DAVID ISAACSON | Rodriguez and rugby, who would have thought?

It’s no surprise that Rodriguez and his music was a staple of the anti-establishment during apartheid, but it was uncanny that somehow he drifted into my personal rugby milieu as well.

Not just once, but twice — in two small cities 11 years apart.

The first time was when I was at Rhodes University, where his music was iconic and we all mistakenly believed he was dead, supposedly having committed suicide on stage.

Lefty universities like Rhodes and UCT may not have had the best rugby teams in those days, but hey, we had good music.

In 1990 some friends and I drove through to Port Elizabeth for the annual intervarsity against rivals UPE.

The Rhodes first XV got drilled that day, 45-3, though at Newlands the Ikeys pulled off a famous 21-16 victory over Maties, their first win against Stellenbosch University since 1976.

While there was euphoria in Cape Town, it was business as usual for us in the eastern stretches of the old Cape province. I doubt any of us spilled even a single tear into our beers that evening.

The night was clear as we drove home along a largely windy road that I think hasn’t changed an iota since then. As we came around a corner I was the first to notice that the moon had slipped above the horizon in bright glory.

It was breathtaking and I simply exclaimed to my mates: “The moon.”

Immediately one of them, my long-suffering bridge partner Garth, replied: “... is hanging in the purple sky.”

We immediately picked up his reference to Rich Folks Hoax.

My next Rodriguez rugby moment came in 2001. I had covered a Currie Cup in Bloemfontein between the Cheetahs and the Sharks, marred by Butch James fouling winger Wylie Human three times.

James stiff-armed Human twice before decking him a third occasion, and the Free State wing retaliated with three tries as the home side bounced back from 14 points down to win 36-28. Referee Tappe Henning took flak afterwards for not doing more than issuing a single penalty against James during the match.

Standing in the check-in queue at the airport the next morning I happened to find myself right behind Sixto Rodriquez, who had played a gig there the previous evening.

He was chatting to one of his band mates, carrying his double bass. That’s the only instrument that can carry off the bass line of the song I Wonder.

By pure coincidence my wife and I had seen Rodriquez at a laid-back concert in Pretoria the previous weekend, where revellers chilled out on the grass (not the sweet Mary Jane variety).

And suddenly there was Rodriguez in the same queue in Bloemfontein; a legend who had literally been resurrected (the musician, that is, not Bloemfontein).

A part of me wanted to tell him how much we’d enjoyed his show, but I didn’t want to interrupt his conversation.

I wasn’t listening to the chat, but I was struck by how laid-back he was in his demeanour. A couple of passers-by did doorstop him and he greeted them warmly.

As one bid him farewell, Rodriguez responded: “Peace!”

The irony of his remark has stuck with me since then. His music had been adopted within the anti-apartheid student circles I moved in.

There was a time when there seemed no end in sight to National Party rule and the heavy handed state of emergency regulations, and Rodriguez’s songs matched the despairing mood while also allowing us to keep believing that change was possible. 

And so it proved to be, as hope became reality. Heck, even Rhodes managed to win an intervarsity or two after I’d left, or so I was told.

But when Rodriguez uttered “Peace” that Sunday morning in Bloemfontein, it was just five days after the 9/11 terror attacks.

The world had changed once again, yet Rodriguez remained the same. Hope in the face of despair. 

He is now gone, but we’ll always have his music and with it, hopefully, hope.