It can be a tough bounce of the ball, and a hard blow of the whistle, when you’re forced to surrender your position as a rugby know-it-all to someone who knows more than you do.
It all started so innocently. My partner and I were watching the Stormers play the Sharks in Super Rugby a couple of seasons back. Till that point, she had been enamoured with cricket (thanks, Sachin), but something about the game captured her imagination – and it wasn’t what product Joe Pietersen used to pep up his immaculately coiffed hair.
She began pestering me with inane questions about rugby and I obliged, thinking that humouring her would score me some serious brownie points. When the final whistle blew, I thought that would signal the end of her fleeting interest.
This was a mistake. I had opened an entire laundromat’s worth of sweaty first XV socks.
“Oooh, that was a good kick, wasn’t it?” and “Why are their thighs so bulky?” have quickly morphed into analysis of the game that would make Hugh Bladen blush. My wallet would be a lot fatter if I could stand the ignominy of taking her predictions to the bookie. To make matters worse, her growl of indignation when there’s a knock-on close to the try-line is suddenly a few octaves below my own.
It’s not that I have anything against her unbridled passion for the game exceeding my own. In fact, I know that most men would relish the situation I’m in. There are few things that bring couples closer together than a new-found shared interest.
The thing is, my better half ups the ante more than a few notches. I used to be able to spout complete nonsense about the game with my mates around the braai in a very South African re-enactment of The Emperor’s New Clothes without having anyone call me on it.
My partner, however, will simply not let that sort of thing slide. Awkwardness inevitably ensues, totally ruining my street cred. And with both of us glued to the TV afternoons, who is going to do those pesky weekend chores liking washing the dog or devising an excuse not to pay the complex levy?
And you know, sometimes I really don’t mind missing a titanic Vodacom Cup clash between the Welwitschias and the Griffons to indulge in the sheer mindlessness of a couple of episodes of Momsters: When Moms Go Bad. Don’t judge me.
I used to pride myself on being able to tell you exactly why a referee was blowing up play a nano-second after he did so, but I bit my tongue ever since I called offside and she told me it was because the game had ended.
I now have to overcompensate for my emasculating lack of knowledge by going over the top when it comes to getting kitted out when watching a game at the stadium.
I’m talking facepaint with gaps for those R2 stamps on both cheeks, a custom-made makarapa, three flags and no 23 on the back of my jersey.
No-one will ever doubt my enthusiasm – or get into any sort of philosophical or technical discussion with me. I just need to work out how to wear togs on the concourse outside Newlands without breaking my hip, and all will be well with the world – at least for 80 minutes.
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