About rugby, prophets and other wise men
In southern Africa (that is, Namibia and especially our southern neighbour), there are a lot of clever men. Some of them are just smart; some of them have a sports degree. Then there are some who just tag along with the conversation.
Next, we have the bigmouths who disappear completely from the radar after a predictable beating of their sports team, only to reappear when their team achieves a so-so victory after a long period, often with the help of a referee.
On the other hand, we have the quiet types, like nice old Jack, who remain loyal and friendly regardless of whether his team wins or loses. He is everyone’s pal.
Then there are the rugby and soccer ministers and prophets – the self-appointed saviours and messiahs who believe every word they say with such authority that no one can convince them otherwise. They like to preach their own rugby and soccer faith, even though they usually know less than a cat about saffron when it comes to the sport.
The “poor guy” is often referred to with great sympathy by his friends. This happens only when the other men around the barbecue fire start to ignore him and subtly steer the conversation in a different direction. At that point, he casually disappears inside the house to avoid the awkwardness and talk to the women.
Usually, it doesn’t take too long, and all the women rush out of the house to find their husbands. It’s only the sport minister’s other half who remains unaware (or perhaps she pretends not to notice) of the dilemma that her know-it-all husband has created.
Sometimes it happens that a quiet guy like myself ends up in this type of company. After some time, it feels like I also want to lose something intelligent. I guess I have my pride too.
So it has happened that on occasion I have told people, especially younger people, that sometime in the 1980s, on a soaking wet Saturday afternoon at Newlands Rugby Stadium, the mighty Western Province team was beaten by the then South West Africa team.
Then those looks start to change between your interlocutors, and some of them get such a distant expression in their eyes, like a dog that is busy installing a land mine on the neighbour’s freshly-cut lawn.
You can just see the emotion of, “Yeah, my dude, do you think we’re stupid?” on their faces.
It’s fine; I’ve got broad shoulders. The arrogant ones sometimes give a hiss of indignation before they suddenly have to make a trip to the loo to avoid embarrassing themselves out of respect.
That’s all well and good. I’ll take it like a man. Think what you will, but I want to say to all of you who think I blatantly lied about it, that I tracked down the evidence earlier this year to back up my allegedly “absurd and unbelievable” stories.
We have archives where all the newspapers are safely kept. Come for a visit, and I’ll show you.
Next, we have the bigmouths who disappear completely from the radar after a predictable beating of their sports team, only to reappear when their team achieves a so-so victory after a long period, often with the help of a referee.
On the other hand, we have the quiet types, like nice old Jack, who remain loyal and friendly regardless of whether his team wins or loses. He is everyone’s pal.
Then there are the rugby and soccer ministers and prophets – the self-appointed saviours and messiahs who believe every word they say with such authority that no one can convince them otherwise. They like to preach their own rugby and soccer faith, even though they usually know less than a cat about saffron when it comes to the sport.
The “poor guy” is often referred to with great sympathy by his friends. This happens only when the other men around the barbecue fire start to ignore him and subtly steer the conversation in a different direction. At that point, he casually disappears inside the house to avoid the awkwardness and talk to the women.
Usually, it doesn’t take too long, and all the women rush out of the house to find their husbands. It’s only the sport minister’s other half who remains unaware (or perhaps she pretends not to notice) of the dilemma that her know-it-all husband has created.
Sometimes it happens that a quiet guy like myself ends up in this type of company. After some time, it feels like I also want to lose something intelligent. I guess I have my pride too.
So it has happened that on occasion I have told people, especially younger people, that sometime in the 1980s, on a soaking wet Saturday afternoon at Newlands Rugby Stadium, the mighty Western Province team was beaten by the then South West Africa team.
Then those looks start to change between your interlocutors, and some of them get such a distant expression in their eyes, like a dog that is busy installing a land mine on the neighbour’s freshly-cut lawn.
You can just see the emotion of, “Yeah, my dude, do you think we’re stupid?” on their faces.
It’s fine; I’ve got broad shoulders. The arrogant ones sometimes give a hiss of indignation before they suddenly have to make a trip to the loo to avoid embarrassing themselves out of respect.
That’s all well and good. I’ll take it like a man. Think what you will, but I want to say to all of you who think I blatantly lied about it, that I tracked down the evidence earlier this year to back up my allegedly “absurd and unbelievable” stories.
We have archives where all the newspapers are safely kept. Come for a visit, and I’ll show you.
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Namibian Sun
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