Rugby.  It’s like religion, but a lot more serious.

It’s very difficult to explain to a non-South African exactly how much rugby is woven into the world I grew up in.  Tenuous comparisons with Argentinean or Brazilian football have been made, but I’m not sure that captures it.  Of all the world’s rugby nations, only New Zealand has a passion approaching the one I’m talking about.  This is the sort of passion that borders on the unhealthy.  The sort that has people defining themselves by their team and its fortunes.  Take a minute and have a look at this article in the Wall Street Journal, entitled The Toughest Team in Sports.  You’ll get a sense of what I mean.

On the 25 of May 1995 the Springboks played Australia in the opening match of the rugby world cup at Newlands in Cape Town.  It was a weekday in South Africa, but that made no difference.  I left work in Johannesburg early to drive to Pretoria, where I was going to watch the game with my man “Cheese” Mitchell.  I felt a rising panic as I realised there might be traffic on South Africa’s busiest stretch of road, and that I had a chance of being late for the match.  My panic turned to fascination as I headed northwards on the Ben Schoeman highway.  The road was as empty as if it was a Sunday morning.  Figurative tumbleweed rolled across the lanes as the theme from High Noon played through my mind.  All around the country the time-honoured ritual that accompanies Springbok rugby was underway.  Braai fires were being lit, double brandy & Cokes were being dispensed, and an air of intense excitement took over.  The game was good, and few South Africans will ever forget Pieter Hendriks rounding the posts with his fist raised triumphantly.  The 51 000 people in the stadium were beside themselves, as were the rest of us.

The next month was an electrifying time to be alive in South Africa.  The first democratically-elected government had been in power for a year, and most people had no idea what to expect.  But rugby united them in a way I’ve not seen before or since.  The chap filling up your car at the petrol station would want to know about James Small, rather than his far more familiar “Shoes” Mosheu.  People everywhere were united in praise for a young, magnificent Chester Williams.  The Springboks even had a Zulu name for the first time – amaBokoboko.  Commonality causes community, and the fever pitch that was building just fostered this.  The Boks advanced through the pool matches against Romania and Canada, through the quarters (Western Samoa) and semis (France).  And still the excitement kept building.

The mid-winter morning of the 24th of June 1995 dawned, and I remember clearly how you could cut the atmosphere with a knife.  Complete strangers were chatting with each other about the game wherever you went, and the Joburg air was pregnant with promise.  In the same way as Americans can tell you where they were when JFK was shot, I have never met a South African that doesn’t remember where they were that day, or what they were doing for the final against New Zealand.  It’s tattooed on the individual and national psyches.  And each proud South African has some stories of that day.

One friend remembers seeing a Boeing 747, the “Lebombo”, flying really low over eastern Joburg, not realising that it had the words Good Luck Bokke written on the underside, and that Captain Laurie Kay was about to fly it just over the roof of a packed Ellis Park stadium.

Or the traffic policeman outside the stadium stopping each car and making the driver have glug of wine from his papsak before allowing them to proceed.  Or the lake at the Randburg Waterfront full of delirious revellers after the final whistle.  Or the minibus taxis on Hans Strydom Avenue, blocking the road to have a celebratory party, and people parking their cars and joining in.

I was in The Waterfront Arms with my sister Debs and some mates, and the moment I knew we would win was when I heard 65 000 people chanting “Nelson Nelson!” as President Nelson Mandela entered the stadium.  It sounds corny, but when you have so much self-belief, you simply cannot fail.  History is littered with examples of this.

Joel Theodore Stransky slotted the most beautiful drop goal ever in extra time, sealing a 15-12 victory for South Africa, and I have never seen a better example of the whole being far greater than the sum of its parts.  That kick achieved so much more than 3 points.


The image of of Nelson Mandela handing the William Webb Ellis trophy to Francois Pienaar, the pair of them wearing number 6 Springbok jerseys remains an iconic one.  It gave momentum to a decade of goodwill.


And now the story is finally going to be in a Hollywood movie with Morgan Freeman & Matt Damon, to be released on 11 December this year.

If you remember the 24th of June 1995 like I do, and you get the same chill down your spine thinking about it, have a squizz at the video below.  Turn the volume right up.  I know what I’m doing on the 11th…