
If Rassie Did the First Dance
Thabo and Anika wanted a slow waltz. Rassie gave them forty seconds of waltz and a four-second set piece.
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Thabo and Anika wanted a slow waltz. Rassie gave them forty seconds of waltz and a four-second set piece.

The team lands at OR Tambo one kit bag short. Rassie is not worried.

A lawn mowed in pitch stripes, a flowerbed with a defensive structure and a yellow card for the dog.

An extension cord from the spaza shop, one TV under a tree and an uncle on the roof holding the aerial for all eighty minutes.

Forty players, one check-in counter and a team manager who has planned the queue down to the kilogram.

Pass-the-parcel as a set piece, musical chairs with a TMO and a cake delivered with perfect timing.

The Bomb Squad warms up so hard at the 50th minute that the other team stops to watch.

From the taxi rank to the operating theatre, the whole country turns up to work in green, and nobody needs to explain why.

Joburg to the coast on a strict driver rotation, with the biltong bench coming on at the hour mark.

Every robot in the suburb stuck on green in all four directions, and one man in the middle of the intersection calling a scrum.

Three hours of analysis, 147 slides and one captain who only needs a few words.

One try, one family WhatsApp group and supporters celebrating in Durban, Cape Town, Perth and wherever Thabo is at the same moment.

The Home Affairs queue is three hours minimum. Rassie walks in anyway.

Fourteen reports, two years and one reference number. So the street stopped waiting for the ref.

Fifty minutes into the party, energy is fading. Then the door opens.

Tannie Marietjie’s jersey has not been washed since 1995. Then Oom Kallie did the laundry.

Three assistant coaches, three different plans for the coin toss and one captain who has heard enough.

The parents’ tug-of-war was meant to be a bit of fun. Then Rassie turned the mothers into a driving maul.

A tight parking bay, a car guard with the clearest calls Rassie has heard all season and one very unusual job offer.

Gogo Nomsa was on the parade route at four. Thabo flew in overnight. The captain waved.

December at a coastal resort. Every lounger gone by half past five. Rassie was not the only one with a plan.

The try came while Oom Kallie was half out of his chair. So Oom Kallie stays half out of his chair.

Forty relatives, one phone on a timer and a family friend who arranges people like a team photo.

Forty players, one kit manager and one sock missing ninety minutes before kick-off.

Stage 6. Four hours in the dark. Rassie is not worried.

All three assistant coaches want to run the team braai. Rassie picks on form.

Before kick-off, the whole country stands up. Including the dog.

The weather app says 90% chance of rain. Rassie lights the braai.

Supporting from overseas means three alarms, whispered celebrations and very patient neighbours.

Team selection at 06:00, cones in the bakkie and a lunchbox thrown in from touch.

In some offices Friday is dress-down day. In this office it is a dress code.

A Saturday supermarket run, planned like a Test match. Seven trolleys. One loaf of bread.