all sad to see him so diminished. He carried himself with fortitude and typical grace but he was clearly weak. It seemed absurd that he had retired from the commentary box in England almost 10 years earlier, but it is a fact. On that early September day at The Oval in 2005, the producer of Channel 4’s cricket coverage, Gary Franses, had sent him across the ground to be alongside me and the others in our commentary team to say goodbye. Channel 4 had lost the rights to cricket in the UK.

The crowd rose to him with as much bonhomie as they had to the England team who, moments earlier, had won the Ashes after a summer of cricket that held the nation spellbound. Moved by their enthusiasm and warmth, Benaud shed a tear. At least, so said Tony Greig, who walked with him. Richie never denied it.

He was good to us all: always by our side, a constant source of wisdom and encouragement. No one has sold the game of cricket with greater skill; few played it with greater flair.

His minimalism was a lifestyle. The footprint was everywhere, though best illustrated in his television work both in front of the camera and behind the microphone. Witness: ‘West Indies cruising to victory here — all Carl Hooper has to do is keep his head as Shane Warne switches to bowl round the wicket into the rough outside leg stump.’ At which point, Hooper charges down the pitch and has a mighty heave at Warne. The ball spins and catches the leading edge of Hooper’s bat. It is about to drop into Steve Waugh’s hands as Benaud says, ‘Oh Carl,’ and nothing more.

When Channel 4 nicked the television rights off the BBC, Benaud was a must-get and entitled to first-class on British Airways. After Channel 4’s first day on air, Giles Smith reviewed the coverage in the Telegraph. He opened with a sentence that went something like this: ‘If Channel 4 put a program to air about sex that revealed naked transvestites debating with one another the merits of their actions and then giving a display of their activities, it might just get away with it as long as Richie Benaud was there to say, “Morning, everyone.”’ With one of those superb catchphrases, Benaud had repaid the network’s faith and introduced the game to its new, initially uncertain, audience.

At the end of the summer of 2002, we took him to lunch at The Ivy in London. The room was full of the great and the good — Frost and Parkinson, Mrs Beckham, Michael Winner, to name a few — but it went silent when he glided in. You should have seen the punters gawp. And the waiters, too. In general, Richie kept himself to himself, which is a powerful weapon. Because of it, public appearances became a parade.

I miss him. I’m sure we all do. To have him back amongst us that day in November brought such pleasure.

The day Richie died I googled the word ‘dignity’. It says: ‘The state or quality of being worthy of honour or respect.’ There you go, that is Richie Benaud in a simple definition. From the first day of a glorious cricket career to his last as a universally admired and loved communicator of the most beautiful game, he was the very best.

Our privilege was to have sat at his table.

DAVID GYNGELL

David Gyngell became the chief executive officer of the Nine Entertainment Co. — which owns a string of businesses, including the Nine television network — in November 2010. A keen sports fan, David heads a network that for years has held broadcast rights to major top-rating sports, including cricket and rugby league. He has links that go all the way back to the introduction of television into Australia in 1956, being the son of the pioneering Bruce Gyngell, who was prominent in UK and Australian TV for 50 years.

RICHIE BENAUD WAS THE gold plating around our logo at Channel Nine, akin to Steve Jobs at Apple. In any successful organisation there are always people of a certain persona, who provide an overarching element. That element is class — and it’s an ageless quality that doesn’t come and go with trends. I’m sure that to everyone who knew Richie even distantly, he epitomised class and respect. What he gave to Kerry Packer at the beginning of World Series Cricket was this strong grounding in class, and it provided a calming effect in turbulent times. He was always surrounded by strong forthright figures in the commentary box, yet there was never any doubt who was the captain of our team.

Increasingly, from when I first met him when I was a teenager during WSC, to have the chance to spend some time with Richie was something of a religious moment. After all, as I came to realise, I was meeting the ‘pope of cricket’! He was one of those blokes who, if you knew he was going to be there when you walked into a room, you always checked yourself. And you weren’t doing it out of fear; it was out of respect. Richie had presence. He’d walk into a room to meet Kerry Packer and Kerry would stand up and pull out a chair for him. I never heard KP raise his voice to Richie. In my own life, there are only a couple of people whom I’ve held in such reverence and respect as I did Richie.

Of the Master Commentator, I think of the quiet moments and how he was the complete minimalist in approach. He could be intimidating from that point of view. Sometimes his silences — the things unsaid — were as powerful as things he did say.

Someone made the comment to me in the days after his death that Richie was ‘bigger than Bradman’. It’s an intriguing contention. Bradman’s amazing statistics say what has to be said about him and people inevitably revert to them when talking about him. There is not so much mention of the man. Richie’s statistics aren’t anything like Bradman’s, but as a human being and contributor to the game of cricket, he has no peer.

He never sought public attention. For a long time at Nine we tried to get him to do a 60 Minutes story, or a This Is Your Life special to honour him at the Logies. He wouldn’t accept any of it, just as the state funeral offered on his death was never going to be for him.

I learned many things about him along the way …

He never quibbled about money or asked for pay rises. He had no manager and arranged his own business. Agreements were reached on a simple handshake.

He became more statesmanlike as he got older, but there was always a dash of cheek and flair around when he ‘let down’. You’d go to dinner with him on such a night and the waiter might ask, ‘Red or white, Mr Benaud?’

And Richie would answer simply, ‘Yes.’

He loved his trips to France and the never-ending summers, but Australia was where he was most happy. The last time I saw him was at his home at Coogee, and he told me how he was just finishing his first winter in Australia in 40 years.

And he loved the Australian Golf Club. It was so fitting that the farewell celebration, remembering his life, was held there overlooking the course, bringing together the people he and Daphne wanted to be there.

We’ll never be able to replace Richie at Channel Nine. But we’ll work hard to make sure that the qualities and the lessons and the colour and movement he brought to cricket commentary are still much in mind. One legacy (of many) he leaves is the link he had with younger generations via Billy Birmingham’s work, with much of Billy’s humour circling around Richie, and in the rise and rise of ‘The Richies’, with the numbers in that group totalling in the hundreds now and likely to be a colourful part of Sydney Tests for many seasons to come.

We’ll all miss Richie Benaud. He was one of those rare people you brush against in life … and realise forevermore how fortunate you are that you did.

STEVE CRAWLEY

Steve Crawley, head of sport at Channel Nine, worked closely with Richie until the end. He marvelled at the seamless blend of man and commentator.

RICHIE BENAUD LOVED MUSIC, his favourite piece being Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Memory. Not often but at times, in the quietness of a long day at the cricket, or in the evening, you’d hear him humming.

Memory

All alone in the moonlight

I can smile at the old days

I was beautiful then

I remember the time I knew what happiness was

Let the memory live again

He was a beautiful man, Richie, a gentle man and gentleman.

Even when Warnie bowled the ball of the century, Richie in commentary never yelled. All he said was: ‘He’s done it,’ before adding after a pause, ‘Gatting has absolutely no idea what has happened to it … still doesn’t know.’

Richie had rules. When it came to cricket commentary, they were written down:

• Your role is to be a well-informed friend — a friend who knows all the strategies, knows all the players, the officials … for that matter, most of the fans in the stadium. And shares the viewers’ deep love for and attachment to the sport.
• Don’t ever talk over play. When the bowler begins his run, shut up. If you’re in the middle of saying something — stop. Pick up again when you know the result of the ball.
• Don’t fight the swell. Call the play quickly. Pause. Let the roar rise and drop. Then come back in.
• Never forget that silence can be the greatest weapon you have in your armoury.
• Television works pretty much like a sports team. At the risk of rolling out the clichés — there’s no ‘I’ in team and there are two ‘I’s’ in nitwit.
• The final word is to treat your viewers as family — respect them and they’ll respect you.

In many ways, across a number of generations now, Richie’s deep knowledge, insight and love of cricket have helped legions of people, particularly women, across the world better appreciate the game. Anyone could see the Chappell brothers, Tendulkar, Viv Richards and Malcolm Marshall, Botham and Gower, Sir Richard Hadlee, Lillee and Thommo, the Waughs and Warnie, Taylor, Gilchrist and Ponting … anyone could see they were good. But Richie could tell you in a sentence why they were better than good. Just like that.

The calling stopped after his car crash at Coogee. October 23, 2013. On the way home from hitting practice balls at the Australian Golf Club, he mounted the nature strip in his beloved 1963 Sunbeam Alpine and slammed into a brick wall. Richie broke his sternum and damaged other parts that hurt and bled. We think he blacked out behind the wheel before crashing but we’ll never know for sure.

Early in the rehab his doctors discovered the skin cancers that would lead to all the chemotherapy and then radiation treatment. In late March 2015, Richie, along with Daphne and the doctors, decided the treatment would stop. For a few days he slept. Then, on April 9, sitting at his bedside, Daphne smiled and said in her beautiful English accent, ‘Rich, you don’t have to keep up appearances anymore.’ He died at 4.30 the following morning, aged 84.

Over the years much has been made of the fact Richie’s mum, Rene, lived to 104 but as he’d tell you on the quiet, she had a fall when 102 and spent the next two years lying there wishing she were dead. Not Richie. Until the week before he died he never gave up hope. ‘Going along slowly but nicely, thank you,’ he’d say. ‘Back walking. Steady as she goes.’

We worked together on a number of pieces for Nine’s summer of cricket in 2014–15. I’d write the words, he’d read them and then we’d get the broadcast team together and cover it with pictures, always with the understanding he could change any word at any time. And he only ever changed the scripts once.

We were doing a sad piece about the death of young cricketer Phillip Hughes, when Richie changed the line ‘God bless you, son’ to ‘Rest in peace, son’. He looked up afterwards and whispered, ‘I don’t do God.’

Such an interesting man; he could tell you so many fascinating yarns without ever sounding boastful or big-headed or up himself. Not once did he accept an individual award because he always felt part of a team. He spoke of Don Bradman and Robert Menzies not like they were knights of the realm, which they were, but as mates, plain and simple. Richie and Daphne were close to Don and Jessie Bradman.

‘Don and Richie had a great rapport,’ Daphne would say. ‘I could listen to them for hours — and did. Don’s quiet wit never failed to entertain.’

Sir Robert taught Richie the power of the pause … Menzies cleverly using the tactic to add theatre to prime ministerial speeches. Richie? Lip ribbon microphone in hand, Richie would adopt the art of the pause to command circumstances and audiences much more important than Canberra.

Still, most kids today wouldn’t know he even played. A right-handed all-rounder, he bowled leg-spin, taking 945 first-class wickets and scoring almost 12,000 runs. So proud yet typically humbled to have been the first player in history to achieve the magical Test double of 2000 runs and 200 wickets.

His Test debut came in 1952 and he was captain of Australia from 1958 until 1963. He played with Miller, Davidson, Harvey and Lindwall, Morris and Lawry. Bill Lawry. Richie loved Bill Lawry, even though he was a Victorian. It took a West Australian, DK Lillee, to break his bowling record, the most wickets by an Australian. So he could play, don’t worry.

But he was a better commentator. The best ever.

Richie Benaud. A beautiful man.