Administrators could learn a bit from survival of the fittest
On a two-rail concrete jeep track in the Waterberg, after 3km of rock and rolling, and through bored herds of impala and wildebeest, past a family of warthogs and bum-scratching baboons, a man called Larrie asked me about rugby.
That is not how I would spell his name, but in the Book of Sightings at the Clifftop Exclusive Safari Hideaway — again, not a name I would have chosen — that is how his name was written.
I shall go with Larry. I know a few men called Larry. That feels right. Larry was our exclusive driver to the Clifftop, the short journey to the resort my wife chose to celebrate our one year of wedded bliss.
Just two days of escape and love, away from a year of change and uncertainty and fear, to remember what we are and what we will be. Larry, the ranger, asked the usual questions: how do you do, where are you from and what do you do? I told him. Sports. Writer. It always brings a pause, then a “really”, then another pause, then the question: “What is happening with rugby?”
I clicked my neck, cracked my knuckles and began. The Kings and the Cheetahs would be cut from Super Rugby, one the current Currie Cup champions, the other a team that has delighted with their willingness to gamble and gambol. The Bulls would retain their position through tradition and hope and track record. They were going through a lull. Heck, Larry, Heyneke Meyer got fired as their coach first time up. He came back and set them off on a golden era.
The good times roll but the good times don’t last. The Lions had shown they were on the up and would be able to hang tough. The Sharks are, well, the Sharks. The Stormers are the Stormers, and to describe them would take more than the sum of the angst and fury and fear of the Cape Town media collective to give a definitive analysis.
Australian rugby is awful. New Zealand rugby is wonderful. The South African Rugby Union (Saru) is in need of state capture. Well, that’s about it. Is that okay, Larry?
“Ja,” said Larry. “I stopped watching and following rugby about four or five years ago.” Oh. Well. Thanks. Cool. “I lost interest. I used to watch it a lot.” Didn’t we all. There is no DStv at the Clifftop. The Wi-Fi is weaker than the Saru bank account. I am not a fan of such places. I need the big, wide world to be on my big, wide iPhone.
I’ve needed contact because of the change and the uncertainty and the fear this 2017 has wrought. I need to know and be told, and to hear and to be assured.
Larry left us in the hands of Gibson. If Gibson were a salesman, he would have been employee of the month after our first sale. We spotted a lioness stalking a blue wildebeest, but this time the cat lost to the hooved beastie. He had a notion she was there. She paid little heed to us watching her. She paid less heed to the man who had apparently claimed to be a nephew of a family that dare not speak its name. He stood up when he was told to sit. He gave us a running commentary.
“She is looking at the people in the other truck.
“She is just lying there. She is a lion. She is hunting.”
She moved quietly past us, closer to the wildebeest, one short crawl at a time. Our very own David Attenborough whistled at her to get her to stand up for a better picture. “Here, lion …” She ignored him.
The wildebeest saw trouble in the air and strolled away. The lioness opted to go for a young warthog, but the little pig shot between our trucks and up the road at a pace, and the lioness gave up, jogging away from us in a hungry huff.
We have seen much these past two days. I did not miss rugby. Larry was not around to ask more about rugby. He does not miss rugby.
Saru might do itself a rather large favour and ask why those who love and who loved rugby can disappear and not miss it.