Amakhosi slay Bucs at The Calabash
KAIZER Chiefs came to the FNB Stadium yesterday as the underdogs, the plucky heroes that must undertake a grand quest, overcome the odds, and travel through hell fire and brimstone to slay the dragon at journey's end.
The monster at the gates was as much their foes, Orlando Pirates – who were in good form coming into this match – as it was the cavernous orange bowels of the stadium.
The Calabash was a cacophony of sound – vuvuzelas clamouring for attention, drums sounding in the deep, voices singing in jubilation, feet moving in a rhythmic dance, all summoning victory. The crowd oscillated between the wrathful and the delighted.
Above, a helicopter chopped through the thin Highveld air, watching on as a high overlord.
In such a cauldron, pressure is measured not in barometers but in BMT.
Just ask Ashley du Preez. The young Chiefs striker had two opportunities to score in the space of five minutes in the first half, with only the Sea Robbers goalkeeper, Siyabonga Mpontshane, to beat.
But Du Preez had cracked open the Necronomicon of SA football. Once he beheld the true face of the Elder God that is the Calabash, he lost his senses; and engineered the insanity that will keep you awake while laying alone in bed on nights that only such moments of ignominious behaviour can create.
It also brought a measure of madness from the eager and anticipating crowd as they groaned and gesticulated in relief and anger. They are the eyes of the beast with the 100 000 backs, after all, and their mood ebbs and flows in veneration of the ball.
Despite not sating the appetite of the heaving hivemind, Du Preez awoke the sleeping giant beneath. It rears its head, its voice carrying in waves across the stadium as the crowd has come alive to the spectacle before them.
Until now, it has only been foreplay – like early spring thunderclouds in Johannesburg that promise rain after a grim winter, only to wither into nothingness. There is thunder in the stands now, accompanying the flashes of lightning cracking over the pitch.
The Calabash is surging in full voice. Though half-time is near, they are hungry for what is to come. There is a sense that something special is on the horizon, barely visible, but its masts peaking just above the equator.
The Amakhosi have been bossing the game, despite starting off the poorer of the teams. The Glamour Boys are moving with confidence, their momentum splendid on a fine Johannesburg afternoon.
Every so often, they have threatened to explode with some meaningful consequence but have not quelled the monster of expectation within their bellies. When it comes, it is a spectacular release.
Yusuf Maart is in possession in the midfield, he looks up and sees Mpontshane gone rogue. With singular vision and control, he lofts a shot at goal high and proud. It cuts through the air, hanging there for an eternity. The beast takes in one deep breath, drawn in collectively.
A moment of time freezes, and the beast turns its symbiotic head towards the Pirates' goal, a thousand faces looking on. Mpontshane tracks back desperately – a portion of the living organism willing him to defence, the other majority hoping for failure. He stretched in vain upwards, launching his soul and body toward his goal line.
Maarts’ attempt is above him now, and with each nanosecond, it creeps over his outstretched glove. He can do nothing but watch in quiet horror as it eludes his grasp and bounces dutifully into the back of the net.
The Calabash erupts, rapture ripples along its spine as it roars in approval. Maart and his teammates greet the jubilation, embracing the honour and glory of scoring the opening goal, the only goal, the triumphant goal.