In the big battle at Newlands, between the men in green and the men in light-green, ancient, heartfelt allegiances win sway as the ball kicks into bounce and the stadium roars into action. The big message, at the end of the game? We’re all in this together. By Sean O’Connor
When my neighbour calls me, it’s usually because my dogs have managed to slip out the gate. I feel chastised and endeavour to be more vigilant. This time it was different.
Howie was inviting me to come and watch rugby at Newlands – the Boks vs. Ireland. In a private box! As a single parent with my children due to arrive an hour before kick-off, some nifty arrangements were required.
After that was sorted, with much detail, all I had to do was get to the stadium in time. As expected, the traffic was a nightmare. There are only so many roads to Newlands, all of them as tight as the Treasury.
I have Irish blood, and South African, plus a few other strains, too be sure. But I’ve always supported the men in light green. Giant slayers they, singers and poets and fishermen, peat-diggers and European tax evaders. I donned my father’s Arran jersey, wore an emerald tie, my crisp bowler hat and long woven wool coat, bedecked with pins and badges declaring my ancestry on a far off isle.
My parents, both Irish passport holders as well as proud South African citizens, were too settled in their suburban lives during Apartheid to bother getting me that passport that would enable to me roam the world in my later life. My passport is a dark green mamba, and that’s fine. Still I knew that I would be in the minority when I arrived at the stadium, heaving as it was with patriotic locals.
The last time I was at Newlands was with my father, and we caught a minibus taxi home, down the Main Road. It was an experience for him, a joyous stop-start of bouncing thighs and hooting and kwaito, with deft ins and outs. This time it was Uber, and an immigrant driver who somehow found us amongst a thrall of spectators, washed onto the intersection in the post-match melee.
I was alone in my Irishness in the corporate box. Springbok paraphernalia adorned every surface, signed balls and jerseys and moments of past glory. On the bar counter was a piece of paper where people wrote their predictions for the match, and despite a rapid Guinness before joining my host on the stand, I somehow didn’t feel qualified to add my forecast to the lot.
I took my seat at kick-off, and my neighbourly host texted my conjecture down to the hostess guarding the Guinness. Ireland 26, SA 21, was what I said. Are you sure, he asked? Well, you may know the rest. It was Ireland 26, SA 20. In the end, I was photographed with the prize: a Springbok tog-bag, a well-built piece of apparel. Inside it, to my dismay, I found no week-long voucher to Mauritius, not even a half bottle of Jamesons.
After the match, it was hard not to gloat, I’ll admit. Perhaps I even indulged a bit, and why not? My support for the little men in green was unwavering. We were down to fourteen men, after a foul, ironically by a South African born Irish player who committed it without malice, was the consensus of those sitting around us. Still, it was foolhardy and dangerous and the penalty was just. Then we were down to thirteen for a time. A lucky number. The luck of the Irish? No. We were the better team.
Next week, we’ll hopefully keep everyone on the field. No more chances, or largesse, sorry fellas. It was a sporting gesture. Pity you couldn’t appreciate that, with apologies to Pat Lambie. I hope he comes out okay.
The thing is, I’ve always found it hard to support the Springboks. It’s true, and I don’t mind confessing it. During Apartheid, like many locals who still support the All Blacks or other teams, I couldn’t support the all-white team, despite the appearance of people like Errol Tobias, a very good black flyhalf who was so assured in his distribution, but an anomaly in the world I grew up in. It’s been that way for a while now. Kamp Staaldraad and all that.
Rugby has been a lens on our society. Someone near me said: “The Irish team haven’t even transformed! How can they win?”
In my early years, all my peers supported South Africa without question, and without questioning what they were supporting. I was alone at the edge of the living room or lounge we were in, vocally against the team that was supposed to represent my country, because they didn’t feel like my team. Oscar Wilde’s approbrium: ‘patriotism is the refuge of scoundrels’ rang true then, and still does.
I met all sorts of people on Saturday night. People who caroused into and out of our corporate box with good intentions, of all shapes and colours. For a special while it seemed like this was the spectrum of us, men and women united in a pursuit that was quite particular, but universal, in sport and the love of a game.
It felt good to be on the winning team, but that’s not always the case. Losing has its own lessons, and I admire where we are going, as a nation, cracked, struggling with questions of identity, my own included.
Leaving the stadium, one or two blokes suggested I donate my Springbok-adorned prize for the next week’s draw. I’m not anti-South African, I explained. I’m pro-Irish. But in a world of black and white, that’s a shade of grey that’s not easily countenanced. There’s precious little middle ground. We’re for, or against. Winners or losers. Rich or poor. Let us at least know that we’re in this thing together.
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