Benaud - a 'pianist in a bordello'

Whoever devised the Wisden poll for commentary's dream team deserves an elephant stamp. Over few aspects of cricket is disagreement more commonplace - and rightly so. If someone invited themselves to your home, you'd probably form a strong view; a commentator who invites himself to your ear deserves to run a similar critical gauntlet. Nor is the unchanging partiality for Richie Benaud much of a surprise, precisely because, I think, he does behave like a civilised guest in one's home, knocking politely, wiping his feet, seldom wasting your time and never overstaying his welcome.

One of the amazing aspects of Benaud is that, in spite of his unvarying popularity, no commentator seems to pay closer attention to his craft. He has no particular motifs, no special catchphrases, relying simply on a lifetime's knowledge, applied pertinently and phrased accessibly: he places himself at the service of the game, rather than vice versa. Benaud the commentator also seldom refers to his experiences as a player, which has the effect of making him seem almost ageless, and expresses amusement when admirers enquire innocently whether he was a player: he would rank among Test cricket's elite leg-spinners and captains, of course, had he never uttered or written a word about the game.

The reasons for this are not far to seek. Benaud learned the trade a long time ago, before the age when commentators were expected to be personalities too. It is now almost fifty years since, after an Ashes tour, Benaud undertook a BBC television training course, studying the commentary styles of the likes of Henry Longhurst, Peter O'Sullevan and Dan Maskell in order to understand sport 'from the commentator's point of view'. He then accepted BBC invitations to England in 1960 as a radio commentator and in 1963 as a television commentator, between times writing the books Way of Cricket (1960),Tale of Two Tests (1962), Spin Me A Spinner (1963) and columns in Sydney's Sun and London's News of the World. He stills writes for the latter, looking at times a little like a pianist in a bordello.

Television, of course, has proved Benaud's metier. It suits his sharp captain's intuition and succinct expression. He is authoritative but not pedantic, dignified but not pompous, and never speaks unless he has something to say. Alan Ross said of Benaud the captain that he managed to give the impression that everything was part of a master plan; the same thing, I think, is true of Benaud the commentator, who deals in grand strategies undetectable to ordinary mortals. The only thing that has changed about him has been the accent. The vowels are rounder than in the 1970s and the delivery a little more deliberate; but despite being so popular that humourists strive to imitate him, he is so distinctive that none has ever quite got him right. And perhaps no one ever will.
By Gideon Haigh