Cream, bone, white, off-white, ivory or beige

Is there a greater Australian living than Richie Benaud? Last night I saw him on the Alan Border medals – sort of like Aussie cricket’s Oscar night, except with Simone Warne instead of Scarlett Johansson – when he and Charlie Macartney were inducted into the Hall of Fame. As Macartney died in 1958, his biographer accepted the award with a few polite words. Then it was Richie’s turn to take the stage. He gave a ten-minute talk which, I don’t mind saying, affected me.

He represents so many qualities that we would aspire to: he’s erudite and witty under pressure, has a collection of anecdotes that would fill volumes (and they’d be volumes you would like to read), he was a great sportsman and leader. He’s also been the voice of cricket here for decades – almost like a member of the family. There are at least two generations who will not be able to separate him from their memories of waking up on a Sunday with nothing to do, then turning on the TV just in time to see the nine golden balls of the Channel 9 logo swinging into place, and that music. “Good morning viewers, and welcome to the MCG.”

There was a nice letter in the SMH yesterday about how we don’t see statues in the street of our public figures any more because all of them so obviously have clay feet. Not Richie Benaud; you could put a statue up of him, and very few people would have a problem with it. And he’s still head and shoulders above the other commentators. Just compare him to the grotesque, reptilian Ian Chappel, or genial boofheads like Tubby Taylor and Slats. He proves that you can be athletic and articulate. Mark my words, the day Richie Benaud dies, grown men will weep in this country.

Richie Benaud = Class.