This article first appeared in THE WEEKENDER

27th October 2007

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The night of the World Cup final started out quietly for us. We had a braai, watched the game, tensed up, cheered, laughed; then, fatefully, we decided to head out into the streets of Cape Town to join the public celebrations. Soon enough, we found ourselves amidst a small but highly inebriated crowd spilling out of pubs and nightclubs onto Main Road.

The cops were there, with the unenviable task of moving the human mass back onto the pavement so that they could open the street to traffic. There was pushing and shoving from all sides, and one of our group ended up in the road next to a police vehicle. He made the mistake of trying to give a policeman a high five. Before we knew it, he had been bundled into the van and disappeared into the night.

After a few hours of waiting at the Claremont Police Station (while debating what constitutes “riotous behaviour”) our friend was released without charge. What, we wanted to know, was life like on the inside? Any profound insights? Well, he informed us, most of the inmates in the holding cell were drunk and unable to say much more than “I’m a law student, I know my rights”, but there was one lyrical moment when he read an inscription on the wall. There, carved amidst the agony of incarceration, were the words: BARABAS SE MA SE P**S!

But Barabas and his mother, whoever and wherever they may be, were not the only victims of hate speech in the week of the World Cup final – as any South African with an office job, an email address and a computer could tell you. Company servers across the country were clogged with “patriotic” attachments, ranging from the witty to the downright stupid. There were the expected cartoon images of Springboks mounting British bulldogs; there were the outdated anecdotes about an abused child in London who asked to be placed in the custody of the English rugby team because “they don’t beat anyone”.

There was one in particular, however, that demonstrated just how myopic over-enthusiastic supporters can be. Below a picture of Boer women and children in one of the concentration camps during the South African War were a few lines exhorting the Springboks to exact “payback” from the British because they “plundered our farms and stole our animals ... torched our houses and burned our crops” over a century ago.

Sports fans are fond of turning international fixtures into grudge matches – the English themselves are hardly immune to this, as any German or French footballer will tell you – but it seems that a certain portion of the South African rugby-supporting population specialises in this form of historical insensitivity. It is, of course, because South African rugby is still tainted with the stigma of Afrikaner nationalism that politicians have spent the last decade over-reacting to questions of representation and transformation, and under-reacting to the Springboks’ performance on the field.

For this reason, it has been most gratifying to see how “the average South African”, with the impossibly hybrid racial and gender demographic implied by that phrase, has supported the Springboks during the World Cup campaign irrespective of the political sound and fury that has been aimed at the team for some years now. Success breeds interest, which goes some way to explaining why, although most of the country should by rights be more concerned about the hapless exploits of Bafana Bafana or the greedy incompetence of SAFA administrators (soccer remains, after all, the primary national sport) the talk on the street has been Bokke, Bokke, Bokke. When there’s plenty in this country to be negative or ashamed about, it’s only fair that a sporting achievement should become for a brief period the major source of national pride.

But – and please don’t get me wrong when I say this; I’ve loved rugby since my dad taught me the game as a young kid, and I never miss a Springbok game – I do wish everyone would shut up about it.

Apart from a selection of sportswriters, radio and TV commentators, ex-players and, of course, the coach and captain of a team, there are usually very few people who have something worthwhile to say about the outcome of a sports match. It is even more difficult for anyone to say anything sensible about a World Cup victory. In the hours following the Springbok win (as had been the case with the build-up to the final), the TV cameras brought us vox pops from drunken supporters: from the Parc de Princes in Paris to Boktown in Montecasino, we were treated to slurred semi-renditions of Hier Kommie Bokke or woefully curtailed Shosholozas, belched cries and nervous giggles. Over the last few days, with Joe Public reaching for superlatives, I haven’t read anything more inspiring than a placard declaring “Bokke is die beste”, a car with “Bok bef*k” in green paint on the side doors, or a graffiti artist’s “Bakkies, you beauty!”.

If this sounds like linguistic elitism of the worst kind, it’s not: I screamed incoherently at the TV last Saturday, I insulted the ref, I cursed the English. But I also didn’t want anyone to put a microphone and a camera in my face. Sport generally, and rugby in particular, is a physical, visceral, emotional affair. It requires mental agility too, grim determination, clarity of mind, concentration, great vision – but that’s not the same thing as intelligence. Which is why post-match interviews always disappoint. Remember how Herchelle Gibbs, with the chance to say something immortal after the famous 438 win against Australia, could think of nothing else but the “moerse hangover” he anticipated the next day?

I love watching Percy Montgomery play rugby. I love his consistency when kicking and his composure under the high ball. But when I hear him talk, I can do nothing but pity his English teacher at SACS High School all those years ago. Bryan Habana’s enthusiasm and modesty make him a great interviewee, but he speaks even faster than he runs and it’s impossible to pin down what he’s actually saying. And so it is with all the Springboks. Let’s face it, even the erudite Bob Skinstad is more impressive when making an unlikely pass in the tackle than when discussing English literature.

John Smit, like Skinstad, is intelligent and for the most part eloquent. But, as he has been explaining to the watching world since the final whistle blew, you can’t put into words the tremendously complex feelings that come with winning a World Cup final. One gets the feeling that, understandably, he doesn’t really want to try. And neither do his teammates.

As they made their way through the frenzied welcome at OR Tambo International on Tuesday, dazed and perhaps not a little irritable after a long flight, the Springboks were scragged by SABC’s Morning Live crew and, reluctantly, gave further interviews; camera-shy Francois Steyn side-stepped Mike Catt easily enough, but he was unable to dodge Vuyo Mbuli.

The ticker-tape parades are, one imagines, proving less taxing for the players. Smile, wave, chat to your teammates. No need to say anything “on record”. Quite frankly, the same should hold true for the South African public: cheer, applaud, slap each other on the back. But when it comes to celebrating sporting greatness, the less said, the better.