Around our shire, across NSW and all over our wonderful wide brown land, many flags fluttered sadly at half mast with the passing of Richie Benaud.
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In many parts of the world, the death of this man was recorded widely with deep and profound sorrow, especially at the home of cricket, Lords, where a large photograph of him was placed next to one of his cricket blazers.
On the day he left us, the grass seemed not as green, the sky not as blue, nor the wattle as yellow.
The central commentary team all of a sudden became bereft of a central component of its magic.
Billy Birmingham, a comedian who mercilessly sent up this man's voice, was choking back the tears on television when he said he would no longer be reporting as this person from the commentary position.
Richie was supreme commander of our national cricket team and "commander-in-chief" of cricket commentary on TV and radio.
He taught us many lessons about cricket.
He died, not from the after-effects of his car prang, but from skin cancer. He played the game without a cap and with an open-necked shirt, exposing himself to the ravages of this wide brown land's savage sun.
I'm sure the great man would want us all to learn from this.
The endless summers did end — too quickly for us in the shire as the cricket season concluded.
Richie's voice was the soundtrack to our summers — Mum and Dad felt as if they knew him; I felt I knew him; and so did my kids and grandkids. He was indeed the best friend cricket ever had.
Paul Hunt, Engadine
