From George V to Shane Warne, only one king left his name on the ’G at memorial’s end

Shane Warne in his last Test at the Sydney Cricket Ground in January 2007. Picture: Getty Images

“State Memorial Service for Mr Shane Warne.” Mr? Where did that Mr come from? Perhaps the name looked a little plain without an honorific. Perhaps the state was catching up with having failed to acknowledge him in life.

After all, it’s Border AO, Taylor AO, Waugh AO, Nasser Hussain OBE, Brian Lara TC, OCC, AM, and, as we learned, “Sir Elton John CH CBE”. Warne FA hardly seems right in that context.

Then again, none of the foregoing, greatness notwithstanding, could have inspired a night such as this. The Melbourne Cricket Ground has staged everything from conscription rallies and military encampments to entertainment spectaculars and evangelical crusades. But those who call Warne “King” would have been gratified that this was the MCG’s first public memorial service since that for King George V in 1936.

The staging for the VIPs roughly overlapped the pitch square, from which 22 yards had been left exposed. Its sandy length looked like something Warne would have enjoyed bowling on; David Boon, as host Eddie McGuire noted astutely, was sitting near where he took the catch that obtained Warne his only Test hat-trick in 1994.

No other venue, of course, would have served: it was where Shane Warne fantasised of playing Australian rules, then heard the first whisper he might represent his country at cricket.

Thirty-one Boxing Days ago, Warne would recall, he was at the MCG with mates when the Australian coach Bob Simpson and manager Ian McDonald walked by.

Looking forward to it? they asked. “Got me pies, got me beers,” said Warne cheerfully. “I’m all set.” Warne might want to watch himself, they hinted: he could be playing in the next Test. Around the Warne party, guffaws rippled.

But, of course, he was, without anyone quite losing the sense that he might just as well be sitting in the outer as entertaining it. Pies and beers were among the first items deposited by votaries at Louis Laumen’s statue of Warne outside Gate 2, in the way that pharaohs were sealed up in their pyramids provisioned for the afterlife.

In pictures: MCG farewells Warne

VIEW GALLERY

Wednesday night’s crowd, in the vicinity of 50,000 despite the week night, the cool weather and the onset of football season, were suitably subdued, although also edified. They heard for the first time directly from the family, led by Warne’s father Keith, who spoke of his son’s life of “52 years, five months and nineteen days” to accentuate everything crammed into them.

His daughter Summer later counted the “26 days” since his death, and the cost: “You’ll always be with us, Dad. Just not the way that we would have hoped.” Jackson remembered the advice: “You told me manners are free and to always say thank you.” Brooke remembered the moments: “I will miss seeing you when you’ve just woken up and you still look asleep.”

The pennant of the club to which Keith first took Shane those many years ago, East Sandringham Boys, fluttered over the MCG scoreboard.

Warne’s favourite music – 80s “bangers”, as McGuire introduced them – was belted out by Jon Stevens. Two panels, ably hosted by Mark Howard and Andy Lee, reflected on Warne on the field and off. Stories poured forth, notably of his driving by Sam Newman, his golf by Dimi Mascarenhas, and his acting by Glenn Robins. Warne’s face and feats pulsed from every video screen in the ground; his voice reverberated from its speakers; his fragrance brand “SW23”, and even the Warnie emojis, blazed from the stage.

Finally, there was confirmed the rechristening of the southern end of the ground, from which he always bowled, from which he claimed his 700th Test wicket on his last Boxing Day as a player in 2006.

Personally, I rather liked the initial suggestion of “The S. K. Warne Stand”, with that second initial so distinctive of cricket, and that pleasing echo of D. K. Lillee – the only bowler to take more Test wickets at the MCG, and the bowler Warne would imitate in his boyhood backyard before making a backyard of the ’G.

But by his family’s reckoning, and his own, Warne was a Shane – someone who even at peak fame, as Ian Chappell noted recently, would go round a room introducing himself: “Hi, I’m Shane.” At 9.23pm, the nameplate was unveiled: “The Shane Warne Stand” it is.

Maybe, given Warne’s demotic appeal, the missing voice was that of the fan – someone who could speak from the perspective of the everyday watcher. As wholehearted as the contributions from Russell Crowe, Hugh Jackman, Ray Martin, Chris Martin, Eric Bana, Greg Norman, Kelly Slater and the Minogues, they risked the sense of a bunch of multi-millionaires speaking in praise of another multi-millionaire.

One of the most genuinely meaningful aspects to Warne’s passing, by contrast, has been the profusion of stories of personal interaction offered up by members of the public – the fleeting encounters, the quiet kindnesses, the unflagging courtesy. Merv Hughes, perhaps, put it best: “I feel sorry for the people round Australia who never met him.”

Mr Shane Warne, that is.