Читать книгу Botham’s Century: My 100 great cricketing characters - Ian Botham, Ian Botham - Страница 13

Being in the same commentary box as Richie Benaud meant just as much to me as being on the same cricket field as Viv Richards. Richie is the doyen of cricket commentators, the television voice of cricket, just as John Arlott and Brian Johnston were the sound of leather on willow for radio listeners. This cultured Australian, of French extraction, has made an outstanding contribution to the game for most of his 70-plus years, as a leg-spinner, fielder, batsman, captain, thinker and innovator, as well as a writer and broadcaster.

The key to Richie’s success and his charm is his skill as a communicator and competitor. I’ve not always found a great affinity with former players. The majority, and nearly all of those from Yorkshire (my mentor Brian Close being the notable exception), are frozen in time. When I hear those distinctive Yorkie vowels, I can’t help but recall that famous Monty Python sketch with two old-timers trying to outdo each other with how hard their life had been, how they had to walk two miles to the outside toilet, survive on one slice of bread a month, and so on. We young whippersnappers don’t know we’re born.

Not Richie. He’s not stuck in a time warp. He looks for positives, not negatives. There are no cheap shots at today’s game or the youngsters. Richie hates sloppy and unthinking cricket, and is not afraid to say so. But most of his stinging criticism has been reserved for those who have the power to run the game, but don’t – like the ICC and ECB. Very occasionally, they’ve sought his opinion. I remember a few years ago a conversation Richie had with Raman Subba Row, then chairman of the then TCCB. Subba Row was complaining about the increasing international schedule and asked Richie what was the solution to playing too many Test matches. ‘Play fewer,’ was the reply.

Richie’s playing career was marked by the same down-to-earth common sense. Younger generations may admire him as the consummate performer behind the microphone, but he was a player of the highest quality and one of the finest cricket captains of all time. His record of four losses in 27 Tests and no losing series as Australian captain is impressive enough, but mere statistics do not do justice to his tenure. He communicated with his players, the media (Richie was the first to invite journalists into the dressing-room for a chat after a day’s play) and, probably most importantly, cricket fans and general public. He and the West Indies captain Frank Worrell got together before the 1960–61 series in Australia and declared their intention to entertain. They kept their word, and the public responded. The first match ended with the run-out that ensured cricket’s first tied Test – more than 90,000 people, then a world record, were at the MCG for the second day of the fifth Test.

Richie was also an instinctive sports psychologist, although there were no such fancy titles in those days. One of my favourite stories concerned his handling of Ken ‘Slasher’ Mackay at Dacca in Pakistan. Richie’s instructions were clear: on a unforgiving pitch, the ball must be bowled at the stumps, not outside them. After 40-odd overs in the oppressive heat, Mackay let one slip wide and it was thumped to the boundary. Richie walked over to the bowler. ‘What’s the matter. Getting tired?’ he asked.

A couple of overs later Richie was back, congratulating Mackay for hitting the stumps: ‘That’s where I wanted it.’

Richie, as cricketer, captain and commentator, is the finished article – polished, poised and precise. But, as is the case with most people who make what they do seem easy, no cricketer worked harder at his craft. He spent more time in the nets than I spent out of them. Nor was he an overnight success. Eventually, his leg-spin brought him 248 test wickets, but his only highlight on his debut tour to England in 1953 came in the final match at Scarborough, when he hit a world-record 11 sixes.

His elevation to the captaincy in 1958 was a surprise. Ian Craig went down with hepatitis and everyone expected Neil Harvey to get the job. England had enjoyed three successive Ashes series before sailing for Australia in 1958–59 with one of the most talented teams including May, Graveney, Cowdrey, Laker, Lock, Statham, Evans, Bailey, Dexter and Trueman to leave these shores. Australia won 4–0.

His most famous Ashes moment as captain came at Old Trafford where, five years earlier, he had twice been one of Laker’s 19 victims. England, having come from 1–0 down, seemed certain to go 2–1 up when going into the final Test at the Oval. England were well on their way at 150 for 1, chasing 256 in four hours, for victory. For most captains, instincts would have told them to slow down the action and waste time. Not Richie; if Australia were going down, they were going down fighting. He went on the attack. After removing Dexter for 76, he bowled May round his legs for a duck in a spell of 5 for 12 in 25 deliveries. Australia won by 51 runs and regained the Ashes. For once, I’m forced to agree with Ray Illingworth. In his book, Captaincy, this was his verdict on Richie: ‘The nearest thing we are ever going to get to a perfect cricket captain. He matches boyish enthusiasm with ceaseless concentration, calculated attack and non-stop encouragement.’

Richie lost credibility and friends in some circles with his involvement in Kerry Packer’s World Series Cricket. But he deserves a pat on the back, as far as I’m concerned. Richie put his money were his mouth was; cricket must evolve and go forward. Without Packer and the support of influential cricket folk like Richie, I’m not sure we’d be enjoying the resurgence in Test cricket that we are today. Richie puts some of the credit down to Shane Warne and his impact on the game over the 1990s. Always generous, without handing out accolades lightly, Richie is happy to acknowledge Warnie as ‘the greatest leg-spinner of all time’.

I’m rarely intimidated, but I must admit to feeling slightly daunted when I slipped into a commentary chair next to the great man for the first time. I needn’t have worried. Richie has never felt threatened by young upstarts and is always willing to help. He’s exactly the same on the golf course, where I’ve been able to gain first-hand experience of his competitive instincts. People forget that ‘Botham’s Ashes’ summer of 1981 didn’t start that well … defeat at Trent Bridge, a pair at Lord’s, followed by my resignation as captain. I could sense that there was general satisfaction that I was on that downslope at last. Not from Richie, who interviewed me several times that summer. He knew what I was going through and was very supportive. Always the innovator, Richie also has an extremely dry, if not arid, sense of humour. During Mike Atherton’s 1994–95 tour of Australia, I heard, ‘Gatting at fine leg’ – then a pause before Richie added, ‘that’s a contradiction in terms.’ Typical Richie. Understated. He taught me that less is more and silence is golden when the viewer can see the action. When he speaks, Richie Benaud is always worth listening to, because he has something to say. That’s why he has remained at the top of his game for almost half a century.