There’s something about rugby’s greatest spectacle that brings out paternal feelings, even if you’re just watching on the couch from home
When my life is done, I won’t count it in years. I’d like to think of it in terms of World Cups. Twenty sounds like a good number – substantial, yes, but achievable given enough luck, kale, and seasons of the Simpsons.
This Rugby World Cup is special, not just because it is in Japan for the first time, or the fact that the resurgent Springboks have a real shot at lifting the William Webb Ellis trophy for the third time, but also because it begins in September, the traditional beginning of spring-cleaning.
It’s a happy coincidence, because World Cups are punctuated by moments of high drama, those delirious highs and gnawing lows. They’re cathartic events, whether it’s because Joel Stransky just sent the country into raptures, or Japan pulled off the ultimate upset and you’re sobbing into your sushi.
I’m skeptical about the idea of a total refresh or detox. It’s nice to think we can create an entirely clean slate, like Pieter-Steph du Toit clearing out the opposition at ruck time. It feels good to say it, but in reality, that’s rarely the case. You’ve got to lug around all the emotions, prejudices and imperfections that make you who you are.
It’s the countless little adaptations on the fly during the game that will see you come up trumps, not necessarily the strategy you mapped out in the playbook before kickoff.
I can’t decide whether it’s the high emotion and hormone levels, the space for sincere contemplation, or the extra Dutch courage, but World Cups have me thinking about starting a family. And there are a number of solid reasons why having a baby during a World Cup is a good idea.
There’s a well-established phenomenon of timing a pregnancy so you can apply for extended paternity leave when the global showpiece comes around. I find the idea more and more appealing. It’s difficult enough to fit in work as it is, what with the time difference, setting up the braai and all.
I‘d also enjoy coming up with a wondrous rugby hero-inspired name – KolisiCaw or Willie-Am have a nice ring to them. I’d sit with him or her on my lap, explaining the finer nuances of the Hooligan’s Game and dream of them drawing on the fabled green-and-gold jersey – and some future commentator telling the story ad nauseam. And I’d never forget their birthdays either.
Watching modern-day epics unfold on the pitch, it makes me think about what gives my life meaning. And for many people, a big part of this is family. I haven’t got around to starting one yet, reluctant to run the risk of visiting my sins on my child and having my failings shown up in bold relief.
But as I add to my tally of World Cups, I’m beginning to feel as though it’s time to face up to the haka of fatherhood. It’s a shot at redemption and the chance to impart some wisdom, even if it amounts to pub quiz trivia and: “Be a South African, not a South African’t”.
Children may well bring out the best in me, mopping up my black marks like little infomercial sponges. Cleaning up doesn’t necessarily have to mean sweeping away – it can also mean addition.
At any rate, I seem to have missed the boat, by say, nine months or so. Still there’s always 2023 – or failing that, the 2020 Summer Olympics or even the North American Wife-Carrying Championships.
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