Past makes painful return

The invitation to watch the New Zealand versus South Africa Test from the members' pavilion at the Newlands Cricket Ground brought up mixed feelings. It was not only my genetic discomfort with special treatment, a hangover from my working-class roots on the Cape Flats. It was Newlands.

"Why do you not support the Stormers?" I am asked all the time by people who assume that, because you grew up in Cape Town, that simple fact translates into a provincial loyalty in sport.

I have too many painful memories of exclusion from Newlands rugby and cricket grounds - let alone the nearby public swimming pool - to walk unconsciously into the members' pavilion, with its subtle mix of race and class exclusion, that special brand of South African Englishness where the insult is seldom spoken nor immediately obvious.

There is a lingering history to these grounds where the first match was played between Mother Country and Colonial Born in 1888.

But I am always telling my students and friends to "get over" the bitter memories of the past, and my leadership talks encourage a bold and inclusive generosity that moves our beautiful country forward. "Learn to manage your memories," I chided my generation of Cape Town friends who still support the New Zealand All Blacks when they play against the Springboks.

So I accepted the kind invitation, amused nonetheless when I was warned to dress "properly" and informed what kinds of attire could deny you access - such as toes not covered by shoes.

It all started very pleasantly. I made small talk with the blazer-and-tie officials swiping us through into the impressive white building - my nephew, the Member, the uncle and my friend.

As non-members we each received a brightly coloured band around the arm just in case, I mused, we were mistaken for Members. I enjoyed the friendly banter with the catering staff serving meals and drinks from behind the neatly arranged vendor tables. We took our mid-morning snacks at a large, round table, ignoring the "reserved" sign sticking up at us.

It was a beautiful day outside with the large, open windows allowing the bright African light into the dining rooms. On the field below us the larger-than-life player heroes of South Africa were warming up, catching balls thrown into the perfectly greened outfield by one of the coaches. Cricket had certainly made progress in its transformation, with some of the heroes of the current team regularly achieving man-of-the-match awards from the black-bearded Muslim batsman, Hashim Amla, to the fearsome bowler Vernon Philander, who already took five wickets in the first innings of this match.

There were, of course, murmurs about too few "African" players in the team, something the visiting New Zealanders would not understand in a society where grades of skin colour still matter.

Still, I was determined to enjoy this day out in the members' pavilion, ignoring for now the familiar group of noisy young white men on the other side of the stands wearing fake black beards in playful ignorance of the fact that the beard is a mark of religious devotion for the soft-spoken Hashim Amla.

Hard as I tried, I could not ignore the simple fact that we were the only black people, besides the caterers, in the pavilion. Nor could I ignore the fact that people turned, head and nose tilted upwards, to stare at us, but not for too long; that is not the English way.

Down the hallways I tried hard not to think too much about the photographs on display of all-white cricket teams in all-white cricket dress from almost every decade over a century. They probably did not have time to put up the photos of recent teams that included black players.

We sat at the back, in the last row of white chairs, and on the aisle so that we could, literally, take four or five steps into the bar and toilets without disturbing anyone. At least, so I thought.

Above and ahead of us, in bold red letters against the white roof, was a simple sign saying that spectators should not move during an over of play.

Fair enough. I assumed from watching television that movement in the stands could disturb the vision of the players, though from our section of the pavilion, parallel to the pitch, that was clearly impossible.

Nonetheless, and throughout the day, I obeyed the sign and ignored the individuals who slipped up and down the stairs in front of us during play.

My friend, the other non-Member, then made a mistake. He took a few steps from the bar to his seat during an over. The huge white man looked as if he was about to have a massive coronary. "Get back over here, now," he screamed.

My friend realised he had made a mistake and apologised, offering that it would not happen again. "It does not matter," said the official, oblivious to the fact that he was ranting in the aisle during an over.

The way he screamed and spoke down to my friend, a soft-spoken and accomplished professional, got me involved.

"Listen," I said firmly, "he is already in his seat and he apologised. Why would you want him to come back unless your goal is to humiliate him? Please use some logic." The over was now in full swing.

"I am not into logic. Come back here," he bellowed at my friend.

"You stay right where you are," I told my friend. And in that moment all the memories of what Newlands means came flooding back with a hint of vengeance.