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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

A Saturday supermarket run, planned like a Test match. Seven trolleys. One loaf of bread.
Rassie doesn’t need Google Maps.South African roads know where he’s going.
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Rassie once complained about a pothole.The municipality apologised to his tyre.
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Rassie doesn’t look for parking at the V&A Waterfront.A bay gets nervous and opens up.
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Rassie doesn’t stand in the Home Affairs queue.The queue stands for Rassie.
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Rassie doesn’t load-shed.Eskom waits until he goes to bed.
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Rassie doesn’t wait for the kettle to boil.The kettle waits for the call from the coaches’ box.
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Rassie doesn’t do small talk.He does set-piece talk.
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Rassie doesn’t set an alarm.Sunrise waits for the team talk.
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Rassie’s shopping list has a seven–one split.
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