Rugby’s fumbled pass to a nation eager to run with the ball

IWAS sitting at a friend’s house in June 1995 when — as the referee blew the final whistle to hand the Springboks their maiden Rugby World Cup — her twentysomething son burst into the room shouting: “We’ve won! We’ve won!”

His mother gave him a cold stare. “We’ve won, my foot!” she snapped.

The 1995 World Cup, especially the Springbok victory, is one of those seminal “where were you?” moments. It initially seemed to portend a glorious future for a young nation basking in its new-found international acceptance, but has unfortunately become a mirage.

That tension between mother and son probably replicated itself a hundredfold around South Africa as people tried to make sense of events happening at a bewildering pace.

What is remarkable, though, is that 20 years on, as the Springboks begin yet another World Cup campaign this week, time seems to have stood still. We seem to have regressed, not only in the progress we should have made in sport, but in the tone and quality of our discourse.

Given the role played by rugby in our history, it’s ironic that the Rugby World Cup was the first major international sporting event to take place in the country after the fall of apartheid. For Nelson Mandela, it was a godsend. It played into his designs for national reconciliation.

Hosting the event allowed South Africa to put its best foot forward. It sent a clear message that the country was open for business. The victory became the icing on the cake. But even the most optimistic were taken aback by the exuberant celebrations in the townships following the Bok triumph.

It looked as if a promising platform not only for sport but for the wider society had been laid.

But the rugby hierarchy was to needlessly squander that goodwill.

Louis Luyt’s decision to take Mandela to court was short-sighted and an utter injustice to somebody who had done so much to take the game beyond its parochial confines. It confirmed to many sceptics rugby’s reluctance to leave its laager.

Greed also played a part. Keen to cash in on the popularity of the sport after the World Cup, rugby officials sold the rights to pay TV, thus ensuring that the new converts who were dancing in the streets after the Springbok victory could not follow the game on TV.

It may have made economic sense, but it wasn’t a wise move. Profits don’t always march in step with patriotism. Rugby dropped the ball.

“The new South Africa”, a popular phrase not so long ago, is hardly in use these days. It implies a transformative imperative, a new deal. The hope is that we’ll all transmogrify from the creatures we were under apartheid into new South Africans.

It’s a slow, tortuous, agonising and exceedingly frustrating process, at the end of which we hope everybody will have a place under the sun.

It is a journey that we all undertake, each one of us at his own pace. While the son, for instance, had galloped into embracing a new reality, much to his mother’s disgust, she, on the other hand, had started off reluctantly and tentatively. In the end she’ll hopefully make her way, at her own pace.

We’ve all now bought into the garb, or colours, of this new nationhood — the emblems, flags and the anthems. There was a time, for instance, when many rugby fans would go to games defiantly wielding old South African flags. That’s changed. They’ve embraced the new flag. It may have been slow and frustrating for some of us, but they’ve been able to walk the journey at their own pace.

These colours “talk” to our inner being, grabbing our souls and emotions in a way that’s hard to explain. We therefore have a stake in any team wearing these colours, regardless of whether we play the game or even understand it. It’s like an army that goes to battle on our behalf; you don’t have to know how to aim a rifle or assemble a magazine to be fully behind it.

But to wholeheartedly support the team we have to be convinced that, in line with our new ethos, everyone who wants to be in the team has been given a chance to compete. The debate by everybody about the composition of our national teams is not only welcome but necessary. What we can do without is the animus or bile that goes with it.

I have often wondered what the minister of sport — with a deputy to boot — does when he gets to the office every day. Frankly, it’s a nonjob. What we need is not a sports minister, but a deputy minister in the education department whose sole responsibility would be to make sure every school has adequate sports facilities and that every child who wants to take part in any sport has an opportunity to do so.

One can’t expect to pick sumptuous fruit without first planting or nurturing an orchard.

The rugby hierarchy was to squander that goodwill

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