Spring may be in the air, but so too is the Rugby World Cup, with the opening match set for Friday night, between hosts France and New Zealand, two of the favourites.
Of course, we shouldn’t forget that this tournament is a symptom of what’s wrong in the world, because it should have been kicking off here in South Africa and not in France. South Africa had the best bid because we had the best facilities, but France, it turned out, were more skilled at under-the-table shenanigans than we were.
Who would have thought?
Anyway, with that complaint out of the way, there’s always something special about the World Cup, and it’s because the Springboks have a chance of winning.
I’d like to think that if we can get through the quarterfinal, which is likely to be either France or the All Blacks, we’ll have a great chance of victory.
But I’m also looking forward to the tournament as a whole. I’m feeling something similar to what I did when I was at school and rugby season was approaching.
In those days, when sporting codes stuck strictly to seasons, we had to go without rugby for nearly six months. Yes, there was cricket and a carefree summer holiday of swimming, cycling and catching movies.
But once we were back in the school slog where teachers assaulted us with knowledge, canes and alleged knowledge, that emptiness would grow within the pit of my stomach. I realised instinctively it was time for rugby again.
I couldn’t wait for the new season to start. It was never a mission waking up early on Saturday mornings to go linesman for my school team. After that we’d head to Newlands to watch club games, which often started at 1pm.
Break times at school were spent playing touch rugby or a kicking game where we’d score points for landing the ball between the posts, with punts being the cheapest, followed by drops and place kicks offering the greatest reward.
And when someone slipped on the muddy field while partaking in either endeavour, it was followed by a roar of laughter from the rest and which would rekindle on the way back to the classroom because of the reminder of the misfortune caked on their knees or shorts.
Woodwork classes were reserved for talking about upcoming matches, largely because there was a storeroom we could hide in. In other classes we found that teachers generally didn’t like us talking about rugby (or anything else, really) while they were warbling on about whatever.
Life was all about rugby in those days, and we had to wait for the season, and then wait every week for the next match. That anticipation could kick-start my heart into race mode just thinking about the big game.
Nowadays we are overwhelmed with the amount of sport that is available, to the point that it can often be mundane. It’s almost impossible to watch it all and live a normal life.
The rugby season lasts almost the whole year and there’s no chance to yearn for it any more. But even with the overload there is something refreshing about the RWC.
Whether stolen by France or not, the tournament forces fans to wait patiently and savour it as it unfolds.
That the wait is nearly over is almost the best part of the anticipation. Then it’s a river of rugby for seven weeks and one day, starting as a torrent before narrowing into a trickle of dynamite towards the finale.
And then comes the withdrawal. At least this time that will be eased by the Cricket World Cup, which will be three weeks old by then.
That’ll be a good way to start the four-year wait for RWC 2027 in Australia.
Would you like to comment on this article?
Sign up (it's quick and free) or sign in now.
Please read our Comment Policy before commenting.