Flying High

As published in the October 2011 edition of SPORTElizabeth.


I always used to love flying. Airport culture. The rush and panic of wondering if everything is packed. Did I remember my passport? Do I need to make a wee before boarding the plane? Should I rather save it for the plane? Nothing better than the challenge of having to aim during a touch of turbulence. All these serious issues that need to be dealt with in the space of about 10 minutes between checking in and rushing through the boarding gates while you hear (a shocking attempt at the pronunciation of) your name echoing through the airport terminal: “This is a final boarding call for Rowry Pieterse. Rolly Peterset please make your way to gate number five. Roy Peters. Please. Thank you.” I have absolutely no idea who you have just called, but I am running to gate number five nevertheless. I promise. And while we’re here, it’s Rory. Rory Petzer. Thank you.

My first flight ever was to Johannesburg. I was 17 years old and I had won a trip to watch the Springboks take on the All Blacks in 1996 in Johannesburg, Pretoria and Durban. Yes, all
three matches. My prize – which was won on a national radio station – included car rental, VIP tickets to all three games, hotels, and spending money. The booze was free too. Funnily enough, the only thing I remember about the Loftus match was a lineout at some stage of the game (funny that?) and then throwing a shot glass at a barman at a pub somewhere in town. I missed the barman, but I think I was actually imitating James Dalton (Bullet) and attempting a lineout
manoeuvre. I got a yellow card and was asked to leave the pub. I took my friend, Wes with me to the matches as he was eighteen at the time and had a driver’s licence so we could make use of the car rental. Not that we used it much as free booze usually means a cab trip. Where are we? I always do this. I start out in an airport and now I’m throwing shot glasses at barmen. Focus, Rory.

Oh yes, the aeroplane. I used to love flying until recently while flying with one of the ‘low-cost’ airlines to visit my brothers in Johannesburg, thick white smoke started puffing into the plane from the air vents. Thick, strong, toxic white smoke. The first thing I always do when nervous on a plane is look at the air host/esses and gauge their response. Well, this time I probably should not have. The one looked like she was going to burst into tears, while the other one scurried into the cockpit. The captain then makes a terrible attempt at calming everyone down by saying, “Good evening ladies and gentlemen. I am aware of the fact that there is smoke coming into the cabin. The bad news is we have no idea why it is happening.” At this stage, there is that strong, silent, spine-chilling smell of panic while some of the passengers start trying to send text messages to family and friends. Either that, or they just wanted to finish their airtime before dying. Well, it would be waste not to. The captain then proudly continues, “If you are experiencing trouble breathing [um, breathing? That is something you do when there is air available. What we’re doing right now cannot be classed as breathing] please try and breathe through your sleeve or whatever you can find, while we do our best to get the plane back on the ground.” Right, I know I only paid like R9 for this flight, but for suck’s fake, if I feel like my face is stuck 12cm up a tractor’s exhaust pipe, I really do expect those fancy little oxygen masks you were all bragging about 10 minutes ago, to fall out. And the whole thing about you trying to get the plane back on the ground? How about you just do it. Just do it. I dare you.

The old man sitting next to me also came up with a gem. While I was contemplating life and all the things I still wanted to do before blowing up in mid-air, the very kind gentleman next to me said, “I hate to scare you [Really? Then why don’t you just shut up?], but you know what they say? Where there is smoke, there is fire. Something in the engine compartment is burning.” Wow. I did for a second contemplate dying in style and first stabbing this old man with my zip – because that is the ONLY potential weapon allowed on aeroplanes these days – but thought against it.

We eventually did get safely back onto the ground, but not before an agonisingly long trip out to sea where we were ostensibly dumping fuel. When we landed we were greeted by a smart array
of rescue vehicles, which for some reason made us all feel quite important. The old man never did get to meet my zip in person, but if you’re reading this now and you can remember that flight and you can remember saying what you did to that frightened young man next to you, just know that I will get you.

Why all this rubbish about shot glasses, line-outs and absent oxygen masks? Well, the answer is quite simple: I did not go to New Zealand for the Rugby World Cup, but yes, Daron Mann did. And I am willing to bet pretty much anything that his column this month is going to constitute a long and boring *yawns* boasting session about every little minute of it. We don’t care, Daron. We’re over it. As per the above evidence, I’ve also seen my fair share of live rugby. And not just 1time. Now go away.

The Test Match 2011

As published in the September 2011 edition of SPORTElizabeth.

Four very thirsty boys dressed in green and gold. We had our tickets. We had our gamefaces on. We had waited over a year for this day. Rory, Heydn, Ettiene and Jason (my older brother who made the trip from Johannesburg) converged upon my flat in Richmond Hill. For some
reason, it turned out to be a mini palaver getting everyone there at the right time and so on. I know, it’s only four people, but at one stage it felt like I was herding cats. And then of course, “Don’t forget the tickets, Rory!” Rory did not forget the tickets as such. Rory just forgot his own ticket. Don’t ask. For obvious reasons, I won’t say exactly where my flat is, but I’ll say it is
in the vicinity of the Royal Dehli restaurant. You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this. Keep reading.

It was Saturday 20 August, 2011 and the All Blacks were in town – that feared rugby team, and the hype in the Bay leading up to the match was electric. It felt very similar to that 2010 Soccer World Cup feeling. And of course, come Wednesday and Thursday, and there is the usual last-minute panic and scramble for tickets all over Facebook. We’re PE people. We leave things to the last minute. Of course I did no such thing – I bought my ticket months ago. Yes, I did buy one, thank you very much. The reason I emphasise that point is because if I was given just R2 for every time someone asked me to, “Sort out some tickets, bru?” I’d have a lot of money. What makes me laugh the most is when I get a message from someone I haven’t heard from in yonks asking for “Some tickets, bru.” I kindly replied with the Computicket link. I’m getting sidetracked again. Where were we?

Oh yes! Richmond Hill – my flat and it is Saturday afternoon. We spent a few minutes standing at the car debating whether or not we should just walk to the stadium, or bother with the
hassle of having to park a car somewhere. After some persuasion from yours truly, which was met with fear in the eyes of Jason, we decided to walk. Yes, Jason, you can do it. I promise. We’ll stop for an ice-cream along the way. So off we trot. Rory is busy on his BlackBerry (for a change?), not paying attention, and the next thing I look up and we’re at the end of a cul-de-sac with nothing but a cliff and a tall fence in front of us. “Rory, where the effing hell are you taking us, dude?” “Oh s%$&! We took the wrong turn off (walking!), follow me,” says Rory. Big brother, Jason is less than amused at this stage. Rory puts his phone back into his pocket. By the way, I did have a very good reason for being on my phone. Keep reading.

So we backtrack and I lead the cats to the correct turnoff. We’re doing well now, until Jason looks down at Albany Road and says, “It’s a piece of cake – we just get down there and pop into the Pitch and Putter. It’s not far at all.” So I look up and then down at the street below, and see that it is not Mount Road, it is in fact Albany Road. Mount Road is the next one. So, not wanting to frighten the already nervous Jason, I nonchalantly mumble that he is in fact incorrect, and Mount Road is the next one. Jason, not one to mince his words, immediately says, “What? Are we effing insane? That stadium is miles away. This is a k@k idea. Let’s walk back to your flat and take a car.” It’s funny because as soon as he said that, we all immediately agreed and turned around. It was a case of all of us thinking what a k@k idea this was, but just not really wanting to say anything about it. Phew! But the funniest part is that we had lost about 45 minutes all
in all, and the only thing we had achieved was, wait, it was nothing. Oh, wait, the exercise counts for something, right?

Ten minutes later, we were far a far more festive bunch all packed into Ettiene’s car. We would find parking somewhere, we all agreed. We ended up parking somewhere near the top of Mount
Road, stumbled all the way down, before being rescued by a minibus taxi. The taxi was doing trips to and from the stadium from outside the Pitch and Putter for only R5 per person. Deal. It’s funny how when white okes in big groups, wearing Springbok jerseys mission in a taxi, we feel like we’re being more patriotic, or something. The taxi was amazing, by the way – the driver was
pumping ‘Hier kom die Bokke.’ Someone pointed out that it is probably the only song that poor driver heard all day. So, after all of that fuss and kafuffle, we found ourselves happy and smiling at the Nelson Mandela Bay Stadium, with ice-cold beers in hand. I can still hear that bloody song in my head though – "Cho-cho Bokke, cho-cho Bokke...hooka chucka...” (There, now you’re stuck with it for a while)

What a game. What an atmosphere. What an event. Well done, Port Elizabeth. We don’t mess around when it comes to these things. Small PE has a lot of heart. A hell of a lot. It makes me happy. SA 15 – 8 New Zealand. Thank you very much.

Wait, you’re probably still wondering what was so important on my BlackBerry that I was completely oblivious to my surroundings for around ten minutes. Well, it is quite simple:
A very healthy little boy named Blake William Stewart was born in Port Elizabeth at 7:41 on Saturday morning. He popped out, with a panic-stricken look on his face, and immediately said, “Did I miss the match?” Congratulations to Paul and Shelly. I have a feeling Blake will be a Springbok.

And no, I’m not doing predictions for the Rugby World Cup. Go away.