Two for two hundred and twenty-two is one of the cricket scores. Or “tchoo for tchoo hundred and tchooty tchoo,” as Richie Benaud famously put it. It didn’t follow a script. It was not intended to be recognizable. Amazingly, though, it turned into one of the most cherished moments in sports broadcasting—completely Richie, part ritual, part rhythm.
It’s simple to overlook the influence of subtlety on memory. Benaud never spoke louder, never spoke too quickly, and never used too many adjectives. He treated cricket and its audience with an intelligence that never felt forced, allowing the game to breathe. He set the tone for an entire summer with deliberate restraint and well-timed silence.
| Name | Richie Benaud |
|---|---|
| Born | October 6, 1930 – Penrith, Australia |
| Role | Test cricketer, Australian captain, iconic commentator |
| Commentary Style | Understated, remarkably effective, famously pronounced “2” as “tchoo” |
| Legacy Moment | “2 for 222” score immortalized as “Richie Benaud 222” |
| Tribute Date | Celebrated on February 22 (22/2) by fans globally |
| Reference | The Advertiser, 21 Feb 2022 – Petition for Richie Benaud Day |
Repeated subtly over the years, his 2/222 delivery transcended the scoreline. It encapsulated all that cricket fans valued about him: his cool authority, his dry wit, and his remarkably clear ability to cut through the cacophony without ever competing with it. Like linen in the summer, his voice never made an effort but always made an impact.
It seemed as though the date 22 February 2022—2/22/22—had been created just for him. Supporters didn’t wait for approval. They carried clipboards to stadiums all over Australia, particularly the SCG, and wore cream jackets and grey wigs. At precisely 2:22 p.m., the group known as the Richies organized a group cheer, honoring not only a man but also a moment he unintentionally gave them.
It went beyond sentimentality. It was lightheartedness based on profound reverence. Fans captured what made Richie so enduring by opting to pay tribute to him with the most peculiar of scores. He didn’t make a dramatic appeal. He didn’t compel respect. However, even the birds near the boundary appeared to pause when he spoke.
In the 1990s, Bill Lawry once played a playful live on-air impersonation of Richie’s “tchoo for tchooty tchoo” during a domestic one-day match. Richie remained silent, as usual. He just put down his microphone and slowly turned to face Bill. Two complete overs went by with no commentary at all, just the sound of the crowd, bat on ball, and the smoldering laughter of Lawry’s attempts—and failures—to gather himself.
The timing of that moment was what made it so similar to Richie’s career. He was more aware than most that silence frequently has a greater impact. That uninterrupted silence turned into a master class in self-possession and comedic timing. It was never forgotten by the audience.
A voice was not all that Richie was. He served as a bridge. He served as a reminder of cricket before it became popular among older generations. He served as an example to younger generations of the power of precision. He was a fearless captain. He was particularly restrained as a commentator. Instead of lecturing Australians, he trusted them to notice the details, which helped change their perspective on the game.
Even now, the ripple starts when a test score is 2/222. It is tweeted by someone. The phrase is uttered by someone else, half-jokingly, full of affection. It’s the kind of cultural echo that spreads from person to person like a family saying that doesn’t require a headline. Somehow, Richie turned into the inner monologue of cricket.
Years ago, during a Boxing Day Test broadcast, I recall pausing when the scoreboard flashed that sequence: 2–222. I could still hear Richie’s voice even though it was no longer broadcast. In rhythm, not in sound. At that moment, I understood that true influence is not always adorned with a crown. It only wears cream at times.
Though it doesn’t really matter, the petition to formally declare February 22 “Richie Benaud Day” hasn’t yet become official government policy. Thanks to collective recollection, grassroots fervor, and a culture of loving imitation, the tribute has already arrived. It can now sustain itself.
This phenomenon is especially innovative because it is independent of institutions for preservation. It is transmitted through mimicry, love, and humor. Such reverence cannot be forced. Only by being patient and not asking will you be able to earn it.
In cricket, 222 is not an uncommon score. It occasionally shows up. When it does, however, something communal is illuminated. It serves as a reminder of how much a voice—clear, self-assured, and never self-important—can influence how we feel about something we already love, not because of what it statistically represents.
Being iconic was never Benaud’s goal. He became so because of this. Not only is his legacy woven into cricket through records and replays, but it is also woven into the soft delight of a phrase that is recited like a treasured memory.
Thus, on February 22 of the following year, at 2:22 p.m., a fan will look at the scorecard, grin, and repeat, “Tchoo for tchoo hundred and tchooty tchoo,” whether they are at a game or relaxing on a couch.