Hazy view through the sands of time of Le Roc Springbok
My favourite gift to a friend cost me €1. It was the front page of L’Equipe, the French sports newspaper, the day after the 2007 Rugby World Cup final. The headline reads: “Le Roc Springbok”.
A French journalist told me it meant: “The rock, Springbok.” I asked him if he knew that rock wasn’t a good word to describe some South Africans. He shrugged.
They all shrug in France. They shrug when they mean yes, they shrug when they mean no. They shrug when they just don’t know. From the embrace of Paris to the fun of Montpellier to the mirth of Marseille and the blandness of Lens, they shrugged during the seven weeks I was in France for the World Cup.
The day after the night before, they shrugged when I showed them the pile of papers I had on the table of the pizzeria I was drinking breakfast in. It had been that sort of night.
Working until 2am, catching the train home to our hotel in Les Halles, waking up knowing that the day would bring a controlled madness and that the best way to face it was with a glass of something stronger than Evian. It had been a hell of a tournament.
The Springboks came in on a flier. They had a captain who held the team together and a coach who had all but been told that win or lose, he wouldn’t be back in 2008.
Before they left, the brother of the coach of Kaizer Chiefs said he would take away their passports because they were not nearly transformed enough.
At a farewell function at the presidential guesthouse, Thabo Mbeki told them not to worry about the political stuff at home. Just go and win the World Cup, he said. Sweet, said the Boks.
The Springboks got lucky. We spent nearly a month in Paris and had a semipermanent base for the tournament. It began at the Parc des Princes, the first Test played there since 1997, when the Boks had been called the “Brazil of rugby” after a 52-10 win under Nick Mallett, a performance that was as complete as you will ever see.
They beat Samoa 59-7, but there were shenanigans afterwards when Schalk Burger was cited for a dangerous tackle in the air on Junior Polu. He was banned for four matches. There were whispers that the Samoans had decided to push the citing after Burger had not been called for the tackle in the match.
Actually, scratch that. They weren’t whispers. A Springbok management official told me Samoa had made the call to cite him and then called the Boks to apologise. Conspiracy theorists, have fun.
Burger was banned for four matches, but thanks to representation from a lawyer sent by white monopoly capital, it was reduced to two games.
I may have been the only journalist happy Schalk had been banned for the next match. I was the only person who had bothered to interview his replacement, Wikus van Heerden, a few days before.
On the day of my late brother’s birthday, SA beat the English 36-0. We Irish boys swapped a few messages that night. Then swooped through Lens and the fright against Tonga, to Montpellier and the distraction of the US.
Fiji were inspired and monstrous, and it took harsh words from John Smit to see the Boks right in Marseille.
The night before, on a big screen floated in the Old Port in that vibrant city, we had watched France beat New Zealand in Wales.
At their hotel, remembered Jake White, the Boks celebrated as though they had won the World Cup. They thought it was all over. It just about was.
We returned to Paris and Les Halles, where we found the locals fond of the Springboks. The next two weeks flew by. Argentina in the semis and England in the final. And then it was done.
A World Cup only the way the French could do it. And I have no more words to describe that last sentence.
Well, except for these words. As I am about to finish this story, I realise that I haven’t mentioned the one important thing: today is 10 years since the Boks won the World Cup in France. Le Roc Springbok.
AT A FAREWELL FUNCTION AT THE PRESIDENTIAL GUEST HOUSE, THABO MBEKI TOLD THEM NOT TO WORRY ABOUT THE POLITICAL STUFF AT HOME. JUST GO AND WIN THE WORLD CUP