Loading ...I am not sure which was more scary. The hairy, heavy Vry Staater in a boep-clinging Bafana shirt or the big black dude beneath a Bloem Celtic cap I encountered in the gents at half time on Tuesday. As I manoeuvred between them to attend to pressing matters I was caught in the vice of their passionate embrace. A tactical blunder — it nevertheless gave me a moment to tune into the heartbeat of the new “New South Africa”. Ah yes … an inclusive moment for an unlikely threesome. I staggered to the urinals, quivering with 1994 nostalgia, barely able to stem the flow of emotion. The walls throbbed to the melodic ensemble of “ole ole ole” for once audible above the thunderous volley of vuvuzelas in the homely Free State stadium. Emotions had also got the better of the Celtic fan who, I noticed, lost his balance and peed down the leg of the burly Cheetah. I looked over: Who’s really taking the piss now? If the episode in the Gents was a bit of a rom-com, the match itself was a thriller, quickly entering the top-10 sporting occasions in my personal pantheon. While stadia such as the Emirates and Greenpoint are superbly designed, they are almost too big for the ordinary punter’s boots. New and shiny, their magic lies in their power to dwarf the individual. But the Free State stadium, with its uncovered seating and closeness to the pitch after a modest Fifa makeover brought the beautiful game up close and personal. Bafana exited as they had entered, with verve and swerve that served South Africa’s renewed sense of national pride.
The next day, central Jo’burg welcomed us like an open goal. We parked outside Park Station, close to the Cosatu and SACP offices. Not the most salubrious street. We strapped on vuvuzelas, donned coats, scarves and funny hats, navigated an argument of car guards, and boarded the Soccer City Express. The train was packed with middle class South Africans who had probably never been on a Metrorail train before — as many candidly admitted — let alone journeyed to Soweto (unless they happened to be Bulls’ Fans). “This is fucking amazing”, exclaimed one, “look at the fucking traffic out there!” Indeed. “We should do this again”, he added, to no one in particular — indeed we should — before unashamedly asking us “what exactly is the Champions’ League?” And this was all about class not race. The slinky black couple, fetching each other the occasional furtive smooch, had not been on a South African train before either. And, before you ask, they were Jo’burgers, not Nigerian. It would be nice to think that this sense of adventure would endure beyond the World Cup. When the middle class use public services they tend to improve. Rapidly. We know how to complain and we know who to complain to. Despite some shuffling stops, we made it to Soccer City in less than 30 minutes. From the train window the Calabash looked magnificent; up close, good enough to eat (from). Inside it holds more than Greenpoint but seems more intimate. The game was congenial, with both Ghana and Germany playing open, attacking football, the Germans regularly switching to a 4-2-4 formation with ease. The last 10 minutes were agony, frantically refreshing my BlackBerry for news of Serbia vs Australia. Saved by the Socceroos, we celebrated joyously with our adopted Black Stars’ fans afterwards — Africa’s dignity saved by the Aussies. It came to that. And so, next stop Rustenburg …
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