A year ago this coming Monday, SA partied like it was 1995. And 2007. It boogied down hard and drank it all in that little harder. After yet another 12-year wait, the country had their third Rugby World Cup win. It scarce seemed real.
If the day after was weird and wonderful, the week leading up to the final on November 2 was tricky and testing. England had been unstoppable against New Zealand, perhaps the most perfect display by any team against the All Blacks in a World Cup or at any other time in the professional era.
South Africans gulped, then soothed themselves by guessing that England had already played their “final” of the World Cup. Next week would be different. Yeah. That’s it. They won’t be up for it.
A year later, and England still don’t know what happened. In the Times of London yesterday, Owen Slot ponders what went wrong in a piece published on Thursday headlined: “From relentless to clueless: the story behind England’s collapse in Japan.”
Did England come into the final without the adrenaline and focus they had shown against the All Blacks? Did they reckon the Springboks, having lost to New Zealand in their pool match, were a softer touch?
“Many believe that it was these such extreme highs that caused England to come in so low a week later,” wrote Slot. “These theories are varied, but along a similar theme. Had England played their final a week early? ‘I’ve read that a few times,’ (Ray) Hatley (England scrum coach) says, ‘that England assumed things. But this team, they don’t assume anything. Nobody assumed a thing. We knew going into the final that it was going to be a hell of a game.’
“Handré Pollard, the SA No10, agrees. ‘Do I think England played their final against the All Blacks? No, I don’t. There were still a few things they could have been better at. It was clear, though, that the secret to their success was that they physically dominated New Zealand, and a physical battle is something our guys always enjoy. It meant we were in with a fair chance'.”
Down at my local and at the bar at the Pirates sports club I was asked all week what I thought would happen in the final. I really don’t know, was my stock answer, and it was as true as it was exciting. No-one could properly predict the final. Nothing seemed sure. It was as open a final as it was a tournament. And in that may be the magic of the Rugby World Cup as a tournament and a sport.
In 1995, the All Blacks were going to win. The Wallabies were favourites to do one over the French in 1999. England went in hot form in Australia in 2003. SA had immense self-belief against England in 2007. The All Blacks were jittery but beat France at home in 2011. Australia didn’t stand much of a shout against New Zealand in 2015.
And, so, on to 2019. My mate, Barry Skjoldhammer and I met up at the Bones bar at Pirates to make our plan for the final on the Friday before. We had watched every Bok match there during the tournament. We had a specific table. We wanted to secure it and so pre-bought a case of beer and paid a barman to put them on the table as soon as he opened up to “book” it.
I arrived early, at 8am. It was already mayhem at Pirates as people avalanched to the club. Inside was nigh on full. I fought off all comers who tried to steal our chairs. It was that manic. And, yet, the fans kept on coming. There was a huge TV screen set up on the field outside. The soft bank leading down to it was full.
An hour or so before the match, Pirates took the decision to close the front gate and allow no-one else in to ensure safety. They estimated a few thousand were already in, possibly close to 5,000. Keri-Ann, my wife, arrived. My mate, David Higgs, arrived. Other friends slipped in. It’s all in the planning. We had our spot. I’ve never seen Pirates so full.
We drank. We roared. We fretted. We drank some more. We drank too much. We roared too much. We fretted too much. The Beast beasted. Kolisi stood tall. Du Toit and Vermuelen were extraordinary. De Klerk controlled. Pollard kicked beautifully. Kolbe killed Farrell.
As the clock wound down, the thousands at Pirates took up the chant. Pollard launched it into the stands. You could not hear yourself think. You could not hear yourself roar. It scarce seemed real.
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