This article is taken from the April 2023 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £10.

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Shortly after John Motson died in late February, I received an email from an old schoolmate whom I haven’t seen in forty years. He was reminiscing about our “kickabouts during the 1982 World Cup with a Motson-inspired commentary to accompany every touch of the ball”, and admitted that he “still can’t say the name ‘Zico’ without doing it in a Motson voice”. Instantly, of course, I heard exactly that in my head, complete with the slight fricative which made it almost “Zhico”.

Commentary is an art form, and the best practitioners make it sound easy

But there was more to this than simply the sudden memory rush of samba football on a grey winter’s day. In giving us an excuse to relive not just that but many other moments too, Motson’s death has reminded us of the enduring power of good commentary. We may consume sport differently than before — bitesize chunks of footage on handheld screens, arguments with strangers on social media, vast slabs of hype beforehand and reaction afterwards — but the simple need for words over pictures remains constant.

Commentary is an art form, and the best practitioners make it sound easy when it’s anything but. A presenter has an autocue, a newspaper reporter can edit before sending. The commentator has neither of these luxuries. There is no second chance, not in live coverage.

The commentary must be resonant, but it can only be so if genuine and spontaneous, which in turn requires skill no less great for being widely underestimated. “You don’t commentate for history,” Martin Tyler says. “You commentate for the moment.” And in those moments an audience wants everything they’re feeling — wonder, joy, relief, even despair — reflected back at them.

A commentator must be writer, actor and director all at once: their own words, delivered in their own voice, at precisely the right moment. “You should be able to find better words than ‘incredible’, ‘wonderful’, ‘amazing’, when something incredible, wonderful or amazing happens,” says Clive Tyldesley. “That doesn’t mean you have to adorn the occasion with flowery rhyming language. It doesn’t mean that you have to overblow [things]. The sport itself is dramatic.”

Dennis Cometti, the veteran Australian commentator, built the tension beautifully as Ian Thorpe swam down Gary Hall Jr. on the last leg of the epic 2000 Olympic 4×100 freestyle relay. Hear how Cometti’s phrases stack perfectly and rhythmically on top of each other, every one building towards the next. “What can the champ muster? Now he’s digging deep. The crowd are roaring. Their hero is coming on. Will it be a fairytale?” Another example. In 1996, on the last Saturday in July, Canada’s Don Wittman had called his compatriot Donovan Bailey home in the 100m final of the Atlanta Olympics. Exactly a week later Bailey was back in the stadium, anchoring a sprint relay squad determined to silence a partisan crowd.

Think of the rivalry between the track teams of Canada and the USA, of the former’s inferiority complex and the latter’s assumption of victory as their right. “And Donovan Bailey is pouring it on!” exulted Wittman in the final leg as Bailey streaked down the track with his arm aloft. “It’s going to be double gold Canada. Oh! If you’re Canadian you have to love Saturday nights in Georgia.”

The best commentators have instantly recognisable voices: it’s their tone, their cadence, their personality

Acting, the way in which a voice is used, is just as critical. As Eurosport commentator Rob Hatch says, “If your voice isn’t strong enough to attract attention and get people to listen to you, it doesn’t really matter what you’re saying”.

The best commentators have instantly recognisable voices: it’s their tone, their cadence, their personality. Motson was the excitable fan who loved a statistic. Barry Davies was the wryly erudite schoolmaster. Brian Moore was the affable uncle. But they were all warm, which Peter Drury identifies as “the greatest quality. That warmth comes from a passion for the game, but also from respect. You are being invited into people’s homes, into their headphones on a train, into their pubs. Don’t try to divert people from their natural enjoyment of the game.”

And of the ways in which a director modulates and refines performance, perhaps nowhere is this clearer than in the commentator’s use of silence. Richie Benaud, for many the greatest commentator in any sport, lived by this. “If you can add to the picture, do so. If you can’t, keep quiet.” David Coleman, another colossus, used to intone “the Olympic 100 metres final” as the runners went to their marks and then didn’t say a thing until the gun went, knowing that the crowd’s tense, expectant hush was more eloquent than any words.

It’s hard to think of any seismic sporting moment without instinctively hearing the commentary associated with it

Perhaps counter-intuitively, silence works even in the loudest moments. After Martin Tyler screamed “Agüeroooo!” in Manchester City’s incredible last-gasp 2012 Premiership victory, he left a long, long pause before saying “I swear you’ll never see anything like this ever again.” What had happened was so extraordinary that no words were needed or even possible, at least for a few seconds.

But by the same token, it’s hard to think of any seismic sporting moment without instinctively hearing the commentary associated with it, audio and visual in perfect harmony. “They think it’s all over”; “It’s up for grabs now”; “Can Manchester United score? They ALWAYS score.” You know instantly to what each of these refer. Thank you to the gods of the gantry, the ones who love sport and language in equal measures. The game, and we the viewers, would both be infinitely poorer without them.