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Over But Not Out
The story of a lifetime at the very centre of international cricket, from the most respected TV commentator in the game.
Few people understand cricket as well as Richie Benaud. For sixty years, as player and commentator, he has set the standards for others to follow and has witnessed all the major events in the game. No one else has found such favour with the vast numbers of cricket lovers in both Britain and Australia.
A high-class attacking batsman and masterful legspin bowler, he captained Australia in 28 of his 63 Tests, regaining the Ashes in 1958-59 and taking part in both Laker's match in 1956 and the Tied Test in 1960. His television career, which began in 1963 while he was still a Test player, has coincided with a period of astonishing change - in the way the game is played, with the increasing popularity of the shorter formats, and in the way it is broadcast, with the innovations that began with World Series Cricket.
In Over But Not Out , Richie Benaud has added extensive new material to his acclaimed Anything but . . . an Autobiography in order to cover the years since its publication; he not only revisits his long and remarkable career but also casts his eye over cricket in the 21st century. He gives his distinctive take on series such as the 2005 and 2009 Ashes and contemplates the future of the game he loves, revealing strong and sometimes surprising opinions on Twenty20, day-night games, technology, referral systems, no-balls, neutral umpires and match-fixing. Packed with stories and illuminated by his characteristic incisiveness and independent-minded good sense, Over But Not Out is required reading for all followers of the game.
Few people understand cricket as well as Richie Benaud. For sixty years, as player and commentator, he has set the standards for others to follow and has witnessed all the major events in the game. No one else has found such favour with the vast numbers of cricket lovers in both Britain and Australia.
A high-class attacking batsman and masterful legspin bowler, he captained Australia in 28 of his 63 Tests, regaining the Ashes in 1958-59 and taking part in both Laker's match in 1956 and the Tied Test in 1960. His television career, which began in 1963 while he was still a Test player, has coincided with a period of astonishing change - in the way the game is played, with the increasing popularity of the shorter formats, and in the way it is broadcast, with the innovations that began with World Series Cricket.
In Over But Not Out , Richie Benaud has added extensive new material to his acclaimed Anything but . . . an Autobiography in order to cover the years since its publication; he not only revisits his long and remarkable career but also casts his eye over cricket in the 21st century. He gives his distinctive take on series such as the 2005 and 2009 Ashes and contemplates the future of the game he loves, revealing strong and sometimes surprising opinions on Twenty20, day-night games, technology, referral systems, no-balls, neutral umpires and match-fixing. Packed with stories and illuminated by his characteristic incisiveness and independent-minded good sense, Over But Not Out is required reading for all followers of the game.
432 pages, Paperback
First published September 1, 2010
6 people are currently reading
64 people want to read
About the author
Richie Benaud
54 books7 followersRichard "Richie" Benaud OBE (born October 6, 1930 in Penrith, New South Wales) is an Australian former cricketer who, since his retirement from international cricket in 1964, has become a highly regarded commentator on the game.
Benaud was a world-class Test cricket all-rounder, blending thoughtful leg spin bowling with lower order batting aggression. Along with fellow bowling all rounder Alan Davidson, he helped restore Australia to the top of world cricket in the late 1950s and early 1960s after a slump in the early 1950s. In 1958 he became captain of the Australian cricket team and, until his retirement in 1964, took international cricket into the modern era by emphasizing the need for positive play, using his media expertise to communicate his and his team's goals clearly and effectively.
He was made a Member of the Order of the British Empire in 1961 for services to cricket.
Benaud was a world-class Test cricket all-rounder, blending thoughtful leg spin bowling with lower order batting aggression. Along with fellow bowling all rounder Alan Davidson, he helped restore Australia to the top of world cricket in the late 1950s and early 1960s after a slump in the early 1950s. In 1958 he became captain of the Australian cricket team and, until his retirement in 1964, took international cricket into the modern era by emphasizing the need for positive play, using his media expertise to communicate his and his team's goals clearly and effectively.
He was made a Member of the Order of the British Empire in 1961 for services to cricket.
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Displaying 1 - 9 of 9 reviews
May 29, 2024
Like a lot of autobiographies, it ran out of steam after a long , detailed start. The most notable aspect of Benaud's climb up the cricket ladder was the oppressive nature of administration and the games played off the field to get selected. I would have liked more of his involvement in WSC to be included but i seemed glossed over. Little wonder that Benaud was knee deep in setting Packer up against the same administrators who had caned his brother over the Addidas shoes and had regularly worked against his friends in the game such as Neil Harvey.
September 22, 2019
I particularly liked the story about the New Zealand pharmacist who provided Benaud with a curative mixture for his raw and damaged spinning finger. We have a deal of measured autobiographical material in this volume, but I get the impression we are only learning what the author wishes to reveal and no more. There's a certain coldness which I find hard to reconcile with his on field presence and the almost universal regard with which he is held by those who played with him.
September 10, 2025
#Binge Reviewing my previous Reads # Cricket
When Richie Benaud released this book, it was less a cricketer’s autobiography than a farewell note dressed up in prose, a man’s last considered words before retreating into the silence he always believed was as important as the sound. Benaud, who had already lived multiple cricketing lives—as a leg-spinning all-rounder, innovative captain, commentator par excellence, and finally sage of the press box—was never the type to indulge in self-dramatisation.
Even in book form, he resisted the pull of mawkishness. He chose restraint, brevity, and the kind of elegant understatement that had defined his commentary style. The very title, encapsulates the essence of Benaud’s ethos: a recognition that one innings has ended, yet the game—the larger game of life—still carries on.
Reading it today feels less like turning pages and more like sitting beside Richie in the commentary box at the SCG, listening to his gentle cadences, his carefully rationed words, and his willingness to let the silence do the heavy lifting. You almost hear him pausing after a sentence, as he did after a Shane Warne flipper or a Tendulkar straight drive, before offering a line so sparse it becomes immortal. There is none of the angry energy of a Shoaib Akhtar autobiography, none of the mythmaking you find in Tendulkar’s memoir, and none of the stat-heavy grandeur of Bradman’s Farewell to Cricket. Instead, there is clarity, calm, and an instinct for perspective. In that sense, Over But Not Out mirrors the man’s entire philosophy: cricket was never just about cricket; it was about how to live.
As a player, Richie Benaud was not merely effective; he was transformative. His leg-spin, his lower-order batting, and above all his captaincy shaped Australian cricket of the late 1950s and early 1960s. He was the captain who refused to settle for draws, who turned Test cricket into a spectacle, and who believed that risk was essential to entertainment. You feel this in the book’s pages: he does not grandstand his own statistics, but he dwells on the decisions, the spirit of adventure, and the idea that Test cricket was meant for the people in the stands as much as for the men on the field. He recalls, almost matter-of-factly, the tied Test of 1960 against Frank Worrell’s West Indies—a contest that still sits in the pantheon of cricket’s greatest games. What others might write in fiery prose, Benaud renders in the gentlest brushstrokes, as if greatness needs no amplification.
Nevertheless, the book is not merely about cricket played; it is about cricket narrated. And here lies Richie’s true afterlife. He more or less invented the grammar of modern television commentary. Before him, commentators filled the airwaves with chatter; after him, silence became part of the vocabulary. “Put your brain into gear before you open your mouth,” he famously said, and he lived by that credo. Over But Not Out works on the same principle: it is stripped to the bone, free of bluster, so that what remains has weight. He writes as he spoke—short sentences, precise words, no clutter. And because of that restraint, every insight gleams.
The heart of the book lies in his reflections on how cricket changed across his lifetime, and how he adapted. He had been a player in the era of uncovered pitches, commentary boxes without monitors, and cricket as a pastime that still retained innocence. He later lived through Kerry Packer’s World Series Cricket revolution, coloured clothing, floodlights, television contracts, and the birth of cricket as a billion-dollar entertainment machine.
Many men of his generation grew bitter at the change; Benaud did not. He embraced the future, lent his voice to it, and in the process helped it earn legitimacy. In this, he was the opposite of curmudgeonly guardians of the past: he was a bridge.
This bridging function is what the book reveals repeatedly. He is acutely aware of history, respectful of traditions, but never frozen in nostalgia. He praises Shane Warne as the greatest leg-spinner he ever saw, acknowledging that the art he himself practised had been taken to unimaginable heights. He watches Indian crowds in the IPL and marvels at the passion, without sneering at the “circus” as some purists did. He recognises that cricket has always been evolving, and he insists that adaptation is not betrayal but necessity. Reading his words, especially in 2010, when T20 was still battling for legitimacy, you realise how rare it was for an old master to extend such generosity to the new game.
At the same time, Benaud was never afraid to remind readers of cricket’s responsibilities. He is unsparing about the responsibilities of broadcasters, about the ethics of commentary, and about the need to respect the intelligence of viewers. His subtle critiques of excess, whether in hype or in verbal clutter, run through the book. In one sense, this is a handbook on how to watch cricket, not just how to play it.
He insists that the viewer deserves clarity, honesty, and silence where appropriate. If today’s commentary boxes often feel like they are competing for noise rather than insight, reading Richie reminds you of what was lost when he stepped away.
As literature, the book may feel deceptively light. It is not weighed down with archival detail, nor does it offer the psychological excavation of a Mike Brearley memoir. However, its lightness is itself a statement. Benaud was never one to complicate the obvious. His sentences carry the same clarity as a scorecard; his anecdotes, told without embellishment, invite the reader to find meaning rather than dictating it. For some readers, this restraint might feel underwhelming—especially those who prefer the drama of a Gideon Haigh or the sweep of a Ramachandra Guha. Yet for those attuned to Benaud’s wavelength, the book is luminous precisely because it refuses excess.
There is also an undeniable poignancy in reading it now, after his passing in 2015. The book becomes a kind of last commentary stint, one you can never hear again but can always re-read. For readers like us, who grew up hearing his voice define the soundtrack of summers, the book is a reminder that Richie was more than a commentator; he was a moral compass. When he praised a player, you trusted the praise; when he criticised, you knew it came from fairness, not malice. His writing retains that same moral authority. Even in its brevity, it exudes a quiet gravitas.
Placed alongside other cricket autobiographies, Over But Not Out occupies a unique space. Compare it to Don Bradman’s Farewell to Cricket and you see the difference between myth-making and myth-dismantling. Bradman carefully curated his legacy; Richie, by contrast, disperses his legacy into anecdotes and reflections, as if to say that the man is less important than the game. Compare it to Nasser Hussain’s Playing With Fire, and you see how radically tone can alter the shape of memory: Hussain rages, confesses, and analyses; Benaud observes, distils, and withdraws. Even set against contemporaries like Tony Greig or Bill Lawry, Richie stands apart: he never pushed himself into the centre; he always pushed the game there.
The reflective heart of the book, though, comes when he turns to life beyond cricket. He writes of family, of friendships, of his wife Daphne, with a tenderness that never tips into sentimentality. He writes of mortality, with the same candour he wrote about draws and defeats. The title again resonates: over, but not out. One phase of life ended, but the score remained unfinished. For a man who gave his entire life to cricket, the idea that retirement, even death, is not an ending but a continuation, is profound. In a way, Benaud’s book is his final innings declaration: modest, pragmatic, leaving the field with runs still in him, but content that the team—the game—goes on.
When you close the book, what lingers is not a catalogue of achievements but a feeling. A feeling of composure, perspective, grace. You remember the voice, the pause, and the dry wit. You remember that no one has been able to replicate him since. The book does not need to be dramatic because Richie himself was the drama of understatement. It is fitting that his final contribution to cricket literature mirrors his commentary: never more than necessary, but always more than enough.
In the end, this book is a gentle meditation masquerading as a memoir. It does not shout, it does not sell, and it does not even try too hard to persuade. It simply speaks, and then it pauses, and in that pause, the reader hears the hum of the crowd, the rhythm of a cricket, and the echo of a man who was always present yet never obtrusive. To read it is to be reminded that sometimes the greatest art lies in restraint, that sometimes the most enduring legacy is to make yourself invisible so that the game shines brighter.
It is tempting to imagine Richie Benaud writing more, to wish he had been more expansive, more revelatory, more gossipy. However, that would not have been Richie. His gift was always to leave you wanting more, to say just enough and no more. Over But Not Out does exactly that. In cricket literature, where excess is common and ego louder still, this little book stands as a lesson in economy and grace. Like a perfectly pitched leg-break that drifts, dips, and takes the edge before you know it, Richie’s writing leaves its mark almost without you realising. You put it down, and then, hours later, you find yourself thinking about it again.
Reading it today, in a world where commentary has become cacophony and cricket has become commerce, Richie’s words feel like an antidote. They remind us that cricket, at its best, is not about who shouts the loudest but who watches the closest. They remind us that life, like cricket, is about knowing when to speak and when to stay silent. Moreover, they remind us that 'over' may be over, but 'not out' is always still possible.
When Richie Benaud released this book, it was less a cricketer’s autobiography than a farewell note dressed up in prose, a man’s last considered words before retreating into the silence he always believed was as important as the sound. Benaud, who had already lived multiple cricketing lives—as a leg-spinning all-rounder, innovative captain, commentator par excellence, and finally sage of the press box—was never the type to indulge in self-dramatisation.
Even in book form, he resisted the pull of mawkishness. He chose restraint, brevity, and the kind of elegant understatement that had defined his commentary style. The very title, encapsulates the essence of Benaud’s ethos: a recognition that one innings has ended, yet the game—the larger game of life—still carries on.
Reading it today feels less like turning pages and more like sitting beside Richie in the commentary box at the SCG, listening to his gentle cadences, his carefully rationed words, and his willingness to let the silence do the heavy lifting. You almost hear him pausing after a sentence, as he did after a Shane Warne flipper or a Tendulkar straight drive, before offering a line so sparse it becomes immortal. There is none of the angry energy of a Shoaib Akhtar autobiography, none of the mythmaking you find in Tendulkar’s memoir, and none of the stat-heavy grandeur of Bradman’s Farewell to Cricket. Instead, there is clarity, calm, and an instinct for perspective. In that sense, Over But Not Out mirrors the man’s entire philosophy: cricket was never just about cricket; it was about how to live.
As a player, Richie Benaud was not merely effective; he was transformative. His leg-spin, his lower-order batting, and above all his captaincy shaped Australian cricket of the late 1950s and early 1960s. He was the captain who refused to settle for draws, who turned Test cricket into a spectacle, and who believed that risk was essential to entertainment. You feel this in the book’s pages: he does not grandstand his own statistics, but he dwells on the decisions, the spirit of adventure, and the idea that Test cricket was meant for the people in the stands as much as for the men on the field. He recalls, almost matter-of-factly, the tied Test of 1960 against Frank Worrell’s West Indies—a contest that still sits in the pantheon of cricket’s greatest games. What others might write in fiery prose, Benaud renders in the gentlest brushstrokes, as if greatness needs no amplification.
Nevertheless, the book is not merely about cricket played; it is about cricket narrated. And here lies Richie’s true afterlife. He more or less invented the grammar of modern television commentary. Before him, commentators filled the airwaves with chatter; after him, silence became part of the vocabulary. “Put your brain into gear before you open your mouth,” he famously said, and he lived by that credo. Over But Not Out works on the same principle: it is stripped to the bone, free of bluster, so that what remains has weight. He writes as he spoke—short sentences, precise words, no clutter. And because of that restraint, every insight gleams.
The heart of the book lies in his reflections on how cricket changed across his lifetime, and how he adapted. He had been a player in the era of uncovered pitches, commentary boxes without monitors, and cricket as a pastime that still retained innocence. He later lived through Kerry Packer’s World Series Cricket revolution, coloured clothing, floodlights, television contracts, and the birth of cricket as a billion-dollar entertainment machine.
Many men of his generation grew bitter at the change; Benaud did not. He embraced the future, lent his voice to it, and in the process helped it earn legitimacy. In this, he was the opposite of curmudgeonly guardians of the past: he was a bridge.
This bridging function is what the book reveals repeatedly. He is acutely aware of history, respectful of traditions, but never frozen in nostalgia. He praises Shane Warne as the greatest leg-spinner he ever saw, acknowledging that the art he himself practised had been taken to unimaginable heights. He watches Indian crowds in the IPL and marvels at the passion, without sneering at the “circus” as some purists did. He recognises that cricket has always been evolving, and he insists that adaptation is not betrayal but necessity. Reading his words, especially in 2010, when T20 was still battling for legitimacy, you realise how rare it was for an old master to extend such generosity to the new game.
At the same time, Benaud was never afraid to remind readers of cricket’s responsibilities. He is unsparing about the responsibilities of broadcasters, about the ethics of commentary, and about the need to respect the intelligence of viewers. His subtle critiques of excess, whether in hype or in verbal clutter, run through the book. In one sense, this is a handbook on how to watch cricket, not just how to play it.
He insists that the viewer deserves clarity, honesty, and silence where appropriate. If today’s commentary boxes often feel like they are competing for noise rather than insight, reading Richie reminds you of what was lost when he stepped away.
As literature, the book may feel deceptively light. It is not weighed down with archival detail, nor does it offer the psychological excavation of a Mike Brearley memoir. However, its lightness is itself a statement. Benaud was never one to complicate the obvious. His sentences carry the same clarity as a scorecard; his anecdotes, told without embellishment, invite the reader to find meaning rather than dictating it. For some readers, this restraint might feel underwhelming—especially those who prefer the drama of a Gideon Haigh or the sweep of a Ramachandra Guha. Yet for those attuned to Benaud’s wavelength, the book is luminous precisely because it refuses excess.
There is also an undeniable poignancy in reading it now, after his passing in 2015. The book becomes a kind of last commentary stint, one you can never hear again but can always re-read. For readers like us, who grew up hearing his voice define the soundtrack of summers, the book is a reminder that Richie was more than a commentator; he was a moral compass. When he praised a player, you trusted the praise; when he criticised, you knew it came from fairness, not malice. His writing retains that same moral authority. Even in its brevity, it exudes a quiet gravitas.
Placed alongside other cricket autobiographies, Over But Not Out occupies a unique space. Compare it to Don Bradman’s Farewell to Cricket and you see the difference between myth-making and myth-dismantling. Bradman carefully curated his legacy; Richie, by contrast, disperses his legacy into anecdotes and reflections, as if to say that the man is less important than the game. Compare it to Nasser Hussain’s Playing With Fire, and you see how radically tone can alter the shape of memory: Hussain rages, confesses, and analyses; Benaud observes, distils, and withdraws. Even set against contemporaries like Tony Greig or Bill Lawry, Richie stands apart: he never pushed himself into the centre; he always pushed the game there.
The reflective heart of the book, though, comes when he turns to life beyond cricket. He writes of family, of friendships, of his wife Daphne, with a tenderness that never tips into sentimentality. He writes of mortality, with the same candour he wrote about draws and defeats. The title again resonates: over, but not out. One phase of life ended, but the score remained unfinished. For a man who gave his entire life to cricket, the idea that retirement, even death, is not an ending but a continuation, is profound. In a way, Benaud’s book is his final innings declaration: modest, pragmatic, leaving the field with runs still in him, but content that the team—the game—goes on.
When you close the book, what lingers is not a catalogue of achievements but a feeling. A feeling of composure, perspective, grace. You remember the voice, the pause, and the dry wit. You remember that no one has been able to replicate him since. The book does not need to be dramatic because Richie himself was the drama of understatement. It is fitting that his final contribution to cricket literature mirrors his commentary: never more than necessary, but always more than enough.
In the end, this book is a gentle meditation masquerading as a memoir. It does not shout, it does not sell, and it does not even try too hard to persuade. It simply speaks, and then it pauses, and in that pause, the reader hears the hum of the crowd, the rhythm of a cricket, and the echo of a man who was always present yet never obtrusive. To read it is to be reminded that sometimes the greatest art lies in restraint, that sometimes the most enduring legacy is to make yourself invisible so that the game shines brighter.
It is tempting to imagine Richie Benaud writing more, to wish he had been more expansive, more revelatory, more gossipy. However, that would not have been Richie. His gift was always to leave you wanting more, to say just enough and no more. Over But Not Out does exactly that. In cricket literature, where excess is common and ego louder still, this little book stands as a lesson in economy and grace. Like a perfectly pitched leg-break that drifts, dips, and takes the edge before you know it, Richie’s writing leaves its mark almost without you realising. You put it down, and then, hours later, you find yourself thinking about it again.
Reading it today, in a world where commentary has become cacophony and cricket has become commerce, Richie’s words feel like an antidote. They remind us that cricket, at its best, is not about who shouts the loudest but who watches the closest. They remind us that life, like cricket, is about knowing when to speak and when to stay silent. Moreover, they remind us that 'over' may be over, but 'not out' is always still possible.
February 14, 2022
Richie Benaud was a skilled cricketer, a knowledgeable reporter and broadcaster, and an enthusiastic supporter of the sport, but too often I found his writing in this book to be dry and lacking complete cohesion – possibly due to its editor, and not the author?
Regardless, Richie shares interesting details about his youth and junior development as a player, and provides many details about teammates, opposition players, tours, selectors, captaincy, team management, injuries (including the wear and tear of spin bowling) and controversies. It’s all very readable, and at times quite illuminating, however, sometimes it’s a bit of a slog to get through. Chapter 33 ‘The Greatest Series’ is a clear standout; describing the 2005 Ashes with colourful details that capture some of the ever-changing excitement of that dramatic series.
Unfortunately, Richie’s sharp-minded wit is mostly missing here; a quality that made him one of the most enjoyable commentators I’ve listened to in any sport. It’s also an element that would have added significant appeal to the final product, providing a more personal touch in contrast to all of the comprehensive data, tour and match summaries, and observations shared about his life and the evolving game of cricket.
Regardless, Richie shares interesting details about his youth and junior development as a player, and provides many details about teammates, opposition players, tours, selectors, captaincy, team management, injuries (including the wear and tear of spin bowling) and controversies. It’s all very readable, and at times quite illuminating, however, sometimes it’s a bit of a slog to get through. Chapter 33 ‘The Greatest Series’ is a clear standout; describing the 2005 Ashes with colourful details that capture some of the ever-changing excitement of that dramatic series.
Unfortunately, Richie’s sharp-minded wit is mostly missing here; a quality that made him one of the most enjoyable commentators I’ve listened to in any sport. It’s also an element that would have added significant appeal to the final product, providing a more personal touch in contrast to all of the comprehensive data, tour and match summaries, and observations shared about his life and the evolving game of cricket.
March 15, 2022
A great read
I have always enjoyed listening to Richie Benaud over the many years of watching and following cricket and to read his book was not only insightful into the world of cricket, but bought back a lot of memories as well. I highly recommend his book. Thanks
I have always enjoyed listening to Richie Benaud over the many years of watching and following cricket and to read his book was not only insightful into the world of cricket, but bought back a lot of memories as well. I highly recommend his book. Thanks
April 17, 2022
- Book Review: "Over But Not Out: My Life So Far" by Richie Benaud - 📚🏏🇦🇺
Written in 2010, Richie Benaud shares the memoirs of his distinguished 50+ year career as both cricketer and cricket journalist.
Born in Sydney to descendants of French Huguenots, Benaud played for New South Wales (and Australia) as a frontline leg-spinner and lower-order batter. His exploits as batter, bowler, and captain led to an extended period of success for Australia in the late 1950s and early 1960s.
Benaud became the first cricketer in Test cricket history to achieve the double milestone of "2,000 runs & 200 wickets", a unique achievement emulated since by only a select few.
At the same time as his cricketing career was taking off, Benaud invested time into developing a parallel career as a cricket writer, journalist, and broadcaster, such that by the time he retired in 1964, he transitioned seamlessly into the broadcasting side of cricket.
The book has several interesting aspects concerning Benaud.
One of the most interesting being Benaud's surprising support for short form cricket (ODIs & T20s), though he himself never played those formats at international level.
Secondly, he was far from a purist. He promoted an aggressive brand of attacking cricket, encouraging his team to make bold declarations and bat at a run-rate of 4 runs per over.
A third surprising aspect is his involvement in "mic-ing up" as a player some 33 years before it became a staple in modern cricket broadcasting.
For Bangladesh cricket fans, a pleasant surprise being that Beanud was also part of the 1959 Australian tour of Pakistan that involved a match hosted in Dacca, East Pakistan. Benaud played a pivotal role taking 8 wickets in the match as Australia beat Pakistan by 8 wickets.
Overall, the book will be "an absolutely marvelous" read for cricket lovers about the man who was without doubt "the voice of cricket" for multiple generations.
My rating: 4.5/5 Stars ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️🌙
Written in 2010, Richie Benaud shares the memoirs of his distinguished 50+ year career as both cricketer and cricket journalist.
Born in Sydney to descendants of French Huguenots, Benaud played for New South Wales (and Australia) as a frontline leg-spinner and lower-order batter. His exploits as batter, bowler, and captain led to an extended period of success for Australia in the late 1950s and early 1960s.
Benaud became the first cricketer in Test cricket history to achieve the double milestone of "2,000 runs & 200 wickets", a unique achievement emulated since by only a select few.
At the same time as his cricketing career was taking off, Benaud invested time into developing a parallel career as a cricket writer, journalist, and broadcaster, such that by the time he retired in 1964, he transitioned seamlessly into the broadcasting side of cricket.
The book has several interesting aspects concerning Benaud.
One of the most interesting being Benaud's surprising support for short form cricket (ODIs & T20s), though he himself never played those formats at international level.
Secondly, he was far from a purist. He promoted an aggressive brand of attacking cricket, encouraging his team to make bold declarations and bat at a run-rate of 4 runs per over.
A third surprising aspect is his involvement in "mic-ing up" as a player some 33 years before it became a staple in modern cricket broadcasting.
For Bangladesh cricket fans, a pleasant surprise being that Beanud was also part of the 1959 Australian tour of Pakistan that involved a match hosted in Dacca, East Pakistan. Benaud played a pivotal role taking 8 wickets in the match as Australia beat Pakistan by 8 wickets.
Overall, the book will be "an absolutely marvelous" read for cricket lovers about the man who was without doubt "the voice of cricket" for multiple generations.
My rating: 4.5/5 Stars ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️🌙
July 14, 2013
A review of one of Mr Benaud's previous books in, i think the Wisden Cricketer made the point that autobiography is not for Benaud; while he loves to talk about cricket he doesn't want to talk about himself. I approached this book with that in mind. I was surprised to find that there's much more about his achievements and struggles, struggles especially with those running Australian cricket in the past, and even some paragraphs about his personal life.
His heroes and mentors are written about lovingly, Don Bradman, Keith Miller, Arthur Morris, and Ray Lindwall; is appreciation for his contemporaries, especially Alan Davidson and Ken "Slasher" McKay is evident.
Benaud is sometimes accused of being too much of an apologist for the modern game, however i wonder whether this is fair, it seems to me he is damning of the events he doesn't care for. It's just that he spends much more time on the events and players in the modern game that he loves, Shane Warne, 20/20 matches, Andrew Flintoff and Brett Lee for example. As he believes that the game constantly evolves, and he admires the events of the past he's not sentimentally attached to it. I do admire that in him.
His training and background as a journalist shines out, the chapters are short, sentences to the point and not a word wasted. Those years on the Police round in Sydney in the 1950s do seem to have served him well.
I've missed his commentaries since Sky took over the broadcasting, his knowledge and especially his aridly dry humour is i am sure a big reason why i fell for is still, for me despite and sometimes because of the controversies, the greatest game in the world.
His heroes and mentors are written about lovingly, Don Bradman, Keith Miller, Arthur Morris, and Ray Lindwall; is appreciation for his contemporaries, especially Alan Davidson and Ken "Slasher" McKay is evident.
Benaud is sometimes accused of being too much of an apologist for the modern game, however i wonder whether this is fair, it seems to me he is damning of the events he doesn't care for. It's just that he spends much more time on the events and players in the modern game that he loves, Shane Warne, 20/20 matches, Andrew Flintoff and Brett Lee for example. As he believes that the game constantly evolves, and he admires the events of the past he's not sentimentally attached to it. I do admire that in him.
His training and background as a journalist shines out, the chapters are short, sentences to the point and not a word wasted. Those years on the Police round in Sydney in the 1950s do seem to have served him well.
I've missed his commentaries since Sky took over the broadcasting, his knowledge and especially his aridly dry humour is i am sure a big reason why i fell for is still, for me despite and sometimes because of the controversies, the greatest game in the world.
December 2, 2013
One of the most authoritative and well know voices in cricket Richie is a master in terms of his insight into the game. I remember getting up as a kid early mornings to watch test matched being played in Australia invariably to the eponymous voice of Test Match Cricket. The book takes us through his fascinating cricketing career and highlights the rise of a small town boy to the voice of cricket. His thoughts regarding the evolution of the game into its current form and suggestions for improvement highlight his ability to think ahead of the curve and make for an interesting read for any cricket fan.
December 29, 2016
Started off ok, chronicling his early years and his cricketing and broadcasting careers. However, the last few chapters were rambling and disjointed. He flitted from subject to subject giving his opinion of them randomly and, from there, the book seemed to lose its flow and continuity.
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