Crazy, Chaotic Clamour of Competing Consumers

As published in my column, 'The Blog Roll' in the January 2011 edition of SPORTElizabeth.

Photo courtesy of The Herald.

I’m really not a fan of this time of the year. In my opinion it is a crazy time when people spend money they don’t have, celebrating an occasion some of them don’t even subscribe to, let alone fully understand, while swopping gifts that, in most cases, inevitably become dust collectors. I cannot doubt the fact that it is a fantastic time for children – well, at least those not only fortunate enough to have parents and/or families, but those who have families who can afford to spend a little. I can remember Christmas as a kid. In fact, while I was digging through some old shoe boxes looking for the photo that you should see on this page, I found a letter I must have written when I was 6 or 7 years old. It read, “Dear Father Christmas. I would really like a fishing rod for Christmas this year. I have been very good. If you cannot find a fishing rod, then I would like a Thundercats man. His name is Tigre. Thank you and Merry Christmas, Rory.” As far as I can remember, I did get the fishing rod – much to the dismay of many a ‘rockballie’ at Beachview, who were crossing their tailfins that I’d get the action hero. Hold onto that ‘action hero’ idea. We’ll get back there in a minute. Well, depending on how quickly you read.

I must admit though, there are some aspects of this time of the year that I really do enjoy. For instance, the coming together of friends and family, the almost permanent excuse to have a drink (or ten), the ability to put one’s feet up and reflect on the year gone by, and lastly, the almost permanent excuse to have a drink (or ten). There you have it: Four good reasons why I am able to look past the crazy stampede of sheep through the shopping malls; but not without a critical snigger, it must be said!

This is a sporting tabloid, so let’s talk sport. Seeing as we’re reminiscing about the days of rock pools and Thundercats, I’ll keep the nostalgia going. When I was a young lad at primary and high school, there was hardly a cricket match at St George’s Park that my mates and I did not attend - The Benson & Hedges Day/Night series, The Nissan Shield, The Castle Lager Series – we went to them all. We were quite simply obsessed with Eastern Province and later, South African cricket. In fact, it remains by far one of my favourite pastimes. I remember quite clearly the days of Brett Schultz banging those left-armers in at the terrified opposition batsmen, with the likes of Rudi Bryson, Rod McCurdy, John Maguire and Eldine Baptiste providing ample support. Those days I used to dream of being in the company of sportsmen of such stature. I did get it right now and then – albeit for mere seconds at a time.

As such, I am the kid standing on the extreme right in the photo on this page. Yes, the one wearing the sleeveless shirt showing those massive biceps. The blond mop diagonally to my right is my younger brother, Gary. Look at the expression on my face. Absolute awe. I was probably thinking, “Wow. Here I am about a metre away from a real life action hero! I am going to be just like that when I’m big and strong.” I can remember that day quite clearly. We used to sit together on our deck chairs – a group of about 6 or 7 boys. Kitted out with autograph booklets, hundreds of pens of all different colours, miniature bats and enough cool drink on us should a batsman reach a milestone and ‘require’ a refreshment. Do you remember those days? The mere thought of it seems bizarre, and if I didn’t have this photo, I would’ve doubted my own memory of it. Can you imagine even getting as far as the actual pitch during a match these days, let alone getting there and the batsman actually accepting a drink from a stranger? It seems too crazy to even contemplate.

Just the other day, I was once again surrounded by action heroes. I was extremely fortunate enough to have attended the SPORT Elizabeth Homegrown Hero Awards at the Radisson Hotel on Thursday 9 December. What an absolutely superb evening. I can remember sitting down at the table, and for a few seconds, the image of a young (and unbelievably cute) Rory standing opposite Martin Venter in absolute awe entered my mind. I had pretty much that same feeling of amazement as my eyes scanned the room for the twelve SPORT Elizabeth Homegrown Heroes. I paused for a few minutes to take it all in. I almost wanted to pop over to each one of the Homegrown Heroes and offer him/her slurp of my drink as a token of congratulations. The good news is that I snapped out of it, and didn’t proceed to do that. But, what did linger was the excitement I felt of having actually been able to attend an event like that. The young and very cute Rory (nothing’s changed some eight years later, give or take?) you see on this page would probably have given those biceps to have even been allowed to look through the window at such an event. The appreciation was most definitely not lost on me.

The funny thing is that the SPORT Elizabeth Homegrown Heroes Awards Dinner was certainly not the first event of its kind I have attended since joining Neil at the Algoa FM sports desk over two years ago. But, for some reason, it was the first time that I ‘went back’ to that 12-year-old Rory offering Martin Venter some refreshment, and actually appreciated it from that perspective. My assumption is that in the midst of the hustle and bustle during the year, I don’t allow myself that space to stop and reflect. There is always something else on my mind as I plan my next task, while stressing about the one that is to follow that one, and so forth. And, ladies and gentlemen, it is for that reason that I am able to ignore the crazy clamour of countless, competing consumers, while the time of year that, I feel, is best treated as a time for rest and reflection, is commodified.

Have a top festive season. Be safe. Play nicely. We’ll chat again in 2011, a year in which we’ll have both a cricket and rugby World Cup to look forward to. Bring it.

Stimulating Springboks

As published in my column 'The Blog Roll' in the December 2010 edition of SPORTElizabeth

Springbok rugby is a mess. There, I said it. It’s an issue I’ve been avoiding and, admittedly, too proud a do-or-die Bok supporter to even admit to myself, let alone advocate in a newspaper column. I cannot help but feel that the international rugby fraternity is having a fat laugh, while week in and week out, considering the talent we have in the country, South African rugby seems to turn what really should be a plain and simple task into rocket science.

More about that a bit later. I am going to start with an issue that I have, until recently, been ambivalent on since the ‘scandal’ erupted. By the way, I absolutely detest that word, and the media’s liberal use of it. Moving on. When I first heard about the positive drug tests of rising Springbok star Bjorn Basson and Bok prop (and possible future skipper) Chiliboy Ralapelle, I immediately labelled it a storm in a teacup. In fact, I suspect that Professor Tim Noakes might be stalking me, as in the KFC Sports Cage on Algoa FM two days later, that is exactly what he called it: ‘a storm in a teacup’. Why thank you Prof, however, I would appreciate it if you would reference me when you so blatantly plagiarise my words. And stop following me – it’s getting a bit weird now.

Prof Noakes explains that the stimulant found in their bodies, methylhexaneamine, only hangs around for between 24 and 36 hours, before it surreptitiously slips into the porcelain. So, provided the athlete in question stops consuming any ‘dubious’ supplements and/or medication immediately after the first test, the B-sample should be fine. This, together with the fact that in January, methylhexaneamine is scheduled to be reclassified anyway, tells me that this really is nothing but a deluge in a coffee mug. In fact, speaking of which, the substance is really nothing more than a stimulant very similar to caffeine. Listen out for Prof Noakes’ next interview – he’ll no doubt use my ‘coffee mug’ thing.

Ok, so this is all easy enough, right? So we can laugh it off and pretend it never happened and declare the whole system a farce? Absolutely not. The stimulant first reared its energetic head last year when five Jamaican athletes tested positive for the substance, and were subsequently banned for three months. It was then traced to a supplement being distributed during the Jamaican Championships. During the 2010 Commonwealth Games in New Delhi, Nigerian sprinter Damola Osayemi was stripped of her gold medal after she tested positive for methylhexaneamine. And recently, Australian officials announced that nine Australian athletes were facing possible sanctions after testing positive for the substance. Yes, I’ll admit, it is a notoriously devious and conniving stimulant that operates under at least two pseudonyms. But, come on. Has SARU had its head in the sand all of this time? At first I came out defending SARU, blaming the notoriety of the stimulant, but then I realised that my argument was self-destructive. Surely the notoriety of the stimulant, and the list of cases mentioned above, should mean that extra caution and vigilance be practiced.

Now don’t get me wrong. I do not for one second lay any blame whatsoever on 23-year-old sensation and 2010 Currie Cup top try scorer, Basson or the 24-year-old Ralapelle for the presence of this conniving substance in their urine. In fact, if anything, I sympathise with both players. Nobody, let alone a rising rugby talent in the dawn of his international career, nor the man touted as the future Springbok captain, want their name in the same sentence as ‘doping scandal’ in the international press. That sticks. It hangs around for much longer than the stimulant itself. Wait, I like this train of thought, so I am going to give an example. Let’s imagine for a second that Basson scores a hat-trick of tries in a 2011 RWC match in New Zealand. The story in many international newspapers will very possibly read something along the lines of, “Bjorn Basson, the man who found himself embroiled in a doping scandal less than a year ago, scored a hat-trick of tries for the defending champions, the Springboks, in their 2011 RWC opening match against Wales in Wellington last night.” It sticks. The same can be said if/when Ralapelle is appointed Bok captain. It sticks.

Surely somebody at SARU is tasked with keeping a persistently accurate and well-informed eye on what goes into the bodies of the Rugby World Champions. I don’t know exactly who that person (people) is, or if it is in fact Dr Craig Roberts, but he admitted both players were recently treated for flu, but that he had never experienced any problems in the past with his flu treatment/medication. Upon hearing the news of the positive tests, Bok management had everything that was being consumed by the Boks sent for laboratory tests, as it was feared that the whole squad might be ‘contaminated’. At the time of writing, there has been no further news on the results of those tests or the possible reasons for the positive tests. That’s not the point here, anyway. In my opinion, the most important issue is not how or why the substance came to be in the bodies of those two players. Admittedly, it is vital that we find out to prevent this happening again. But for me, what this whole debacle illustrates so beautifully is the lack of professionalism in Springbok rugby at the moment. Why is it that to date this stimulant has not found its way into any other major rugby union? There simply is no excuse as far as I’m concerned.

Finally, Scotland 21 – 17 South Africa. Admittedly, a determined and passionate Scotland team played its heart out at a wet and cold Murrayfield, and the (conniving and notorious) Stuart Dickinson did the Boks no favours either, but come on. The Springboks seemed to have no cohesion. There appeared to be no real strategy, and for the most part, the ball was either thrown around frantically like a coffee mug full of methylhexaneamine, or kicked aimlessly at the opposition allowing a counterattack. Also, your team is trailing (and visibly struggling), and your Grand Slam hopes hang on the next 20 minutes of the match, and you substitute arguably the world’s best goal-kicker for the inexperienced (but admittedly brilliant) Pat Lambie. And it’s certainly not the first time Bok management has made questionable substitutions at crucial moments. But we’ll save that issue for a different day.

When the Boks beat a lacklustre Ireland team at Aviva Stadium in the opening match, I was not overly convinced. When the Boks clawed back to beat Wales at the Millennium Stadium a week later, I was not convinced. And finally, when the Boks disposed of their Grand Slam hopes at Murrayfield on 20 November, I was livid. And, once again, call me crazy, but I am not blaming the players. There is something wrong. And there certainly is no shortage of rugby talent in South Africa. For this reason, and the others discussed above, I feel at the moment, Springbok rugby is a mess. And, you know what, it really should not be.

PS: I do not really suspect Prof Noakes of stalking me, however, I wish he’d stalk the Springboks and secretly plant his wisdom on player fatigue in places they’re bound to find it.

EP Rugby on the Rise

As published in SPORTElizabeth in November 2010

It was sometime in 2001, I think. It was around 9pm on a night in December or January. All I can remember without doubt is that it was absolutely bitterly, freezing cold and it was drizzling, and the queue seemed to be going nowhere. In fact, if I can remember correctly, it was more like a queueueueueue. And we were nowhere near the front. This was Camden Palace in London on a Friday night, and we were anxious to get inside. It was a nightclub we had heard more than enough about to warrant a weekend trip from Exeter, Devon to London to squeak some serious tekkie. We were cold, we were starting to sober up (we had spent a large part of the afternoon fixing the world’s finances in a nearby pub), and we were starting to wonder if it was all going to be worth the wait. Until I spotted something hilarious ahead of us in the queueueue (it had become slightly shorter). I quietly nudged my two mates, JP and Conrad, who were also both from Port Elizabeth, and pointed ahead. They both immediately burst out laughing.

Really? So you find yourself 1000s of kilometres from home in one of THE capital cities of the world, and you’re about to enter one of the best clubs in this city, and you decide to wear an Eastern Province (not so) Mighty Elephants Rugby jersey. You have absolutely no shame. Either that, or you lost a bet. Surely. This is a true story, by the way. There was a girl waiting in the queue wearing what looked like her dad’s EP Rugby jersey. You need to understand that there was a time when the EP Rugby jersey was worn only by the players, and perhaps their immediate families; behind closed doors and with all curtains and/or blinds firmly shut. It wasn’t something that most people wanted to be seen wearing. You may want to argue here, but let’s be honest, it’s true.

To put things into perspective, in 2001 the Mighty Elephants finished fifth in the Vodacom Cup, and were then thumped 27 – 40 by the Griffons in the Vodacom Shield final, which, in my opinion, was really a tournament designed to throw paw-paws at the Vodacom Cup losers; hence the ‘shield’. It also gave the 250-odd fans of the losing teams something to shout about, while the real teams did battle in the Vodacom Cup play-offs. While I’m talking about it, I must just mention that the Mighty Elephants did win the Vodacom Shield in 2002 when they beat Natal 26 – 20 in Durban. Due to a lack of paw-paws one suspects, the Vodacom Shield was laid to rest in 2004.

What am I muttering about again? Oh yes, Eastern Province Rugby. As I write this, it is Friday 22 October 2010 and the ABSA Currie Cup First Division Champions, the Eastern Province Kings will do battle with the Pumas in Witbank in exactly 6 hours time. I’m sorry to waste your time here (which you have a lot more of, thanks to the cremation of the Vodacom Shield), but I’d like to write that sentence again. As I write this, it is Friday 22 October 2010 and the ABSA Currie Cup First Division Champions, the Eastern Province Kings will do battle with the Pumas in Witbank in exactly 6 hours time. Ok, I must be honest – I copied and pasted it. But still, it gave me goosebumps nevertheless. Over the following two Fridays, the EP Kings will have the opportunity to gain promotion to the ABSA Currie Cup, but it’s no secret that it is going to take a monumental effort to trounce the boys who beat both the Lions and the Bulls during the 2010 season. But, in my opinion, if a team wins the trophy in its division, it deserves automatic promotion. But I am not going to waste your and my time moaning about that. I deliberately chose to write this column before tonight’s match in Witbank, because as far as I’m concerned, win or lose tonight, or next Friday night at the NMB Stadium for that matter, our boys have brought us a trophy. And that is what I am writing about.

During my errands around town today I spotted no less than five people wearing the beautiful red and white stripes of the EP Kings jersey. Did I laugh and nudge the nearest person to have a giggle? Absolutely not. On the contrary, I smiled approvingly and gave a polite nod. Right before our eyes here in Port Elizabeth and the Eastern Cape in general, there has been a complete turnaround at Eastern Province Rugby. And I’m not just talking about the standard of the rugby (which has improved in ways that cannot even be described), but more the attitude of the public towards EP rugby. Now I sit here not knowing which one I need to emphasise, so I’ll pose the question. Has the standard of EP rugby improved so dramatically because the supporters have changed their attitudes, come out to support them in their droves at the NMB Stadium and maybe even swopped those silly Sharks stickers for new and shiny EP Kings mementos, OR have the supporters burned their Sharks stickers and turned out in their thousands week in and week out because the standard of EP rugby has improved to such a great extent? I am going to attempt to answer my own question.
Working on the sports desk at Algoa FM obviously (I hate using that word, but this time it is appropriate) gives me insight into the ‘behind-the-scenes’ in South African sporting circles. So, instead of referring to EP Rugby as a collective and anonymous entity, I’d like rather to refer to specific people who, as far as I’m aware, have personally worked tirelessly in taking our EP Kings to the podium in George on Friday 15 October 2010. Just for kicks: SWD Eagles 12 – 16 EP Kings. But you knew that.

From my dealings, conversations and interviews with various people involved in and around EP Rugby, I can mention a few people whom I feel you need to know about when you next very proudly put on your EP Kings jersey. I’m pretty darn certain that the list is a helluva lot longer than what I am about to put down, but nevertheless, here goes: Alan Solomons, Corne Korff, Cheeky Watson, Anele Pamba, Debbie Ellis, Martin Nefdt, EP Kings fans (yes, you), Mzwandile Stick, De We Barry and every single member of the EP Kings squad and training team. And then of course, let’s not dismiss the role the local media have played in taking our boys not only to the top of their division, but more importantly, back into the hearts of local rugby fans. Because let’s face it, it’s been far, far, far more than just an improvement on the field – it has been an entire shift (metamorphosis) in attitude and perception. And that, I believe, is a great deal more significant.
On the 12th of October, it was announced that 21 young rugby stars from across the Eastern Cape had signed up to join the newly formed EP Rugby Academy, which will be managed by former Springbok prop, Robbie Kempson. It goes without saying that this can only lead to much greater things. EP Rugby is on the rise. This is just the beginning.

PS: Before I go, I need to tell you that last night I dreamt that EP Kings beat the Pumas 43 – 22 in Witbank. True story. Let’s see what happens.

An Unquestioned Obsession

As published in my column, 'The Blog Roll' in the September 2010 edition of Sport Elizabeth.

I shall never, ever forget that moment. Siphiwe Tshabalala. Need I say more? In fact, there is a radio commercial which sums up quite perfectly the moment Jabulani hit the back of the net at then Soccer City on 11 June 2010, by describing it as ‘the left foot that kick-started the heart of a nation’. It’s become our 9/11, if you like. No, that came out all wrong. What I am trying to say is that as much as almost everyone can clearly remember where they were or what they were doing the moment they heard the news that two aeroplanes had crashed into the Twin Towers in New York, I bet almost every South African will always remember where they were the second Tshabalala’s left foot set in motion that wave of euphoria that swept across our country. I was in the Algoa FM studio with Wayne and Lauren, and I can remember having to look again, because I could not believe what had happened. If you were on the road (because that is the only excuse for not watching it) and tuned into Algoa FM, I’m sure you would have heard our screams; and yes, that high pitched squeak was my feeble attempt at the vuvuzela (def. A trumpet shaped horn which produces a loud sound and is blown by fans at soccer matches in South Africa).

Tshabalala plays for Kaizer Chiefs in the Premier Soccer League. A large number of soccer fans in South Africa don’t even know that. But these people will tell you with such passion and fervour exactly where every player in the England squad plays in the English Premier League. After all, the English Premiership is seen by some as the biggest and best soccer league in the world. Is it really? Or is it just the most televised soccer league in the world, thereby making it (by default) ‘the best soccer league in the world’? But the power of language and the reasons for certain things being seen as ‘bigger’ or ‘better’ than others is a debate for another day.

I’ll never forget what Chelsea’s former Brazilian manager, Luiz Felipe Scolari said to British journalists quizzing him about the ‘pressure’ ahead of his team’s final Champions League group match in December 2008. Scolari said, “You know how many people live in Brazil? 180 million and I was coach there. You think here is pressure? Here the pressure is zero. Pressure was being coach of Brazil because all the people in Brazil are coaches.” Immaculately put. In one short response to a simple question, Scolari pretty much completely debunked the ostensible ‘enormity’ of what lay ahead as coach of an English club, and what made his dismantling of a ‘truth’, that until then was sacrosanct, so effective was the fact that he made a comparison. And, what made his comparison so effective is that firstly, it was probably true, and secondly, I don’t think too many people in the room knew very much about the level of stress that goes with coaching football in Brazil, let alone enough to even question the validity of Scolari’s response. Result.

It is the time of the year again when I become irritated with some people in South Africa. And this year, it is probably worse. Just over two months ago, we were all shouting, jumping, screaming, crying, singing for a team that was South African. All of a sudden, my Facebook home page is littered with how ‘WE are going to beat Chelsea’ or how ‘WE are going to beat Man United’..blah blah, bloody blah. Please somebody explain to me who is this ‘we’? And how on earth did somebody who most likely has never even been to the city that the particular team comes from, nor the city the team is playing in on a particular day, become apparently so very closely associated with it?

I had to laugh recently when one of my friends was bragging on Facebook how he had just acquired the home strip for a particular English Premiership team. It cost him around R700. I laughed, but I was irritated. I am willing to bet anything that the particular person doesn’t own (nor have any interest in) a PSL shirt. Why is this? And I really do want to know. What is it about the English Premiership that makes people in South Africa who have absolutely no connection whatsoever to the place ‘their’ team comes, from pretend as if every match is a matter of life and death? I have quizzed a few fanatical South African supporters of some of the English teams about their allegiance to ‘their’ respective teams, to which the response was usually a case of ‘loving’ Sir Alex Ferguson or John Terry, for example. I can understand that, to an extent. But what happens when these people leave the respective teams? Then you’re faced with a badge once again, as you find other reasons to justify your passion for a team so far away.

I am probably offending a large number of people here, but as much as I absolutely love pretty much all sports, I think the (unquestioned) obsession with the English Premiership is silly. I was hoping it would subside somewhat after ‘that left boot that kick-started the heart of nation’, but it hasn’t. The pubs are still filled with conversations of how Manchester City has once again overspent, or how ‘we’ really need to hold on to Torres. I haven’t heard anyone speaking about how Kaizer Chiefs has refused to release two of its Bafana Bafana stars, goalkeeper Itumeleng Khune or Tshabalala. Something which, especially after the World Cup, should be far more pertinent in our country than what Manchester City is reportedly doing.

I am not at all saying that the English Premiership should be ignored. Absolutely not. It does after all showcase some of the best footballers – not necessarily football, contrary to popular belief – the world has ever seen, and as a sports fan, that on its own is reason enough to closely monitor the matches. But I’d like to challenge every passionate supporter of an English team, who has not yet done so, to pick a PSL team, buy the shirt, and actively support it. After all, these are the guys you’ll be screaming for in four years time, should Bafana qualify for the World Cup in Brazil. A Kaizer Chiefs shirt is on my shopping list. I am South African and I ‘love’ Tshabalala.

The Bok Coach and the Media

As published in my column, 'The Blog Roll' in the August edition of Sport Elizabeth.

“Rory! My man! How are you?” The phone had been passed to Peter de Villiers by his media manager, Rayaan Adriaanse. I had never before spoken to the Springbok coach, so I had no idea what to expect when I introduced myself. I needed to interview him in order to obtain a few sound bites for my afternoon sport reports on Algoa FM. The conversation continued with me apologising to de Villiers for bothering him so soon after a media briefing, to which he jovially replied, “It is a pleasure to chat to you, Rory. Please, take your time. I am your servant.”

What an absolute pleasure. De Villiers was in East London for the official announcement of the South Africa vs. Italy test match, which was subsequently held at the Buffalo City Stadium on 26 June 2010. The Boks thumped the Azzurri 55 – 11. After speaking to PDV for about 5 minutes or so, I could only like him. He comes across as a genuinely jovial and pleasant person. In fact, I cannot think of another coach in world rugby who I’d rather have at a braai, than ol’ Div himself.
I have been somewhat angered of late. No, let’s start that again. I have been infuriated lately with the abhorrent manner in which the media have handled our very own Springbok coach, Peter de Villiers. And, probably even more disappointed at the way the public has allowed itself to be so easily swayed by what I can only refer to as intentionally irresponsible and inexcusable ‘journalism’. I’ll come back to that in a minute.

Let’s begin with former Wallaby hooker, Brendan Cannon’s recent comments on Australian TV network, Fox Sports. I quote, “I can't believe that senior players like John Smit and Victor Matfield allow themselves to be controlled by this guy. He is a clown. He surely does not coach the team.” Firstly, what gives Cannon the right to refer to our national rugby coach as ‘this guy’? Brendan, ‘this guy’ happens to coach the team that won the Vodacom Trinations last year. ‘This guy’ also coached his team to a historic triumph over the British and Irish Lions in 2009. ‘This guy’ also has a Dunedin test victory under his belt. Lastly, although he was not there at the time, ‘this clown’ is the coach of the team that is currently in possession of the William Webb Ellis Trophy. Do you still remember that piece of silverware, Brendan? I do not agree in allowing myself to become bogged down in conversations with vacuous people who engage in polemics, so I’ll stop there. From what I’ve learned, I understand that pretty much their entire show was dedicated to insulting de Villiers. That is cowardly, inexcusable behaviour, and a simple public apology (while no doubt sniggering under your breath) is certainly not sufficient in my books. The damage is done – they have destroyed PDV’s credibility in Australia and the world. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all up for a bit of pre-test match banter to spice up those rucks and mauls, but as far as I know, public defamation is a crime, and it should be dealt with as such.

Ok, let’s get back to those ‘journalists’ and their ‘interpretations’.
Remember when that journalist asked Jake White in 2004 about which of the Ireland players would make the Springbok team? And Jake White said, "None.” What else was he supposed to say? How would the relevant Springbok player(s) have felt if White named a few Irish players who would make his team? Come now, let’s not be silly.

Remember how the media intentionally misinterpreted that? All of a sudden, White had ostensibly said that no Irish player was good enough...blah blah blah.

On the same note, there is absolutely no connection whatsoever between, "Maybe it was the right thing for them (the All Blacks) to win,” and, "There is an international conspiracy underway here involving referees, rugby unions and sponsors." I mean, really now. When I read the initial report, I said exactly what PDV subsequently said about the hype in New Zealand ahead of the 2011 Rugby World Cup. I immediately thought, "Please tell me nobody is going to fall for the tricks of malicious and irresponsible ‘journalism – AGAIN."

The ‘journalists’ were cunning in their ‘misinterpretation’ this time. They could have opted for one of two routes: Firstly, that PDV is a terrible coach in that he says it’s a good thing for his team to lose. Or they could have chosen the far more elaborate route; let’s call it the Garden Route. They opted for the latter. Sadly, people fell for it.

Peter de Villiers actually speaks. He very seldom uses meaningless metaphors about drawing boards (how many coaches even understand that metaphor?), momentum, homework etc. The reason ol’ Div has ruffled so many feathers in the rugby fraternity is because he does not speak from the ‘script’. He does not subscribe to the ‘rules’ that govern every other coach in world rugby, preventing them from ever saying anything original or remotely creative. Whether this refusal is inadvertent or calculated, I cannot say.

You could take almost any one of Graham Henry's (for example) post match speeches, insert a different opposition name, and play it after every match his team plays. Have one recorded for a loss, and one for a win. It's the same rubbish over and over again. But, well done Graham, you obviously received the memo and you speak so beautifully from that script.

Whether or not de Villiers is a good rugby coach is not the issue here. Rugby fans will always have their opinions on that, which is good. But, regardless of his abilities as a coach, I think (intentionally) irresponsible and malicious journalism is disgusting; it needs to be exposed. I firmly believed PDV when he promised one thing: that he would do his very best as Springbok Head Coach. He does not deserve to be internationally ridiculed.

Some might say Div is out of his depth at press conferences. Some might say the ‘depth’ is determined by those silly little discursive 'games' we all ‘play’ on a day to day basis; games which very often essentially mean nothing anyway.

At the time of writing, SARU had instructed its lawyers to investigate the inconsistent refereeing and/or citing during the Springboks’ opening two games at the 2010 Vodacom Trinations. Let’s see what transpires.

PS: I’ll still have my braai with that man. One day.
PPS: I’d like to extend my sincere thanks to whoever wrote ‘The Blog Roll’ for me last month. Just one thing though, next time work harder on your predictions. Idiot.

My 2010 SWC Predictions

As published in my column, 'The Blog Roll' in the July 2010 edition of Sport Elizabeth.

According to the FIFA website, it is officially 1 day, 4 hours and 37 minutes until the FIFA 2010 World Cup in SOUTH AFRICA. I must admit that, until very recently, I wasn’t ‘feeling it’ and much like waiting for the effects of headache tablets (or shots of tequila) to kick in, I was waiting for this feeling of euphoria that everyone was talking about. Well, I think it is finally here! The reality of the whole thing has hit home: At 4pm on Friday 11 June 2010 at Soccer City in Johannesburg, a whistle will sound that will set in motion the biggest and by far the most anticipated sporting event our continent has ever hosted – the 2010 FIFA World Cup. In fact, in terms of television audience, it is considered bigger than the Olympic Games.

Oh wait, you’re sitting there reading this and we’re halfway through the World Cup and you’re probably thinking, “What the hell is Rory on about?” Sorry – I should have explained from the outset. We recently had illusionist (or, in the nicest possible sense, freak) Larry Soffer performing in Port Elizabeth and visiting our studios at Algoa FM. His trick where he ‘predicted’ the headlines a few days before the newspapers came out, really intrigued me as I tried to understand how he had managed to do it. Well, he did. Or he made us all believe that he did. Either way, it is pretty impressive. And, I am going to do the same thing with the 2010 World Cup. I’ll probably fail miserably, but then at least I’ll know that the whole ‘pigeon out of a hat’ thing is not for me and I’ll be able to mark that one off as ‘tried and failed’. Miserably.

When I explained to Algoa FM Sports Editor, and Sport Elizabeth reporter/columnist/skivvy, Neil Bisseker what I had ‘up my sleeve’ (if you know me well enough, you’ll know that that little ‘trick’ was definitely intended), he said it was a great idea. To cut an already long story short, I am going to predict the results of firstly, all first round matches, and then just selected matches after that. And, in doing so, I’ll then obviously predict the match-ups that will follow, and so on. And, even though Neil told me to wait until the friendly matches were complete, so I would have a better idea of what’s what, I am not going to mention any previous results and/or rankings in my explanation of my predicted results. I’m going off on far too many tangents here – let’s just get started. Here goes:

11 June 2010
SA 2 – 1 Mexico. My magic ball tells me that Katlego Mphela will score the first goal of the 2010 FIFA World Cup.
Uruguay 0 – 2 France

12 June 2010
Korea Republic 0 – 2 Greece
Argentina 1 – 1 Nigeria
England 2 – 1 United States

13 June 2010
Algeria 0 – 0 Slovenia
Serbia 0 – 2 Ghana
Germany 3 – 0 Australia

14 June 2010
Netherlands 2 – 1 Denmark
Japan 1 – 3 Cameroon
Italy 2 – 0 Paraguay

15 June 2010

New Zealand 0 – 0 Slovakia
Ivory Coast 1 – 2 Portugal
Brazil 4 – 0 Korea DPR
Honduras 0 – 1 Chile
Spain 2 – 0 Switzerland

Round Two:
South Africa 1 – 0 Uruguay
France 2 – 2 Mexico

Round Three:
Mexico 3 – 1 Uruguay
France 1 – 1 South Africa

Right, at this point, France will top Group A by virtue of a better goal difference, leaving Bafana Bafana in second spot, but with a ticket to the next round. Bafana will meet the top of Group B (Argentina) at Soccer City on 27 June in the round of 16. Bafana Bafana will go down 2 – 0 to the South Americans. It will be their first loss in 16 matches.

Looking at the rest of the tournament now, I predict that the biggest let down will be defending champions Italy, who will be knocked out by Cameroon in the round of 16. The big surprise will be the United States who will eventually be sent packing by Argentina in the quarter finals; this after beating Germany in the round of 16.

The semi finals will see Brazil beat a very defiant England 1 – 0 on 6 July, and on 7 July, Spain defeating a heartbroken Argentina 2 – 0. Whether or not Argentina coach Diego Maradona will survive the match, screaming and shouting from the sidelines, I cannot say.

The FIFA 2010 World Cup Final will be an extremely hard fought match between Brazil and Spain. Damnit – there goes my magic ball. It’s gone blank. I do not believe it! Not now, please! It does this now and then. I’m on my own here, but I’ll say that the Brazilians will take it 2 – 1. Or wait, maybe it will be Spain. Um, just give me a minute. No, final answer: Brazil to win the 2010 FIFA World Cup by beating Spain by 2 goals to 1 in the final.

I hadn’t initially planned to predict all the way through until the final, but it became quite addictive so I just continued. And I do think I might just have that gift. Just a few days ago, I predicted that Rafael Nadal would claim his fifth French Open title, and he did. Ok, I did make my prediction halfway through his 3rd set against Robin Soderling in the final, with Nadal having broken the Swede’s serve. But still, anything could have happened. I’ll claim it.

It is exactly 20.36 on Wednesday 9 June 2010. This document will now be saved onto a compact disc and given to Sport Elizabeth editor Daron Mann tomorrow to keep safe. He will be instructed to wait until my deadline on 21 June, before he opens the file. The next time I’ll see these words will be the same time you do: In the July edition of Sport Elizabeth.

Tales of Tennis

As published in my column, 'The Blog Roll' in the June edition of Sport Elizabeth.

It’s the mid-year school break, it’s winter, it’s 07.30, and there is a ‘hoot’ at the gate. It’s Uncle Reuben dropping off Wesley for our next five-set extravaganza at the Victoria Park High School tennis courts in Union Road, Walmer. These days, if you hooted anywhere near my gate at 07.30 while I was supposed to be on holiday, you’d most likely befriend a brick. Not those days. In fact (and I never did tell Wesley this), I would have been awake and up since 05.30, warming up and stretching in the back garden. While wolfing down a bowl of corn flakes (post toasties) I’d watch videos (yes, as in VHS or Beta) of Wimbledon highlights to psyche myself up for the ‘very serious’ match ahead. We did this every single weekday during the June/July holidays for about three years – except when it rained. Then it was devastating for us; sort of like a death in the family.

There were no half measures when it came to our do-or-die tennis matches. We’d take it in turns to buy brand new balls once a week. There really was nothing better than that loud ‘crack’ of the brand new tennis ball tin opening and the strong, sweet smell that bounced out. We even did the whole nylon tracksuit thing; remember those? Mine matched my tennis shoes and my sweatband – Donnay if I remember correctly. We were pros. We must have been, as we made the Wimbledon Men’s Final every June/July weekday for about 3 years. We even broke strings now and then. And it all worked out perfectly because we’d be finished our umpteenth ‘Wimbledon Men’s Final’ by around noon every day when we’d walk back to my place around the corner, share a loaf of bread, a block of cheese, six eggs, a packet of tomatoes, and plonk our sweaty selves down in front of the television just in time to watch the day’s play at Wimbledon. And then, at about 17.30 Uncle Reuben would hoot at the gate again, and Wesley would go home. Well, admittedly, only for 14 hours.

Where have all the ‘professional’ tennis players gone? And I do not accept ‘Nintendo Wii’ as an answer! Driving past those tennis courts in Union Road these days is depressing. There are only four of them left and there is never anybody using them during the holidays. Now I don’t know if the courts are inaccessible to the public, but even so, surely pupils from the school are able to use them. In the early 90s if we didn’t arrive at those courts by 8 o’clock, we would most likely have to wait – all six of them would already have been taken.

Watching tennis back then was different for me because I was ‘familiar’ with all the tennis players: Stefan Edberg, Pete Sampras, Goran Ivanišević, Ivan Lendl, Andre Agassi, Jim Courier (although I never liked him much for some reason), Steffi Graf, Monica Seles, Jennifer Capriati, and probably my favourite, the Argentine Gabriela Sabatini. Depending on my mood on any particular day at the courts with Wesley, I’d ‘be’ one of them and do my best to mimic their style and on-court antics. I think in hindsight the only reason I developed a double-handed backhand is because Agassi used to do it so effectively. It worked for me too. At least I think it did, and even if it didn’t, I would have convinced myself that it did. All those tennis players lived in my head and we were friends. I even had dreams of going to the Nick Bollettieri Tennis Academy in Florida.

In fact, while I’m on the players, I think the most exhilarating match I have ever seen (to this day) will still be the 1992 Wimbledon Men’s Final between Agassi and Ivanišević. Much like the Rugby World Cup Final three years later, when the big question was how the Springboks were going to handle Jonah Lomu, the question here was how Agassi was going to cope with the 1.93m Croatian superstar who had so far demolished everyone in his path with his almost unplayable serve. The build-up was massive: Both players were attempting their first Grand Slam title, and Ivanišević, with almost 200 tournament aces going into the final, was by far the favourite. Agassi eventually prevailed, 6-7, 6-4, 6-4, 1-6, 6-4. Ivanišević served 39 aces in the match, while Agassi only managed 37 throughout the whole tournament. I reckon it was Agassi’s lethal cross court double-handed backhand that did it. I convinced myself of it. After two more failed attempts at the final, Ivanišević had his day nine years later in 2001 when he defeated Australian Patrick Rafter in another five-set thriller. The Croat took the final set 9-7.

Now I know what you’re probably thinking: The epic 2009 Wimbledon Men’s Final when Roger Federer beat long time rival, Andy Roddick, by taking the fifth set 16-14, was far more exciting than the 1992 Men’s Final. Well, it probably was, but what made the 1992 final far bigger for me is that I ‘knew’ those players. I shouted at the television all the way through.

At the time of writing, the 2010 French Open at Roland Garros had just got underway. The time of year I used to love and live for, I now secretly dread. Why? Simple: aeiou. Yes, those are the five vowels. I’ve placed them there so I can have a good look at them. Over the next few weeks as I sweat my way through my afternoon tennis updates at Algoa FM, vowels will be a rare luxury; like water in the Eastern Cape. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where I was going with this elaborate tale of tennis balls, parachute jackets, fried eggs and sweatbands. Trvsjytsxostrjykova – sorry, just practising.

Swim, Cycle, Run

As published in the May edition of Sport Elizabeth.

It’s 10pm on Friday 23 April 2010. I am terrified. I can’t sleep. And not because I’m alone at my flat, hearing strange howling noises in the passages. I’m used to that. I’ve put it down to the wind. It’s great living in Port Elizabeth because unexpected, sudden noises don’t even stir us. “It’s just the wind,” we say. Then we roll over, grab the duvet and drift off again.

Wait, where was I? Oh yes, I am terrified. Ok, for two reasons, admittedly. One because I have my first Sport Elizabeth deadline in about 65 hours or so, and although Daron’s a great bloke, he doesn’t strike me as the kind of Mann I want to find myself facing on the dead side of a deadline, empty handed. The other, probably more pertinent reason is because in about 10 hours from now I have to be amphibious. It’s the Vodacom Corporate Triathlon Challenge powered by Algoa FM, and I’m doing it – all three legs.

Let’s go through it one by one: 380m swim. Come on Rory, it’s pretty much once around the Westbourne Oval. What? The Westbourne Oval? Swimming? In the sea? At 8am? Ok, relax, all you need to do is follow the crowd, and reach the sand again in one piece. Easy, right? No, thanks for trying, but I’m still terrified.
18km cycle. I haven’t ridden a bicycle in about 2 years. But I do have a really fancy one, on a sponsored loan from Wayne Pheiffer Cycles in Linton Grange. But still, 18km. That’s 9km, twice. I wonder if I ask really nicely if they’ll let me do it just once.

4.2km run. Now why is it that the part I feel most confident doing is right at the bloody end? But then again, a 4.2km run is not just a 4.2km run after a 380m swim (in the sea) and an 18km cycle. But still, I reckon if I somehow get this far, I’ll be home and dry. Even if I have to walk it.

The reason I am doing all 3 legs this year is because last year I only did the swim leg. I came out of the water rushing on those lovely things called endorphins plus a good, solid dose of adrenaline. And I had nothing to do with them. So I passed the electronic tag to teammate, Algoa FM Managing Director, Dave Tiltmann and ran in circles for 10 minutes. I’m surprised the organisers invited me back. So I thought this year instead of running in circles like a dog chasing its (usually non-existent) tail, I thought I’d put that adrenaline to good use. Let’s see.
It is now 22:45 and I really need to go to bed. I am sorry to keep you hanging, but if I survive tomorrow’s silly shenanigans, I shall be back to tell the tale. Good night. Here goes...

Woohoo! It is just after 11am on Saturday 24 April 2010. Before I even start, I am going to apologise in advance in case I start typing really quickly and you struggle to keep up. It’s these bloody endorphins, man! Where do they hide when we’re not putting ourselves through hell to wake them up? Ok, focus. Let’s do that ‘one by one’ thing again:

380m swim. I am not going to lie. It was terrifying at first. But, while we were waiting on the sand for the dreaded starter’s gun, I looked around for all the ‘unfit looking’ people (no, I did not say ‘fat people’; stop putting words in my mouth) and told myself that if they could do it, surely I’d have no problem. It helped a bit. The water was a chilly 18˚C and the sea was rough. I finished it. But if I said I swam it, I’d be lying. I pretty much floated it. Yes, I was a floater. I threw in the odd doggy paddle now and then, but I was not racing anybody. Time: 00:16:06.

18km cycle. I spent a few minutes composing myself in the transition area while I ‘metamorphosised’ from tadpole to frog. I had a shot of energy gel that tasted like blackberry toothpaste, grabbed my helmet, my fancy bicycle, and I hit the road. I was feeling good. I kept telling myself that the worst was over, although I knew none of it was true. The worst is never over until you cross the finish line! The cycle leg was a lot further than what I had anticipated. The scariest part for me was the almost silent, soft swish as the seasoned cyclists slip-stream past. You don’t hear them, and then all of a sudden they whizz past, almost brushing against your bicycle. But, despite all of this, I did it! All 18km of it in 00:48:33.

4.2km run. The worst part of the run was landing on jelly when I dismounted the bicycle. No, really. I thought I was going to land flat on the tarmac. I don’t know how I didn’t. It took me around 5 minutes to regain the strength in my legs. If I was Italian and for some reason spaghetti (just go with this), I’d describe my legs as al dente. Yes, that sounds silly, but it’s these bloody endorphins. Other than a short stop to stretch my ‘on the verge of cramping’, and in my case appropriately named left ‘calf’ muscle, the run went as well as I had expected. And then, all of a sudden, guess what. I did it. I crossed that finish line in 23:14! Pure ecstasy. My official time: 01:27:54. Result! I would have been happy with double that!

Of the other lunatics from Algoa FM who did all 3 legs on their own 2 legs, Dave Tiltmann’s time was 01:27:43, while the father and son duo of Chris and Damian Wright finished in a very tidy 01:09:08. Nice work, boys. That was absolutely fantastic. See you next year.

The bug has bitten. Next stop: 70.3 in East London. There, I said it. I think I’ll train for that one though.

The Ignorant Celebration of Death

Five Robbers Shot Dead. ‘Clink!’ (as published on the AlgoaFM website)

My comments on Facebook and The Herald website yesterday caused quite a stir, with (as I had expected) most people lambasting me for my ‘stupidity’, and the few that did make the effort to see the situation from a different perspective, were still ambivalent in their responses. I must say though, after careful reflection, the reaction to the story about the five robbers who were killed in a shoot out with police does not surprise me. In fact, I pretty much predicted the response and sat waiting for it. I fully understand that people have had enough, and that the fact that five of these ‘scumbags’ have been put to rest for good, translates into a personal (temporary) victory for ‘us’ (‘us’ being the law-abiding citizens as opposed to the ‘them’ who are not).

My question is, “Is that really the solution? What will be the effect if our only ‘attack’ on crime is at the symptom; and in so doing, not only deny the existence of a more deeply entrenched cause, but subsequently continue to fail to deal with it at that level?” I’ll tell you one thing: The former plays beautifully into the hands of those in power as they get to ‘clink’ a tumbler of cognac having killed five dangerous thieves. Well done. ‘Clink!’ ‘Slurp.’ But there are going to be five more tomorrow, and the next day, and they’re going to be even more heavily armed, and this time we’re not going to be so lucky as to have all ‘civilian’ lives spared.

I also do not feel that this method of ‘attack’ is fair on our (desperately underpaid) police officers, who find themselves daily in the line of fire having to bear the brunt of a system which continues to fail us. This time, ‘us’ being everyone not holding that tumbler of cognac. And, the more we cheer the killing of ‘criminals’, the more the real reason is ignored, the more those in power are allowed (and encouraged) to ignore their own incompetence (although I fail to believe it really is incompetence as much as carefully calculated propaganda) and the more the bloodshed on our streets will continue. It’s a circle you see. Read that sentence over and over and over. As silly as that might seem, it really is a representation of what is happening and what will continue to happen, unless we do something to challenge the status quo.

It’s no wonder that South Africa experiences almost 10 times more police suicides than the United States.

I must also mention now that it I feel the media have a massive role to play in this challenging of the current ways of thought. And, in saying that, I am still disgusted/horrified/sickened (in fact, short of profanity, I don’t even know how to describe it) at the fact that a photo of one of the robbers’ ‘freshly-killed’ corpses was splashed on the front page of our regional newspaper. Not covered (as per the norm), but with the face open for all to see. In fact, one of my colleagues at work happened to recognise him from that photo and said she was once acquainted with his mother. You see, he has a mother. Laws of nature dictate that he probably has a father too. Possibly children, a brother(s), sister(s).

Two questions: What have we achieved in publishing the body (and full face) of a dead man on our front page? How would you feel seeing a photo of your father lying dead in the street splashed all over the Eastern Cape and far beyond (online)? Wait, one more: Is that not merely a subtle (or not) attempt to propagate the status quo? ‘Clink!’ ‘Slurrrrrrp.’ Once again, I can already see the responses to these questions. But, (if you are saying what I think you are going to say), you are missing my point. Remember, I am referring to the situation on the whole.

One more thing. One of the comments yesterday said that people have a choice in life whether or not to commit crime. Yes, they do. But, why is it that more people choose to do so in South Africa than in France, England, Germany, Sweden, Finland, Australia, Canada...and the list goes on? Fundamentally, people are no different in those countries; and I think you’ll find that for the most part, shoot outs with police are very, very rare.

One woman said that the whole incident with the robbers was a lovely bedtime story to tell her child; one with a happy ending. Really? I wonder how happy that ending would be if said child was one day killed in the crossfire. Wait, then there would be no bedtime story, now would there?

Let's deal with crime at the cause not the symptom. Let’s redirect this anger and hatred to where it really belongs. Let's save our cheering for when something is actually done to reduce the divides in society which encourage crimes to be committed.

I am now anticipating the same sort of lambasting I received yesterday. Once again, I am able to predict most of it. But, as a journalist and academic, I feel it is my duty to not only challenge current ways of thinking, but in doing so, to offer alternatives. I do not expect you to agree with me; this is not a polemic. But, if I have made even one person stop and think for 3 minutes, I have achieved something. This is my pebble in the ocean of discourse. ‘Clink!’

Rory Petzer (That sports dude)

PS: For the few people that have stopped to think for 3 minutes (and probably more so for those who chose not to), I would strongly recommend you read Manufacturing Consent by Noam Chomsky; even just the first chapter.

The Elevator

Do we really need to examine with such ostensible fervour the numbers illuminate one by one as the elevator either ascends or descends? Or is it necessary to study the carpeting/and or mirrors on the walls of the lift as if it is the first or last time we’ll ever see them? Yes it apparently is. But, here’s the thing. Only when there is somebody else in the lift with whom we are not at all familiar.

I have just moved into a 10th storey flat on the beachfront, and having never lived in a flat before (let alone the 10th floor), I have never needed to use a lift on a daily basis. I hate it. No, really.

When I moved into the flat, I was given a lovely little booklet detailing all the dos and don’ts at this particular block of flats. Nice, thank you very much. But I hardly think that, “The throwing or discarding of any objects...over balconies or from windows is prohibited,” is a rule that really needs to be reiterated. Damn, there I was hoping to launch my leftover spaghetti bolognaise out of my lounge window to be smeared all over the window below. What this little book does not mention is etiquette in the lifts. Now this is not something I was taught at school, so it is still really a ‘grey’ area. Sorry, I really cannot help it – I am currently seeking medical attention.

Next time you’re in a lift alone and somebody else (alone) gets in, do yourself a favour and study his/her body language. It’s awkward. Here you are stuck in an area no bigger than 1.2m by 1.5m with someone you have never met before. Also, take note of how slowly the doors close once this person enters, and then how slowly the lift seems to move. Watch the other person. I am willing to bet my unquestioned and liberal use of vowels for a week that the other person is either:

1. Watching the numbers illuminate as the lift moves,
2. Studying the walls/and or floor of the lift,
3. Reaching for his/her cell phone and pretending to read a message/access Facebook or the like,
4. Or finally, if they are really that desperate to avoid eye contact, closing his/her eyes while pretending to be deep in thought.

All of the above apply except when the person is over the age of say, 60 years old. Then, the opposite happens. The person will be looking directly at you as if you promised them a few days ago that you had something life-changing to tell them. During this time you’ll be doing one of the four mentioned above. He/she will have a small grin, and if after a few seconds, notices that you’re not interested, will enlighten you with, “It’s been so hot lately?” I put the question mark there, because the sentence will be spoken in such a way (with an inflexion at the end), that you’ll be forced to respond with something as banal as, “Yes, I actually can’t wait for winter, funnily enough.”

Well done. You have now opened up a space with endless possibilities. The geriatric now has an infinite number of responses, which in turn, is likely to give birth to what I’d like to term an elevator friendship. The geriatric (let’s call her Molly) will now, forever and a day, refer back to your words and provide a different response each and every time she (why it’s a ‘she’, I have no idea, just go with it - it’s the picture I have in my head) spots you in the lift/in the passage/at the supermarket. And, when she sees you at the supermarket while she is doing her weekly shop with Gertrude, she’ll say to Gertrude (loud enough so you can hear), “There is that young boy/girl that can’t wait until winter.” Once again, you’ll feel obliged to smile and respond. Well done. And all you wanted to do all those months ago was go to the shop for a litre of milk. And now look; all of a sudden you’re a young boy/girl who prefers winter.

Oh, wait. So where was I? The lift. I really do not enjoy it. I like to be alone in the lift. If I get in there first, it is my lift. I pull funny faces at the mirror sometimes, or I play a few cover drives or square cuts (cricket shots) while making that click noise as ‘the ball hits the bat.’ Now what would Molly make of it if I asked her to please stand against the wall of the lift because Peter Siddle was getting ready to run in at me, and we needed four runs to win off the last ball? I’ll tell you one thing. The next time she sees you at the supermarket, she’ll turn to Gertrude and proudly proclaim, “There’s that young boy who plays cricket for South Africa. And d’you know what Gertie? He lives in the same block of flats as me.”

Your response? You need to get off strike fast. Take your stance, await Siddle’s delivery, get onto the back foot, run one down to third man and take a very quick single.