Rugby Stories from the Platteland

By Graham Jooste

The heart and spirit of rugby described in Graham’s book is still evident today, but the way the game was played—on a Saturday afternoon, on a dusty field, after a long day ploughing—is not. Somehow all this became overshadowed by the glamour of large clubs and competitions, fuelled by modern technology and communication. In this book Graham tells the stories, some dating back 100 years, of those recently arrived for work in a strange town on the platteland who, to be accepted by the community, had to play rugby. From labourers and mechanics to clerks and farmers, these are their stories and each one is unique. From the Northern Cape and Luderitz, down the west coast, into the Eastern Cape and through the Free State and Mpumalanga, Graham has recorded stories, as told to him, that will have you in stitches. Graham’s style of writing is reminiscent of campfire (or perhaps braais and boerewors) storytelling, the humour lying in all the deviations and asides the story makes along the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: 30 Degrees South Publishers
• Release date: Jan 19, 2005
• ISBN: 9781928211006

Graham Jooste

Graham Jooste, born in Greylingstad, lives in Johannesburg and considers himself semi-retired. Graham is passionate about both history and sport and has written four other books: Innocent Blood (2002), So Het Hulle Gesterf (1998), Rugby Trivia (1995) and South African Rugby Teams: 1949–1995 (1995). Graham was awarded the Lewis Memorial Shield for Sportsmanship at the South African Nautical College. He played first-league rugby, cricket and bowls and was president of the Old Selbornians Cricket Club in East London and of the Pirate Rugby Club.

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED to all those brave men and boys who dared to play the national game of rugby on the platteland so many years ago.

My unending, reverential wonder and awe inspired me to attempt to put pen to paper to try and capture something of this bygone era before it is too late. The pride and joy of wearing the jersey and socks of the dorp’s rugby team, the selection squabbles, the dusty fields, the women committees, the transport arrangements and the struggle to find referees, were all part of a strong foundation laid for future generations of stars to build upon.

Whenever somebody new arrived in these small South African towns he was immediately approached to find out whether he had played the game before, be he a new bank clerk, post office assistant, policeman, railway worker, magistrate’s clerk, schoolteacher, Public Works Department employee, stock and dipping inspector, co-operative worker, mechanic, wool agent, hides and skins buyer or relief barman.

The thought behind this instant approach was to find out whether the newly arrived individual would be able to assist the local side if called upon to do battle with a neighbouring dorpspan. The newcomer felt flattered by the attention, the community had done its duty in extending such an invitation and with luck, might have stumbled upon a gem. Thus the newly arrived person was accepted into the community of rugby.

The larger towns in the various provinces supplied the majority of players in the Currie Cup Tournament as it was then called. The provinces were Border, Eastern Province, Griqualand West, Northern Transvaal, Orange Free State, Transvaal, Western Province, North Eastern Districts and Natal. At a later stage more unions were formed, the likes of Western Transvaal, Eastern Transvaal and Rhodesia. With the expansion of the game over a period of time such teams as Northern Free State, Far North, Northern Natal, Boland, South Western Districts, North West Cape and South Eastern Transvaal emerged from platteland slumber to enter the arena of the groot manne competition … not to mention South West Africa, Stellaland and Lowveld. The likes of Vaal Triangle and Eastern Free State chipped in as well.

Leading up to this explosion of the smaller unions into the ‘big time’, the aim of every serious player in these smaller areas was to make it into the sub-union side of a leading province. For example, there was the Free State (South) sub-union, which encompassed the towns of Zastron, Rouxville, Smithfield and Wepener among others. Other larger unions also had their demarcated districts for the sub-union system. Eastern Free State actually became a fully fledged union and had a go at the larger unions. The sub-unions competed with each other and it was at these games that the platteland hopefuls might catch the eyes of the union selectors.

We must also remember that a pool of players was created by geographical situations. For instance, the old Transkei was a prime example of a district that supplied players to the local town sides. Sons of traders and farmers were sent to one of the three great rugby schools situated in East London, Kingwilliamstown and Queenstown. Also, we must not forget the Grahamstown connection and Rhodes University. During the school holidays these students were often drafted into teams like Pirates of Umtata, Butterworth, Idutywa, Engcobo, Ugie, Maclear and Elliot. The situation was similar in other parts of South Africa as well. This was an accepted feature as long as dad paid his son’s subscription and the boy attended at least one practice … in order to qualify!

The same applied to police-college trainees and boys from the armed forces, home on leave, helping serve behind the counter at the family trading store or farm store. Spectators were always interested in seeing how a son of the community had progressed while away from home. The occasion was also one for socializing and renewing friendships. The annual rugby dance was an occasion not to be missed. Many made a supreme effort to attend these functions although far from the dorpie. Socially, this event played a huge role in the far-flung communities and on occasions became somewhat hectic, to say the least! The standard rule was that all festivities had to cease at midnight, as the following day was a Sunday.

Sadly, all these traditions and customs have been whittled away by various factors and are no more. Those of us who were fortunate enough to have been part of this institution will always look back and be thankful for the oppurtunity of being a part of it.

I cannot apologize for any grammatical errors. These stories have been put to paper as I heard them. Many of them were told to me by men from the platteland who were not well versed in English and many was the time that they tried to impress the listeners with their knowledge of English. Many of them would switch from Afrikaans into English and vice versa when stuck for a word or two. I sincerely hope that you the reader will accordingly accept this and realize that some of these tales were told by people whose passion for the game surpassed their educational qualifications.

On the platteland, the local dorp rugby headquarters was always the local hotel. There always seemed to be a Royal Hotel, Commercial Hotel or Grand Hotel! After practices on dusty fields everybody would congregate at these venues to slake his thirst and have a bath or shower in the facilities at the end of a long, dark passage lit only by a dim lightbulb. The presidents and coaches of these teams were usually elderly men and appeared to be dignified by the positions ‘thrust’ upon them at the Annual General Meeting, which had preceeded the playing season. They were proud of the responsibilities handed to them and often shared the same status as the burgermeesters of the various dorpe.

The local ladies were always involved by providing eats and beverages of a non-alchoholic nature at the matches and quietly glowed with pride when a family member showed prowess on the field. The profits from these stalls went to the club and were usually used to compensate those club members who had cars and carted the team around. Jerseys and socks were to be had at the local store or farmers’ co-operative. The players had to buy these themselves. Numbers on the jerseys were not included. It was a familiar sight to see a farmer coming to town for provisions, wearing his team jersey or socks with his veldskoene … and many of the townsmen used the jersey for their gardening attire! The jersey was worn with pride—a sort of status symbol. This simplicity has now disappeared forever.

I hope I can capture for you the passion and atmosphere of a grand old era in the following pages.

Some names may have been changed to protect the offenders and the guilty.

Graham Jooste

Johannesburg, 2005

AN IRISH CONNECTION

Safe upon the shores of England and still following the game, I met an elderly Irishman who told me this story at his favourite watering hole in Liverpool.

ON THE ISLE OF Inishmaan, there was no sport! We only had currachs and loading pigs for the market at Galway across the bay. My grandfather was evicted from his stone cottage by the commissioner because of rent, you follow. He came across the sea to here and got a job on a collier plying out of Swansea. He once went to see a strange game played by men with an egg-shaped ball that bounced all over the place.

It was a Saturday afternoon and his collier, the Brechin, was high and dry having repairs and her bottom scraped. As he looked after the ropes, and the ropes were not needed that day because she was out of the water he went with some of his friends to this game.

He had some money from the union man but hitched a lift from some Godfearing soul all the way to the St. Helen’s ground, named after St. Helen, you know. He was in time and saw fifteen men in dark-green jerseys with a springbok on the pocket. They were running onto the field and the people were clapping and shouting instructions to them.

Another group ran onto the field in red jerseys and the shouting got louder and louder! This was the side from Wales, you follow. My grandfather explained to me that the men in green were from the tip of Africa and had sailed all the way to play this game over here. Now the men from Africa had names like Uncle, Klondyck, Bingo and Mary* by gorrah, could you believe that an’ all!

The men charged at each other, got down on the knees and pushed, fighting over this ball. Somebody got a black eye and was treated with water poured over his head. The men in green were very big and called to each other in a foreign language. When they fell on the ball behind the posts, they all had to start again from the middle of the field. After the game he met some trawlermen who could not remember who won the game but thought it was the foreigners. They thought so because we saw them doing a pagan dance behind the sitting stand long after the game!

He thought to himself that if a person could run with a ball under his arm and have so many people shouting at him he should ask Father O’ Callaghan about it all. After many days of thinking about this game he told me that I should try to play it one day.

After selling all my newspapers at Charing Cross that day I went to see a game for myself. I was very excited when I got into the ground because a side was called the London Irish and they were strangers to me! Nobody spoke Gaelic and most cursed in English as well. When a side scored everybody threw their hats in the air. I did the same and some urchin ran off with it. I did not chase him because I got a better one and sat on it to hide it away, you know.

After the game I asked the landlord of the side if I could play this game for him. He told me to join the London Scottish, I ask you! That is my story.

More pints and talking to him revealed that he knew of a side called Guys Hospital. He explained in great detail that the young doctors played this game purely for financial gain and that he had permission to sell his newspapers to their victims while they were recovering in hospital. His old grandfather was indeed correct: Follow this pagan festival and you will be delighted, my boy.

*F. ‘Uncle’ Dobbin—scrumhalf (Griqualand West)

J. ‘Klondyck’ Raaff—wing forward (Griqualand West)

K.W. ‘Bingo’ Burger—frontranker (Border)

D. ‘Mary’ Jackson—frontranker (Western Province)

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THE FREE STATE TRIANGLE

THERE WAS THIS HOTEL you see! It was in Smithfield and it was called the Royal Hotel. I will never know why it was called Royal because this has always been Hertzog territory since the Boer War days. Anyway, I am sure the English had something to do with it because they liked to exploit us. They might have known that the nearest place you could get really good mampoer was near Rustenburg and that the transport riders were mostly occupied in carting dynamite for the Transvaal mines. My grandfather told me that this was the reason why an Englishman opened the first hotel here. To make a profit out of them all!

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