IT’S THE LATE 1970s, Rich soon turning 50. He’s en route to a town called Thika, outside Nairobi, Kenya. Sweltering. Agreed to umpire in a cricket match to raise funds for disabled children. The organiser, wife of the high commissioner, thinks because he is the drawcard he should play. And he does — against better judgment, a self-diagnosed rickety back and frozen right shoulder. A generous spirit, cricket and Benaud are synonymous.
It’s 1910, our father LR Benaud, Lou, discovering cricket on the grassy banks of the mighty Richmond River, Coraki, his birthplace. Just a little boy with a slash of fair hair having fun with his friends, wielding a rough-cut packing case slat to protect three sticks in the ground from a raggedy soft ball.
It’s 1918, a high school friend showing Lou how to bowl a leg-spinner. Dazzles his active mind. He would practise endlessly against a paling fence with chalk stumps, landing area a handkerchief on a length. Fiddled with flight, spun ’em like a top, half-a-dozen different balls, trying for seven. He was captivated by the art of deception, magic tricks for unwary batsmen. In no time at all he was playing with and against men.
It’s 1923, Lou making his mark taking all 20 wickets in a match played over two Saturdays on two different grounds. He would recall the men as mostly decent, instinctively good sports. The odd bad experience left him much the wiser: ethics and cricket are like true friends, never at their best when parted.
Lou’s father was Richard, a watchmaker and jeweller. A gentleman. Civic-minded too, several times a local mayor. Entrepreneur. Liked to organise match races, rowing and foot sprints for a pot of money, bets on the side. Wily enough to win a few himself.
One evening after dinner, dishes washed and dried, over the cribbage board young Lou told his father that for him cricket was the ‘game of games’; that the spirit of cricket had entered his heart; that he had developed what he called his ‘great love of cricket’.
It’s 1930, Lou naming his first-born Richard, vowing he would play cricket. But Richard Benaud never did roll easily off the tongue. Just a bit too starchy for the Aussie g’daymate attitudes of the time, between World Wars, the Great Depression, when Johns became Jacks and Williams were Bills. Abbreviation was soon in the air, and ‘Dick’ was popular.
Our mother Irene, but Rene to everyone, was having none of that. A dairy farmer’s daughter, she helped milk 60 to 80 cows morning and night. The product was a rich combination of quiet meditation and unbending determination. Rene took every opportunity to remind the transgressors that ‘Richie would do this’ or ‘Rich would do that’. She issued no edict, just gentle nudges in the right direction. Dick was kaput.
Lou thought parents doting and otherwise should stay in the background. Well intentioned. But when your son aged 16 shows such outstanding cricketing potential that the club’s independent selectors name him in first grade alongside you, aged 42 … what to do? Might as well sit back and enjoy the headlines: ‘Father And Son Help Beat Premiers: Cricket Shock.’
I was two. The family home was at Sutherland Road, North Parramatta. I was Rich’s ‘roomie’. Memories. Sharp dresser, Rinso-white shirts, cufflinks, striped ties and double-breasted suits, shiny shoes, sometimes brown suede. Handsome. Tanned features. Hair immaculately groomed. Never a hat.
On winter Saturday afternoons Rich would go off to play soccer. Nimble footwork, body swerve. One season scored 50 goals. His home pitch was the Parramatta asylum, patients strolling the sidelines. His junior cricket club was the Rangers, organised by a young man in a wheelchair, Sid Teale. Life’s lucky dip did poor Sid no favours, disabled since childhood by spina bifida.
When Rich was KO’d by a bumper, broke a thumb, and once in a Test at the SCG was whacked in the mouth by a square-cut, I gazed at the swathes of white sticking plaster, the bruises and cuts and wondered if my big brother was a cricketer or a prize-fighter.
Lou diligently filled scrapbooks on Rich, good news and bad. Perspective. A ready reminder for the young up-and-comer of cricket’s uncertainty. The great leveller.
It’s 1953, Rich appearing at Lord’s. The most hallowed of cricketing turf, any cricketer’s moment in time. Scoreboard: a duck and 5, two-for-plenty, too. There was a newspaper photo of Rich shaking hands with the Queen. Lou gave me the scissors and paste, my scrapbook debut.
It’s a few months later, Rich’s first Ashes tour behind him. I’m on the front verandah and, out in the middle of Sutherland Road, Lou and Rich. Lou, a combination of backstop and stumps, hanky on a length, Rich bowling. Action is occasionally interrupted by conversations and arm movements, the odd car and, once, the baker’s horse and cart. Turned out this was a coaching mission, trying to resurrect Rich’s leg-spin bowling career, which had unravelled.
It’s 1981, Rich at Coogee reflecting on his Australian Test bowling record, 248 wickets, being overtaken by the great Dennis Lillee. Did he remember that day at Sutherland Road? Yes. Not much ever escaped Rich’s memory, but as it turned out that session with Lou was special.
Lou’s cricket philosophy was simple enough: always try to play your natural game, but always listen to advice. You don’t have to take it, but consider it, and, if necessary, implement it to improve your game.
Soul-searching moment for Rich. Had to tell Lou he had listened to advice from Bill O’Reilly, curriculum vitae 774 firstclass wickets. And, as a result, he was going to change his natural style, much of which was based on Lou’s successful method — constant variety, every ball in an over different.
Fact of cricket life: Lou never played first-class cricket. Was a high achiever, but in Sydney first grade, 360 wickets. O’Reilly explained the difference: Richie, if you keep using first-grade tactics at first-class level you won’t last five minutes. Forthright Bill. Advice to Rich: instead of trying so much variety, develop one pressure ball to strangle the batsman, bait the trap, frustrate him — then snap! O’Reilly said it might take four years of hard work. Pain even. It did, and there was … a bloody, chronically raw spinning finger. But Rich never looked back.
Lou inspired in Rich his great love of cricket. That it should be played in the right spirit. Lasted a lifetime. With Rene, Lou shaped Rich’s character. He would develop many qualities … competitive but fair, dedicated but flexible, honest … and many, many more which are touched on in the pages following. You will be surprised by what you didn’t know about Richie Benaud, my brother, a champion and a true gentleman.