IT’S IN OUR BLOOD… OR IS IT?

Throughout my life so far, I have avoided any form of rugby – as the saying goes: Cobbler, keep to your last. In fact, I avoided team sports altogether, because it’s just not in my blood. But I could never understand it. I come from a family where rugby has even led to success – my cousin Gideon Lensing, also known as Kees, has played rugby for the Bulls, Japan and Namibia, among others. One could say his success is the closest any blood of mine has come to the Webb Ellis Cup.

If you had to ask me about rugby, I’d be able to tell you who Mannetjies Roux is (thank you, Laurika); I know who Chester Williams was (thanks, You, that wedding was beautiful!); and I know who Francois Pienaar is (thanks to Lay’s crisps!). But other than that, I could write down my rugby knowledge on a postage stamp. There was, however, one rugby match that I played in. Yes, that’s right, just one.

The school announced that Grade 4 learners could start playing rugby and I was proud to have been chosen for the team made up of kids who’d rather be singing, painting or debating. One advantage of this team was that we all understood that we had to tackle gently and avoid aggression. Our first match was in Daniëlskuil in the Northern Cape. We had to leave early and travel far. My father drove me, his youngest, especially for my first game. Now, if you have experienced winter in the Northern Cape, you’ll know that, when you wake up in the morning, a white blanket of frost covers the grass … and it lies in wait for soft little bare feet to feel it crack underfoot.

Just before our match kicked off, my father told me he was proud of me, and I felt good. Then it was time for us to go out onto the field, I as eighth man. I ran across the pitch and then, like a show horse, I followed an arc right back off the field, straight past my father. In passing, I called out to him, “Start the car, I’m freezing!” My feet just couldn’t handle the cold, and I wasn’t too keen either on the other pains that would surely follow. My father and I went home in silence: I, thankful for the heater in the car, and he… Who knows, he didn’t say anything. Never again did I set foot on a rugby field, and my father never breathed a word about it. But today I cook, and I can cook with fire. And around that fire, I have something in common with my father: togetherness. That’s why, after 36 years on earth so far, I’m making peace with the fact that I’ll never understand rugby. What I do understand is food, and I also know that both these things bring people together. And that’s what really matters, after all.

So here it is: With the help of people who know rugby, people who can tell fireside stories, and my knowledge of food, we’ve put together a book that celebrates togetherness. Because when South Africans get together, magic happens. That’s in our blood.

Enjoy the braai and the rugby. I’m sure the Springboks will fly our flag high, because if there ever was a time for South Africans to unite, it is now.