We Won! ‘We won!' Aaargh! OwWhoo!
Oooh Oh Oh, that hurts.
Shhhh, we won we won. yay.
The carpet patterns are amazing from this angle!
At least I made it home.
If I close one eye, an old Juluka cd cover comes into focus. I discover I am still wearing my Springbok beanie and not much else.
As I sit up, images blur through my head. Wild celebrations. Tears. Dancing to ‘Impi' in my apartment dressed in a South African flag and a bottle of pinotage.
We are the world champions!
The RWC final only kicked off at 5am Sunday morning here in Sydney, a detail that required careful planning for the weekend. The aim was to go hammer and tongs like a true boerie-braaing South African, but to peak at around 04:30am Sunday.
So Friday I took it easy. Until my third drink, when one of our still sulking aussie colleagues remarked that the wobblies had the best backline in the world. ‘You don't even have the best backline in Australasia!' I snorted, and it was ON! I reminded him that Habana had scored more tries in 2 games than Tuquiri had scored in 2 years; that the Boks averaged four tries a game this world cup, and that it was his round. I said Francois Steyn on his own constituted a better backline than Aus and NZ combined. I was very, very drunk. But it's true.
So Saturday I woke at lunchtime. Which was bad, because I was due at a lunch on the other side of the city. I made it before they asked for the bill – I wasn't hungry anyway. The food had been great, and the wine was delicious, they told me – try some! To my credit, I did not whimper as the first sip of this vinegar tore at my throat and melted holes in my stomach.
To my further credit, I did not flinch when ordering the fourth round of Jaegermeister some time later in the Colombian hotel. C'mon the Bokke! The Colombian is possibly the gayest bar in Sydney, which is saying something. Of course, me and my gang of buddies are all straight, red-blooded men; except for Monica, Tori and Caroline. And possibly Kevin.
But oh, how we danced. Some hours later I made an hour-plus phone call to my sister in die Oos-Kaap, a couple of calls to my old man, some random friends; and a few other unknowns.
Then the game. The bar was packed. The atmosphere was electric. There was green and gold everywhere – flags, stuffed springboks, hats, face paint and the rest. I was very emotional, and had to fight back tears of pride even before kick-off.
At the final whistle it was pandemonium. I hugged and cried my way to the bar, and that's when the party really kicked off.