Issa letting down the team, and I’ve done it a few times

O

I did what any self-respecting black person does in these circumstances. I shaved my hair off, fastened black cloth to my shirt sleeve, walked into the biological sciences department and killed my grandfather

n June 12 1998 South Africans, including this one, were quivering with excitement. About 13 of my best friends and family congregated in my twobedroom Pinetown flat in Bafana jerseys, drunk on a wave of success that had peaked in SA qualifying for the World Cup.

Our opponents in the opening match of the whole spectacle were the hosts, France, playing in front of their home crowd. Deep in the second half, Bafana were 1-0 down. We were on the edge of our seats. Anything could happen. Enter Bafana defender extraordinaire, Pierre Issa, to take the game by the scruff of the neck. In the 78th minute, he tricked the diving goalie and stabbed the ball into the net.

Twelve minutes later, he was at it again, beautifully controlling the ball on the line with his left foot before rolling the ball into an empty net to raucous celebrations. The only problem, of course, is that his brilliant brace were scored into the Bafana net. The official record credited the second goal to one Thierry Henry, but if I was Issa, I’d send a strongly worded letter to the Fifa headquarters to have my name appear twice on that scoresheet.

The following day, this newspaper’s sports page led with one of the cleverest headlines I’ve ever seen, “Pierre Issa. Issa who? Is a goal”.

Many South Africans have never forgiven Issa for those two calamitous moments, but I was always sympathetic towards him. From a purely technical footballing point of view, I always held the view that he was crucified for being the last man still standing. But more broadly than that, will those among you who have never let your team down cast the first stone?

I know I couldn’t cast that stone because when I was 18, I let the National Democratic Revolution down. I had missed my very first environmental biology test due to unforeseen circumstances involving a new girlfriend, a missed period and a trip to the Commercial City family planning clinic in the Durban CBD to access a pregnancy test. Only when the pregnancy test exonerated us from any charges of irresponsible behaviour did I remember that I had questions to answer about bird migratory patterns in the southern hemisphere.

So I did what any self-respecting black person does in these circumstances. I shaved my hair off, fastened black cloth to my shirt sleeve, walked into the biological sciences department and killed my grandfather. I was in mourning, you see, I told my professor with red eyes from the Rajah curry powder I’d sprinkled around my eyes. (If you’re as superstitious as I am, do not be alarmed. I didn’t “kill” my grandfather while he lived. He had passed on some 20 years before I was even born.) The professor nodded in mock sympathy before exacting his revenge. Sure thing, Mr Ngcobo, I will grant you a makeup test. At 2pm on Wednesday March 21. It was only on the train back to my accommodation that the penny dropped – the 21st of March is Sharpeville Day!

Now, in 1990, this was obviously not a public holiday — but only a black student hellbent on being banished to a leper colony would be seen dead anywhere near the academic buildings on Sharpeville Day.

My only saving grace is that there was a commemoration at the Students Union Building. So, with my Viva Mandela T-shirt to show that I was with the people, I snuck out of the hall, zigzagged my way to my test venue, put on my hoodie to hide Mandela’s face lest I get penalised for wearing an “inflammatory” T-shirt, sat down for my test and betrayed the revolution. In 2020 social media colloquialism, this is called “Ukudlisela i-team” (Letting the team down.) Just call me Issa Goal.

And this is why I refuse to join the chorus of condemnation against the leader of the Great Clicks Boycott of 2020, the Red Beret commander-inchief, for hiring a lily-white legal team to represent him in the frivolous case against him for a little shoving scuffle.

If I had been one of his advisors I would have reminded him of the time the great Madiba himself found himself forced to appear like a traitor.

About a month before my Sharpeville Day betrayal, he stood in front of a 60,000-strong, bloodthirsty KwaZulu-Natal crowd waiting for him to give them the go-ahead and charge “the enemy”.

At the moment of truth he yelled, “Take your guns [LOUD APPLAUSE], your knives [LOUDER CHEERS], your pangas [RAUCOUS CHEERS] and … throw them into the sea!”

Eish. Wayidlisela i-team!