Carol’s Column
A ball by any other game
THE sun beat down relentlessly. Melting my ice-cream through the hole at the bottom of the cone on to the lap of the gentleman sitting beside me.
He didn't notice. He was too busy shouting "Skop hom! Donner hom! Moor hom!"
No, it wasn't the French revolution. Well not quite, if you could discount the gaily-dressed gentleman in the red, white and blue on my left punching the safari-suited gentleman with the comb in his sock, on his left.
This happened a week ago when 57 999 people — and me, crowded into Loftus Versfeld to watch the Test match between the Springboks and the French.
As the spectator on my right thumped my back vigorously which caused me to plummet none too gently into the bearded giant wearing the Miami-is-great, peaked cap, directly in front and shouted: "Go, go, go," I wondered what I was doing there watching rugby on a Saturday afternoon when I could have been listening to Springbok radio or something.
I read an article in some journal that said: "Parents should always communicate with their children — otherwise the consequences can be dire."
So when my oldest unmarried son said: "Ma, why don't you come and watch the Test match with Ralph and me?" I said yes immediately because I wasn't looking for dire consequences.
Did I know the rugby was in Pretoria almost half way across Africa — and that it would take three hours to get there because of the other 57 999 people also en route to Loftus?
We bought cut-price tickets from a young man at the gate, only to discover the boys were at the halfway line while I was situated strategically behind the posts.
Which was why I found myself sitting in between France and South Africa.
Meanwhile, on the field — a battle was raging fast and furious as the Springboks trounced the gallant French with the short shorts and beautiful legs.
Flyhalf Naas Botha missed the ball.
"Drop the 'N' in Naas," yelled South Africa on my right.
In fact, everyone was shouting in a rather undignified way.
And then it happened — a try. A fantastic, wonderful exciting try right under our noses and there I was, standing on my seat, yelling along like a Bramley banshee in full stride.
There's nothing like a rugby match for community spirit. Before I could shout "Gysie!" someone had passed me an iced beer heavily disguised in a coke bottle.
We ate our way through the 85 minutes of play.
Biltong, dried wors, ice creams and peaches.
And then, after the breath-holding Springbok run down the entire length of the field and the try that wasn't a try because of a forward pass — the French contingent on the left brought out a bottle of champagne.
Which he handed over in a magnificent gesture of acknowledgement.
Mind you, it was a little thoughtless to shake the bottle first.
And the game. Well, Jean-Pierre Rives has a beautiful head of hair and speaks French fluently — what more could a girl ask for?
■
Editorial note
Masthead reads "8 Sunday Express LIVING, November 16, 1980"; 16 November 1980 was a Sunday, and the Test at Loftus Versfeld was the Saturday before. Flag "Living", standing head "Carol's column". This is the column that also survives in the source collection as a typed page, filed as page-46 and transcribed as "SA Vs. France Rugby". The compiler headed that page 1984, which is four years out: the printed clipping dates it 16 November 1980. The typescript is her own later retyping and differs in wording throughout, so both are kept.
She typed it out again
From a typed page in the source collection rather than a clipping: no masthead, no publication and no date of its own. The compiler's heading reads "SA Vs. France Rubgy - 1984", misspelt thus, and it is kept as the title. The 1984 in that heading is four years out. The fourth batch of photographs brought in the printed clipping, "A ball by any other game", Sunday Express LIVING of 16 November 1980, filed as page-112: the same afternoon at Loftus Versfeld, the same 57 999 people, the same Gysie and the same shaken bottle of champagne. This typescript is her own later retyping and differs in wording throughout, keeping "ou", "a tout at the gate", "60k from Johannesburg" and "the best seats, Ma". The date here is taken from the clipping.
Read it as she typed it
The sun beat down relentlessly. Melting my ice cream through the hole at the bottom of the cone onto the lap of the fellow sitting beside me.
He didn't notice. He was too busy shouting: "Skop hom! Donner hom! Moor hom!"
No, it wasn't the French revolution. Well, not quite, if you could discount the gaily dressed chap in the red, white and blue on my left punching the safari-suited ou with the comb in his sock, on his left.
This happened a week ago when 57 999 people and I crowded into the Loftus Versfeld Stadium to watch the Test match between the Springboks and the French.
As the spectator on my right thumped my back vigorously which caused me to plummet into the bearded giant directly in front of me, and yelled "Go, go, go!" I wondered what I was doing watching rugby on a Saturday afternoon. I could have been home listening to Springbok radio.
I read an article in some journal that said: "Parents should always communicate with their children - otherwise the consequences can be dire."
So when my oldest unmarried son said: "Ma, why don't you come and watch the Test match with Ralph and me?" I said yes immediately because I wasn't looking for dire consequences.
Did I know the rugby was in Pretoria almost halfway across Africa - well at least 60k from Johannesburg - and that it would take three and a half hours to get there because of the other 57 999 spectators also en route to Loftus?
We bought cut-price tickets from a tout at the gate, only to discover the boys were at the halfway line, while I was situated strategically behind the posts - "the best seats, Ma.".
Which was why I found myself sitting between France and South Africa.
Meanwhile, on the field a battle was ranging as the valiant Springboks trounced the gallant French in their short shorts and beautiful legs - the French, I mean.
Flyhalf Naas Botha missed the drop.
"Drop the "N" in Naas," yelled the South African on my right.
And then it happened - a try. A fantastic, wonderful, exciting try right under our noses and there I was yelling like a banshee in full stride.
There's nothing like a rugby match for community spirit. Before I could shout "Gysie!" someone had passed me an iced beer heavily disguised in a Coke bottle.
We ate our way through the 85 minutes of play. Biltong, dried wors, ice creams and peaches.
And then, after a breath-holding Springbok run down the entire length of the field and the try that wasn't a try because of a forward pass - the French contingent on the left produced a bottle of champagne. Which they handed over in a magnificent gesture of acknowledgement.
Perhaps it was a little thoughtless to shake the bottle first.
And the game? Well, Jean-Pierre Rives has a beautiful head of hair and speaks French fluently - what more could a girl ask for?