Carol’s Column

Die Bleddy Boom

My mother Trudy Shulman and her companion Johanna Cupido are quite remarkable little old ladies. Besides the fact that at the ages of 87 and 84 respectively, they are still fully active, driving their car, shopping, visiting the library, fixing their stove when it frequently breaks down, they are both staunch sports fans.

Although both Agassi supporters, they watched every Wimbledon game and proclaimed both finalists worthy.

While they enjoy good soccer, rugby is their great love which is why it is appropriate that their flat overlooks the Newlands rugby ground though their days of physically attending a match are over.

"It's too tiring," they confided when I suggested it. "Too many stairs. Besides," said my mother, "we've shrunk, we can't see over all the heads."

"Ma, I'd organise a box," I said.

"No, when I go to Newlands, I only sit on the railway stand," she snapped. The last time my mother and Johanna sat on the railway stand was 35 years ago.

Because a test match is an event, I like to watch the game with the experts. And believe me, Trudy and Johanna are experts.

"Harry's mad," she said as I walked through the door. "We haven't got a kicker. How can we win without a kicker?" She shook her head vigorously, her white curls sticking out as they do in wet weather.

"Ja," agreed Johanna. "Percy's a pretty boy, maar he's not a kicker." Actually, Johanna said other things in the colourful vernacular, but they are not printable.

"And Braam is not even on the bench!" exclaimed my mother.

The little old ladies provided the snacks, soft biltong slices, (biltong snaps being too difficult to chew), dried wors (but not too dry), a spicy dip with salt and vinegar chips and the caramel popcorn (a favourite).

And talking favourites. My mother adores Breyten Paulse, with Joost van der Westhuizen a close second, Johanna fancies Ollie le Roux and Rassie Erasmus (so you will appreciate she was not a happy chappie at the start of the game). And I'm a great Fleckie fan.

I'd provided the drinks. Apple cider in deference to their inner plumbing which they said could no longer sustain beer as in previous decades.

Because the game only started at 5pm, we ran through tactics over tea and scones.

"We have to score quickly," said my mother. "Then the guys will feel good, it will give them confidence and we'll play like lions."

"The All Black defence is good," surmised Johanna. "Hulle moet Die Bleddy Boom neutralise."

Die Bleddy Boom, of course is Jonah Lomu who Johanna says is like a tree trunk with the wind up his ass. Her perceptive description.

The game began promisingly when we got our first penalty over. Both little old ladies were elated but, as things progressed, they became quieter.

At half time, the atmosphere was gloomy. Our boys were playing well, they agreed, but not well enough. "We're not following through," said Johanna. "We need a kicker," said my mother.

"An Okey Geffen, a Naas Botha, a Braam van Straaten!"

The result of the game is now history and it will suffice to say that we were all pretty despondent when the final whistle blew.

But it was after the game that the real action began.

"Ma, you and Johanna cannot go and stand outside Harry Viljoen's door with a poster saying 'BRING BACK BRAAM', I said. "You're both octogenarians.

"Precisely," said my mother. "He's not listening to anyone else."

Johanna was more succinct. "If we want to donner the Wallabies next week, we need a boot," she growled.

Precisely.

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