A very common philosophical observation of those viewing our extraordinary planet from outer space is that there are no visible national, provincial or class boundaries.

I can only imagine that a distinctly 1960s frisson penetrates their soul, as they are temporarily divorced from the racial, nationalistic and bigoted tendencies they exhibit on terra firma.

We hardened beings are, however, keenly aware of the negative impact of differences in religion, skin colour, language and educational levels in our daily lives, while some seriously conservative freaks have contemplated the blissful state that would be enjoyed if we all spoke the same language, ate the same food, believed the same things.

The reality is, divisions are here to stay, and peace will be fleetingly achieved at best. There is an upside, however, when tapping into our deepest feelings of partiality—it makes sport endlessly fascinating and incredibly exciting. When sport is consumed, we can legitimately deny our good upbringings, our private education, dare I say it, our better judgement.

My goodness, it feels amazing to despise the team from across town, across the country, across the continent and across the world. The opposition, for 80 minutes of raw rugby, or even five days of cricket, are not as good as us, not as worthy as us. They are pure, unadulterated scum. What’s more, the other 50,000 in the stadium agree with you!

Universal language

This understanding of sport—and its unique language—is held in many disciplines and in most parts of the world. If further proof was needed, the supporter’s memorabilia, team kits, flags always sell like hot cakes. Recently, however, seasoned sports watchers have noticed a sinister and pervasive spirit entering our beloved teams, dirtying our pure, ‘bigoted’ joy. This enemy is the so-called professionalism employed by previously patriotic sports people. Furthermore, players and coaches try to justify gross acts of disloyalty with the increasingly popular ‘open-mindedness’ excuse.

Take for example a certain Mickey Arthur, the ex-Protea cricket coach. Why do I single him out? Surely Allan Donald and Gary Kirsten—both involved in the current Protea set-up—are just as guilty, having coached cricket in New Zealand and India respectively? Gary led India to victory in a World Cup, our ‘achilles heel’ tournament, while Allan Donald assisted the New Zealand attack in overcoming the formidable Protea batting line-up in the quarter finals. Allan’s obvious glee at the result left a lot of loyal South African supporters feeling a little bit let down, even betrayed, yet, Inexplicably, we find it in our great hearts to forgive these two men, who were welcomed back with open arms.

Arthur man he used to be

I would venture to suggest, Mickey Arthur’s indiscretion is an offence of far greater magnitude. He left the South African cricket coaching role under a bit of a cloud, and then proceeded to sell us all down the river by taking up a coaching role—a head coaching role— with our arch enemies, whose very name we choke on! Can he ever be forgiven? Every time I hear the traitor being interviewed, it takes every ounce of strength not to throw the television out of the window. He wants the Aussies to be, “number one in the world again, in all three disciplines of the game!” That’s not only offensive, but completely unforgivable.

‘But it is the professional age, isn’t it?’ I hear you argue. ‘If you were offered that kind of career opportunity and undoubtedly oodles of dosh, wouldn’t you do the same?’ I hear you add, condescendingly. The truth is I don’t think I wouldn’t even entertain the thought, let alone the reality. Where is the line between professionalism and treachery? It’s the line Arthur crosses every time he shouts encouragement at a gold shirt.

Some fairly loud whispers from the rugby world suggest a similar South African Judas may be emerging, as his treacherous heart leads him cart-wheeling toward a decision that will place him so far beyond the aforementioned line that no upstanding Springbok supporter could ever utter his name again.

Propping up the Boer

Social media—the modern day ‘gospel’—has revealed that Nick Mallett (current coach of Italy) may well betray his roots and accept a role as the next head coach of the unkempt and disorderly English Roses of Twickenham—the very same bullies that resorted to such unspeakable tactics during the Anglo-Boer wars.
It is the knowledge of military history and pain that our ancestors endured, which courses through the veins of every respectable Springbok, fuelling each and every full-blooded tackle.

The June three-test series between the Poms and Boks in South Africa will take on even more epic proportions should Mallett be at the helm, especially he has the unenviable task of staring down Gert Smal.

Whatever the outcome, my allegiances will remain intact, which is more than I can say for my countrymen. Mickey, you are a traitor, and Nick Mallett, consider yourself put on notice. 30 pieces of silver for your soul.

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