Yes, I am questioning Richie Benaud’s possible return to commentary for the Sydney Test, and yes, I know I’m going to hell for saying this.
Even after a week of reflection following the announcement, hoping I would wake up to myself, my shameful stance still lingers.
We all know why this belief is disgraceful, and that’s because anything that Richie does should never be questioned. After a billion years of dodging winters and setting hearts aflutter – both women and men – he is rightly untouchable.
Such is the cocoon of adoration surrounding his deity status, if Bambi was ever remade with a gory ending for the lead role, people would say, “You can’t do that – that’s like shooting Richie Benaud.”
So yes – cuff me up for pumping a delicate leg-spinning deer fulla’ lead, and then charge me with contrarian views on a positive Benaud yarn. I know I’m a very, very bad man, and that these actions jeopardise any chance of having the doyen voice the trailer for my proposed biopic (the obvious choice after settling on a release date of 22/2/22 at 2:20).
If it’s any consolation, my radical, uncool, unAustralian and un-cricket viewpoint is made with the man’s best interests at heart.
Like everyone, when I heard that he might be hauling himself off the sickbed and back in to transmission to give the people and David Gyngell what they want, I was giddy. I had longed for a hit of Rich to break up the muppetry served to us through the hit and giggle, so anticipation levels were high.
Then I saw him.
Watching him as he shuffled around Nine’s season launch, I was shocked, and that’s even allowing for the fact I was looking at Richie Benaud. I know the debonair stud fronting the styrofoam Nine backdrop from yore has been gone for some time now, but this was different. To say he was looking and sounding a touch frail would be an understatement.
Obviously there are reasons for this. He’s had a rough trot of late, firstly copping a battering inside the shell of a pre-war model vehicle, and then undergoing treatment for skin cancer, all at the age of 84. So it’s understandable that he’s not going to bound with the litheness of a pre-teen Swedish boy.
So with the silver fox obviously doing it tough, the inevitable question must be asked: why does the man who has given himself selflessly to services in silk tonality need to urgently return to work in such a condition?
Despite years of watching Scrubs and wearing sexy nurse outfits to fancy dress parties, I’m hardly a professor in medicine. However, I’m pretty certain that barring a short-term miracle recuperation or the reversal of the ageing process before the first ball at Sydney, Richie will be close to the same condition that he was last week – a fair way below 100 per cent.
My highly-honed MD instincts also tell me that going to work is crap when you’re crook, and I’m a 30-something male who defines ‘crook’ as a shaving-related facial injury or any more than three consecutive sneezes.
Taking this in to account, I glean that when you’ve endured something akin to Richie’s recent past, facing the insufferable bluster of Mark Nicholas or the minefield of a motley script for a cross promotion should be considered highly inadvisable. Putting the feet up at home and taking it easy with Daphne over a plate of Arrowroots are thid doctor’s orders.
Put simply, Benaud owes the game nothing and he should be putting himself first in this instance. In addition to this – and again, I know I’m going to hell – I fear the potential for his legacy to be harmed if he gets on the mic in such a condition.
I’m worried that a voicebox rupture or a senior moment could cut short the innings of the greatest broadcaster in sport’s history, meaning he goes out on that well-discussed low that the champions fear when they push themselves one season too far – and that would be tragic.
The Michael Jordan of succinct insight should bow out in sweet-shooting, high-flying, power-dunking championship form, and not by skying a limp fly-ball in the minors. Whether that deserved glorious exit is in the future when he’s feeling much better, or has already occurred, we are yet to see.
In summary, Richie has given more than enough to last us 20 lifetimes and he’s a treasure that requires the ultimate care. Television bosses, the hungry masses, his doctor, and himself need to realise he has nothing left to prove.
So as I board this one-way elevator that sits on the earth’s surface, readying myself to press the button that will plummet me downwards to level 666 for an eternity without air-conditioning, I say this.
Richie: please don’t do it! And are you available in February 2022?
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