For as long as I have been alive – and thats thirty plus years now – Richie Benaud has been a part of cricket. Sure, lately he’s been seen on our screens less and less, but there was always that feeling that he was there, behind the scenes, marking down the bowling figures or acutely watching a replay, ready to pronounce something profound about this batsman’s technique or that bowler’s action.
Despite never being very good at it, I’ve loved cricket more than any other sport. I grew up pestering either my dad or my older brother to stop watching the game and instead to come and play outside with me. Out there, I was emulating my heroes – Bruce Reid for a short while, later on, more Steve Waugh. As I got older, we played less and watched more, and those moments, listening to Richie’s commentary, are some of my favourite memories.
To me, and it’s curious, considering its hardly-Australian heritage, there is something that is essentially Australian about cricket. In the wilted postures of fielders, or the bruises worn by batsman, a poet might be able to imagine a broader scale of conflict than that played on the field. It’s a game played against the other team, sure, but it’s also a game played against and with the elements – heat, rain, wind, humidity, even the pitch – especially the pitch! – plays a part in deciding the outcome. And once my best-forgotten cricketing glory days were behind me, like the kid that can’t play an instrument but knows more about the music than anyone else in the band, I shunted my passion into reading and studying the game. And who else was there to guide me, but Richie Benaud? Far from the endless reminisces of Mark Taylor or the childish enthusiasms of Michael Slater, Richie seemed to understand that for commentary, as with many things in life, less is more. For him, it was all about the game that was happening in front of him – whether it was Twenty20, one day cricket or test matches, Richie seemed to love them all, and he would willingly share that love of the game with everybody, anybody who would listen. There are a hundred stories of Richie the gentleman out there – and I imagine there are a thousand more that people don’t share. Long may his influence reign in this age of tattooed and thuggish swagger.
There was something yoda-like about the way he would utter a pronouncement in his curious tones. You could imagine him sitting in the commentary box, a zen oasis of calm thoughtfulness amidst the carnage, completely disregarding everything going on around him, faithful, as ever, to his love of the game. And what a love it was – Richie saw his first cricket game when he was 10. I’m pretty sure he would have been watching as much of the recent World Cup as his health permitted. We all should be so luck to find a love that lasts half as long.
So, goodbye Richie. Well played. Australian cricket, and indeed, the whole cricketing world, are poorer without your wisdom.