The ultimate sign of respect for Richie Benaud was that so many knew how close he was to the end but waited until the final hours to let the public that adored him so much know.

Throughout his broadcasting career, he showed legendary restraint. For a change, so did everyone else.

Late last week, Channel Nine - the television network Benaud had served since World Series Cricket in 1977 - was told the 84-year-old was gravelly ill and busily started preparing tributes.

Last Saturday, Cricket Australia - the national team of which Benaud served for 63 Tests, 28 of them unbeaten as captain - was told he could pass away "within 24 hours".

Throughout the week, the sad but not entirely unexpected news that Richie's health had dramatically deteriorated was whispered around the city and beyond, but still it went unreported.

A giant public figure but an intensely private man, Benaud's health has been the source of much speculation since he was hospitalised after crashing his 1963 Sunbeam Alpine on his way home from golf in October, 2013.

A year later, he went public with his battle with skin cancers, and underwent several courses of radiation treatment.

Those who live in Benaud's home suburb of Coogee often knew when their most famous resident wasn't well. He was a regular 6am fixture on the walking tracks snaking along the cliffs overlooking the ocean, shuffling alongside his wife Daphne.

Richie hasn't been sighted since February. Late last week, he was placed into hospice care.

Despite all of this, and tellingly, the news that Benaud was knocking on death's door was not published or broadcast.

A former police reporter for The Sun in the late 1950s while also captain of his country, he would have understood and appreciated the need to be first.

Yet everyone resisted. Even in the prevailing landscape dominated by social media, not a syllable crept out. It was the story nobody wanted to break.

Broadcaster Alan Jones made passing mention of Benaud's ill health on his breakfast radio show on Thursday morning. Benaud's Nine colleague Michael Slater did the same on his radio program on Friday.

But the tributes didn't start to flow until Benaud drew his last breath, and you have to wonder if any public figure has ever been afforded such privacy.

Maybe Bradman? Nine boss David Gyngell says Benaud would be "horrified" by such comparisons, but the reverence held for him is surely the same.

The reason was his nature as much as his familiarity.

For nearly four decades, he was summer; from the powder-blue shirt and wide tie beneath "the cream, the bone, the white, the off-white, the ivory or the beige" jacket, to the hair, to the pregnant pause, to not saying anything at all, to "marvellous effort that, really super stuff", to "two for 22".

The Australian First XI is the most valued sporting team in the country. The Channel Nine commentary box often transcended it, because if you hadn't captained your country, you rarely make it through the door.

While Tony Greig and Ian Chappell were and are gregarious characters, Richie was the dignified counterbalance.

And we loved him for it.

In the 1990s, after a day of Test cricket at the SCG, he nudged his Sunbeam out through the departing crowd, and on to Moore Park Road.

When the well-lubricated mob realised who was behind the wheel, they quickly became excited.

The captain of the commentary team calmly wound down his window, and with signature voice pacified them: "Hi boys. Good day at the cricket?"

He'd spoken to them. That's all they had wanted.

Over the years, I've witnessed countless sports stars - including Australian cricketers - turn their backs on wide-eyed members of the public. Benaud's closest friends on Friday said his greatest attribute was how much time he afforded those who wanted to simply say hello.

His last public engagement came on Australia Day, as an ambassador for Australian lamb.

It had been preceded by a popular commercial featuring the veteran commentator that had gone viral over summer because, well, because it featured Richie.

Competition winners from all parts of the country won the opportunity to attend a barbecue at a house in Sydney's east.

One by one, Benaud spent time with each divisional winner, all of them dressed in beige jackets and silver wigs. He graciously smiled, and posed for photos, despite his health.

He had the most mimicked voice in the country. Billy Birmingham, aka The 12^th Man, sold thousands of albums off it. But Benaud had an ability to laugh at himself.

And with others. As he recovered from skin cancer treatment at his Coogee home, fellow Nine commentator Bill Lawry would know exactly when Richie went to bed.

Then phone him 10 minutes later.

"Got 'im! Yes!" Lawry would scream down the line.

Slater remembers making his calling debut in England alongside Benaud for Channel 4.

He was nervous, and in the heat of the commentary described a situation as a "tragedy".

"Michael," Richie said during a commercial break. "You used the word 'tragedy'. The Titanic is a tragedy. Being bowled is not a tragedy."

He would probably feel the same about current events. Respectful restraint for a life that was anything but beige.