What a distressing few days it has been for lovers of cricket and for those who admire the great commentator's ability to describe and interpret the game in language that elucidates the facts but never makes character and context seem subservient to them.

The eulogies for Tony Greig and Christopher Martin-Jenkins, deeply affecting in their fond sincerity, only confirmed the impressions most of us had of men whose voices had been familiar English midsummer and midwinter companions for decades.

They spoke of decency, integrity, warmth and courage but above all of a talent for communication – in CMJ's case of his enthusiasm, courtesy, erudition and usually deadpan, playful wit, in Greig's of drama, charismatic good cheer and a rather extravagant excitement that always appeared to be genuine. He threw himself into everything – from attempting to rally tired and morose England supporters on the first evening of the opening Ashes Test on the 1994-95 tour to extolling the beauty of Sri Lankan beaches and hawking official memorabilia on Channel 9 – with such wholehearted conviction that he should have usurped Norman Vincent Peale as the guru of positive thinking.

The two adopted sons of Sussex represented best the contrasting models of commentary when the art diversified following the birth of World Series Cricket in 1977 and a defeated "establishment" handed Kerry Packer broadcasting rights to international matches in Australia as his victory spoils two years later.

The new style would make the task faced by Private Eye's teenage bard EJ Thribb, master of the pithy if impassive epitaph, straightforward for Greig who had a stockpile of catchphrases, most of them mundane unless delivered with his infectious ebullience. "Goodnight, Charlie", of course, but also "oh boy, what a blinder", "these little Sri Lankans", "right in the blockhole" and his Eastern Cape Province pronunciation of mid-off as "mid-orrff", "grass" as "grorse", "fast" as "forst" and the depiction of the havoc wreaked by a big hitter that particularly sparkles in Billy Birmingham's 12th Man parody "causing carnage in the car park" as "corsing cornidge in the cor pork".

If he was guilty of hyperbole – he must have proclaimed a cover drive "the best shot you'll ever see" nearly every series or only marginally more infrequently witnessed "the greatest catch" – he was never hysterical even though he occasionally fell into the trap of premature adjudication, calling sixes before the ball had cleared the rope and, indeed, the boundary fielder or catches before they had been safely taken. But having to say "correction" and start again did not dim his vivacity. Nor did an Ian Chappell speciality slap-down – during the 1992 World Cup when Steve Waugh came out to bat the former England captain greeted him with the designation "the best all-rounder in the southern hemisphere". Chappell, no fan of the elder twin, shot back: "Gee, Tony. He's not even the best all-rounder in his own family."

Greig's colleague Mark Nicholas rightly acknowledged that he could occasionally push his luck and blurt out something so crass that a viewer might question their own ears, which is not a charge ever levelled at Martin-Jenkins who was more measured, considerate and shrewd. His particular qualities as a commentator, astuteness, lucidity and an empathy for the information his audience needed to know, made him the epitome of public service broadcasters.

Radio commentary by its nature does not lend itself to catchphrases, the Boycottian glossary notwithstanding, nor is it recorded at home and endlessly replayed as many of the TV highlights shows of the past were. Most fans of a certain age can do a passable Richie Benaud built around "you wouldn't read about it", "marvellous effort, that" and "that is absolute rock bottom for Rick McCosker" but the Test Match Special team, especially those not involved in the sublime "leg over" incident, do not have their memorable phrases celebrated, Colemanballs apart. CMJ, deputising on television for the ill Jim Laker for the first three Tests of the 1981 England v Australia series, however, has been made immortal by Ian Botham's feats at Headingley. His mellifluous tones and apt description of the great all-rounder during his innings that afternoon as "leonine" will be heard as long as cricket and its most venerated match is watched.

The curse of the older commentator is to become jaded and lament a game whose traditions and pageantry are being attenuated before their very eyes or to allow self-importance to deform their affability. Greig and CMJ avoided this hazard, as did Greig's great friend and former sparring partner Bill Lawry who has spoken of his desolation at his colleague's death and is due to retire at the end of the current Test between Australia and Sri Lanka at the SCG.

Lawry's has been the most singular and vivid voice in cricket broadcasting of the past 30 years, and his "yes, got 'im", "it's all happening here", "bang" and "you beauty" would have earned him a fortune if trademarked. The 12th Man's spoof Lawry is a typically robust Ocker but the real one comes across as someone who adores and is stimulated by the game.

"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal," it says in Corinthians. That is what unites them, the Marlborough and Cambridge cadences of CMJ, the strident Eastern Cape vowels of Greig and the boisterous, nasal Victorian resonance of Lawry. Their mutual love of the game made such diverse voices sound similarly rich.