HE TOOK WICKETS WITH A WHOOP, SKIP AND A JUMP

ONE OF the less celebrated aspects of Richie Benaud’s remarkable career were his regular appearances in that part of the press box which houses the written journalists.

Benaud was first and foremost a television broadcaster, a man of unusually wry wit who once responded on air to colleague Chris Broad’s malapropism (‘Honestly, you run out of expletives when describing the fielding of Jonty Rhodes’) without skipping a beat: ‘Which particular one did you have in mind?’

But Benaud also penned a regular column for the News of the World, taking his place among the hacks — not all TV men take the trouble — to craft his copy whenever a Test match was going on.

It was said he would regularly file 700 or 800 words, of which maybe 150 or 200 would see the light of day. But, a professional to his core, Benaud kept on filing. He loved cricket, and he loved conveying his love, by visual means or verbal.

That was evident during his playing days. He won 63 Test t caps between January 1952 and d February 1964, collecting 248 wickets with his leg-spin (at a very good average of 27) and scoring 2,201 runs at 24. But it was the style as much as the stats.

It was often an understatedd era, typified by Jim Laker’s ’s steadfast refusal to celebrate any of the 19 wickets he took against gainst Australia at Old Trafford in 1956 (Benaud c Statham b Laker 0; Benaud b Laker 18).

Benaud did his best to change all that. Sport was fun, emotional and human. If he got a wicket, he’d do more than hitch his trousers up, Laker-style. He’d whoop and skip and jump. Take a look on YouTube at him enjoying Bob Simpson’s slip catch at Old Trafford in 1961, when his leg-breaks spirited Australia to a come-from-behind win.

These days, players go further than that. But Benaud was their spiritual forefather.

He loved not just cricket, but cricketers, too. Not everyone was enamoured by his involvement in Kerry Packer’s rebellious World Series Cricket in the late 1970s. But WSC eventually forced the establishment’s hand. Cricketers were soon paid a living wage, not the honorariums they had previously endured. Benaud’s involvement and influence were central to that.

It was as a TV commentator that Benaud came into his own. When Wisden asked him in 2003 to dispense some advice to aspiring broadcasters, he suggested: ‘Put your brain into gear before opening your mouth.’

That style — laconic, considered, dry — would become his hallmark, together with an unfailing greeting: ‘Good morning, everyone.’ When Benaud welcomed viewers, they were able to relax; the cricket was about to begin. There were times when you might hahave longed for him to express himself more trenchantly, to air hhis opinions more clearly. Surely, you wondered, he must have felt strongly about subjects other than the front-foot no-ball law.

But it was not his style — and hhe remained true to himself. ‘Above all,’ he told Wisden, ‘whenw commentating, don’t take yourself too seriously, and have fun.’ That last tip has been cheerfully taken on board by the current generation of Channel Nine commentators in Australia. And if they have been less adept at putting their brains into gear before opening their mouths, then that also reflects the almost impossibly high standards set by Benaud himself. His successors were always going to pale by comparison.

Behind it all was a quiet, imposing strength. The first time I met him, Benaud almost broke my fingers with his handshake. As a friend noted: ‘You don’t get to captain Australia with a limp wrist.’

Good night, everyone.