Story: A Different Sort of Springbok Fan

A Different Sort of Springbok Fan

The guest house was empty, except for me, the yo-yo American chick using one of the rooms as home base in a toney Afrikaans neighborhood near Johannesburg International Airport. The plane noise could be deafening; but the sounds of water circulating in the koi ponds outside my window always softened the auditory shock. September and my internal North American calendar said yellow school buses, the same color as the changing leaves of tulip poplars, should be ready to pick up kids for the first day of school. The days should be getting shorter, the temperatures cooler. Here September meant spring, the early spring I associate with Easter baskets and the opening of baseball season. I pushed the sheer, white curtain aside. Songbirds were returning to manicured gardens behind locked gates and razor wire. More tulips had opened up in the morning sun: cupped shapes of pink, red and white, surrounded by daffodils a brighter shade than any autumn hue back home.

Big rugby match on tap that Saturday afternoon and I had tickets. South Africa’s national team, the Springboks, were hosting the All Blacks of New Zealand. The third meeting of the two teams in the Tri Nations contest, a HUGE rivalry in rugby land. South Africa had been soundly defeated in the first two matches and were underdogs, home field advantage apparently not a factor. The entire nation would be watching on television. Perhaps a preview of Coming Attractions for the finals of the Rugby World Cup in the fall of 2007. I had a feeling I’d be one of the few Yanks in attendance amongst the 38,000 at Royal Bafokeng Park, a state of the art sports pavilion NW of Johannesburg. In the States my beloved Green Bay Packers would continue their pre-season games the following day in the sacred place known as Lambeau Field. This tomboy needed a sports fix. American football is supposedly based on rugby, so what the hell. I had a handsome date lined up, and from what I could determine from the online stadium map, we had great seats.

The previous day Cliff and I had made up a poster for the day’s adventure. I can’t draw worth a damn so my more artistic companion had sketched an excellent version of the team’s elegant mascot in the upper right corner. I block printed an exclamation “ A Yank Girl Who Loves Rugby. Go Boks!” It wasn’t a fabrication. I’ve followed the game since college, the most popular venue for the game in a country obscured by so many other pro sports. I dated a former All Black in graduate school, later the captain of the Manley team when I was vagabonding around Australia a year later. The Provincial match I attended in a downpour in Capetown a couple months before renewed my grasp of the rules. It felt good to be part of the frenzy. Watch the sports broadcasters line out what to expect in the match. I’d purchased a knock off Springbok jersey from a street vendor the day before. Figured I needed to switch loyalties to South Africa, the country I’d been hopping in and out of for the past five months. Besides, their colors were green and gold, the same as my beloved Packers.

We were dropped off on the east side of the stadium. Make-shift kiosks lined the sidewalk hawking biltong, pennants and more expensive, team sanctioned shirts than the one I wore. I lingered at one booth where a slight, dark skinned man, his laughter infectious as he deftly painted the South African flag on young girls' cheeks. I handed him twice the seven rand price, having him adorn the left check in the green, red and white of his nation, the Stars and Stripes of mine on the other. Cliff patiently held my sign by his knees, smiling so his dimples showed, then pointing in my direction as fans read the placard. My unusual make-up job complete, he grabbed my hand, pulling me forward toward the massive sports arena so I wouldn’t get lost in the fast moving crowd.

The faces around us were mainly white. Native Africans prefer playing and watching soccer (or football as it is known everywhere but in the U.S.). A point of contention among some South African activists. They wanted the national rugby team to better reflect the racial mix of the country’s population. The All Blacks were already on the field performing the haka, the Maori war dance intended to heighten their spirits while intimidating their opponents, as we slipped into our aisle seats on the second level. Dead center. 50 yard line position on a gridiron field. It was a gorgeous spring afternoon. A sellout from the looks of it. We settled in as I studied the program to sort out who played where. Some positions, like fullback and halfback, made the jump to American football and were familiar. Others, like hooker and flankers, I still had trouble with.

Fifteen minutes before the half people left their seats, headed for the bar and half-time adult libations. No alcohol sales during the action up and down the rows, so the rugby faithful pound the equivalent of nine baseball innings’ of beer and liquor in a twenty minute time frame. The more alcoholic types will watch the beginning of the second half on a TV in the pub. Not many leaning against the bar today. It was a close match that could go either way and that kind of action is best seen live.

The Boks won 21-20. Jubilant, the crowd emptied the stands to take in a post-game rock concert and quaff more beer in celebration. I still had my poster. Lofted it above my head at I believe were appropriate moments during the game, but unlike American football, there aren’t many breaks in a rugby match. Eighty minutes total, forty minute halves with few, if any, time outs. Not many chances for camera crews to scan for colorful individuals in the crowd. I wouldn’t know till the next day that my international cheer had briefly flashed on TV screens across the country and beyond. The South African pilots I’d met in August on the west coast of Madagascar spotted it on the satellite feed from their hotel room in Morondava and e-mailed me the news.

But I do know my colorful cheeks and homemade sign are part of many digital photographic memories of people whose names I don’t know and will never see again After about the twelfth time I’m asked to pose for increasingly inebriated Springbok supporters, Cliff suggested I start charging a fee. Kinda like the Cherokee men, adorned in headdresses of their distant Sioux cousins, asking a dollar for a snapshot of them by your side, maybe throw in a kiss, if you choose a cheesy photo op while driving through the reservation. I took my payment in cold Castle Lagers instead.

A little over a year later I sit in the den of a college professor in Moscow, Idaho, home of the University of Idaho and my first alma mater. The room is filled with devoted rugby fans, men who play in a local club, assorted coaches from the college squad, much older than the athletes we are watching in a scrum from France. This lot are the only ones who subscribe to the obscure cable sports channel where the finals of the Rugby World Cup are being broadcast. The Springboks win a tight defensive battle against England,15-6. I am the only one in the room with the right jersey on my back, with memories of seeing the new world champions play in their own backyard. Any difficulties South Africans have with the composition of the team are obscured by intense national pride. So says Nelson Mandela and the current president, Thabo Mbeki, in post-game interviews. They’ll be a collective hangover on that side of the planet in a day or two. My only wish is I had the right brand of beer in hand to toast their victory. I guess a Guinness will have to do.