Richie Benaud

Born: October 6, 1930.

Died: April 10, 2014.

Just as there were millions of people who knew Bill McLaren's voice, even though they couldn't have told you the difference between a scrum-half and a stand-off, so Richie Benaud, who has died at the age of 84, gained the attention of generations of people for whom cricket was a no-go area.

Both these exalted commentators were blessed with a rich timbre, an encyclopaedic knowledge, and could convey what they were witnessing without recourse to hyperbole or jingoistic chauvinism.

It's a rare gift, but there again, Benaud's life was a testimony to eloquence and lack of ego. He captained Australia with a rare combination of passion, pragmatism and tough-as-teak professionalism, but he never allowed his desire for domination to supersede his belief in fair play and the notion that cricket was something to be cherished and celebrated. From his early days in Penrith, just west of Sydney, where he was born into a family of Huguenot extraction, the youngster was devoted to the game and started making an impression while he was at Parramatta High School, encouraged by his father, Lou, who was no mean bowler himself. But he was also conscientious in his studies, showed an aptitude for writing, which made him such an excellent journalist and broadcaster in his later life, and practised incessantly on every aspect of the game in which he excelled. In which light, nobody should have been surprised that he excelled in nearly everything he did, on and off the field, throughout his remarkable career.

He made his Test debut against the West Indies in 1951 and there were no instant fairy tales as he initially struggled to master opponents on the international stage. Many questioned his selection during these early travails, not least when Benaud was dismissed for a duck and had his front teeth demolished while fielding at gully against South Africa during a contest which coincided with his honeymoon. Yet he persevered, displaying the myriad qualities which distinguished his subsequent career, and later declared there was no substitute for hard work. The virtues of that philosophy gradually became evident as he blossomed into a true all-rounder, helping the baggy-green brigade win a series in the Caribbean, both by beguiling and bewitching opponents with his spin bowling and crashing a century in just 78 minutes in Jamaica.

As the 50s advanced, so did Benaud's stock. Time after time, he orchestrated recoveries for his confreres or sparked collapses among rivals and regularly demonstrated not only that he loved cricket, but fully comprehended its strategic complexities.

As the decade reached its end, nobody was surprised when he was appointed his country's captain and the results thereafter spoke for themselves. When England locked horns with his team Down Under in 1958-59, they were systematically dismantled during a 4-0 series success for the hosts. Benaud took 31 wickets at an average under 20, and claimed a further 47 in just eight Tests in India and Pakistan, to reinforce the fact - if anybody doubted it - that he was a truly world-class performer.

Perhaps more importantly, in terms of how his popularity increased with every passing year, he was an attacking skipper, somebody who believed there was no place for dull, drab tactics when spectators had paid good money to watch exciting action, and he and the Windies legend Sir Frank Worrell, conjured up a magical confrontation - including the first-ever tied Test - as Benaud strode into his spotlight.

One of the game's unfettered enthusiasts, his whole-hearted enthusiasm didn't always endear him to the more stuffy administrators, and he was one of the first TV stars in Australia, appearing in advertisements, and offering his (always articulate and intelligent) opinions to those who sought him out.

He earned an OBE in 1961 for his services to cricket, but, in many respects, this was merely the first act in a long-running drama.

Because, even after Benaud's retirement, he was instrumental in transforming the whole culture of cricket. Until the mid-1970s, players were largely treated like chattels by their governing bodies; if they were fortunate enough to gain a benefit season after two decades of service, that was as good as it got. But Benaud and other like-minded people argued there would be no game without them, a perspective which led to the creation of Kerry Packer's so-called "circus" in a move which split the sport asunder, but eventually proved a blessing for those with the talent to represent their countries on the grandest stage.

Benaud was at the centre of Packer's activities, and although several of the biggest names - including Geoffrey Boycott and Ian Botham - were not persuaded to join the fold, World Series Cricket had a seismic effect.

He was similarly influential as a commentator, adhering to the McLaren concept that "less is more", and painting vivid pictures without over-egging the pudding. When Australia's Trevor Chappell deliberately bowled underarm in 1981 to ensure his side beat New Zealand - a decision which sparked a diplomatic incident - Benaud was unequivocal in condemning the behaviour of his compatriot with the words: "It was disgraceful and one of the worst things I have ever seen done on a cricket field."

Later that year, while the rest of the BBC's pundits reacted to Botham's Headingley heroics like fans with microphones, he was a paradigm of impartiality and maintained that even-handed approach even when the Aussies extracted nearly 20 years of revenge from the end of the Eighties onwards. It summed the man up: he was an internationalist, somebody who applauded excellence whether it came from a Shane Warne, Sachin Tendulkar or Shaun Pollock.

He was also an individual who believed strenuously that cricket on television should always be free to watch. When the BBC lost the rights to screen Tests in 1999, he moved on - Sky really was the limit for him. I was in Australia when he turned 70 in 2000 and the scale of the tributes spoke for themselves as to the affection in which Benaud was held by aficionados aged eight to 80.

He might have struggled to understand why so many fans should turn up to watch matches in "Richie wigs", but he was always courteous to the younger generation, ever-so-slightly self-deprecating and in thrall to the allure of the game he graced.

In the end, skin cancer claimed him, but not before he mourned the loss of Philip Hughes, who died in a freak batting accident last November. "A boy, just beginning, 25 years of age, baggy green number 408. His father's best mate, son, brother, fighter, friend inspiration. Philip Hughes, for ever rest in peace son."

Many will feel the same way about Richie, who is survived by his wife, Daphne, his brother John and sons Greg and Jeffery.