What should I be commenting on? The recent, aborted bid to overthrow the leadership of world cricket? A revolution is brewing, after all. Or perhaps the heated debate over Pietersen’s exclusion from England’s team. Nemesis dooms the rebel to a lifetime of admiring only himself. We wait to hear the final “plop”.

No. I want to make a belated tribute to a real revolutionary and a true rebel. Richie Benaud. That’s right. Those who only ever knew him as an elderly commentator might think that’s a risible description of the man, something like saying John Howard was an unacknowledged giant of hip-hop.

Revolution is about change for the better. That’s what Richie was about. He showed the world what rebellion and revolution can achieve when it’s done with the right heart; when it’s done with love. Richie conducted his insurrection with dignity, calm, courage and vision, over the period of a whole career.

People who recall his days as a player often speak of the contradiction between the dashing cricketer, shirt unbuttoned to the chest, collar upturned, celebrating every wicket with unique flamboyancy, and the commentator – staid, soigne, sage and beige. But that contradiction is superficial.

Richie is no great paradox. In both careers, love and enthusiasm for the game, compassion and respect for its players, explained him. He was more than one of our finest cricketers and the best of captains. Between faltering early in his career and succumbing to injuries later on, he proved a tough, powerful and clever all-rounder who didn’t just turn matches, but entire series. People rarely credit him with this. His averages might have suffered from these setbacks, but at his best he was enterprising, penetrating. No team has ever boasted a more perceptive commander. But he didn’t just come to lead a team; he led the entire game from the drear 1950s into the 1960s and beyond. The modern era has much to thank him for.

His attire, his approach and his emotional leadership were not merely the posturings of some preening rebel without a reason. Even if he didn’t know it then, he was outwardly declaring his intentions for the game. By 1960-61, after three years in charge of the Australian cricket team, he took the reins of the game itself, making a contract with Frank Worrell, the West Indies captain, to play exciting cricket.

He was a peaceful revolutionary, but he wasn’t afraid of personal cost if a principle was involved. His filming of West Indian fast bowler, Charlie Griffith, to catch his suspect action, his involvement as manager of a rebel tour, his central role in Packer’s World Series Cricket – all were carried out in the interests of the game and its players, politics be damned. He was a rebel with a real cause and his heart was out there for all to see.

It didn’t change when he donned those understated suits of the commentator. He was still the discreet, dignified innovator. The sharpest of cricket minds. When he retired from cricket, he’d already been doing a job he loved and was skilled at. As a trained journalist, he turned out books, newspaper columns and the best account you’ll ever read of the famous tied Test in Brisbane – all while he was still playing. Though he was a journalist, Richie was no dirt-digger. He had the mind of a mediator, a facilitator in everything he did.

He chose his words carefully, and made astute judgements, without judgementalism. Many stories of his commentary have been told, most revolving around what he didn’t say. But Richie did more than let the action speak. His signature silences were fantastic because they were true pauses. They sharpened our anticipation of sometimes-sharp words.

A moment of commentary I remember has been lost in an eternity of archived tape. It was a fascinating little brushstroke in the masterpiece that was his career, trotted off as Picasso once scribbled on a napkin for an adoring devotee. It was about 20 years ago. A batsman, unhappy at getting out, turned and smashed the stumps. It was a wicket, therefore an opportune time to hear from the sponsors. Richie said nothing, and the longer he said nothing, the more his displeasure filled the air. It seemed he’d allow the moment to hang there, without comment. Then he spoke, in the flattest of tones: “Take a lot of punishment, these modern bats.” Ad break. It was priceless, poetic, subtle and trenchant. That beautifully-timed, perfectly-aimed remark said everything about what had occurred, and so much more.

Cricket has lost its highest advocate.

Goodbye, Richie. You were a cricketer of real influence, the finest of captains, the supreme leader, a humble man, a great man. But you were much more than all that. You were a good man. Your passing was always going to be untimely. When is a good time to lose someone like you? The start of summer – the dead of winter, at times – was magical because of you. We’ll continue, in your honour, to love it. But don’t expect it to be the same for us.

Cricket is not the only thing poorer for the want of you; humanity is.

Published in Inside Cricket, June 2015