Watching the Proteas beat Sri Lanka on Saturday made Gasant Abarder nostalgic about 32 years of South African cricket since reintroduction where we are still praying to lift the elusive Cricket World Cup. In this #SliceofGasant column he remembers a week of history lost in time and how very little has moved in the game since then.
Abarder, who recently launched his book, Hack with a Grenade, is among the country’s most influential media voices. Catch his weekly column here.
Allan Donald rubs a shiny, new cherry against the inside of his thigh. There is a hush around Eden Gardens, Kolkata, as he starts his run-up. Seconds later, the violence of willow hitting leather sees the ball race to the boundary – another four for India in South Africa’s first match back in international cricket.
Donald looks to the heavens as if to ask for mercy.
A week later, our opening bowler gingerly brushes a new cricket ball on the front of his off-white pants, knowing his mom won’t be happy about the indelible red marks on his trousers. He ambles in to deliver his first ball at a school in Newlands. There is the violence of willow hitting leather as the ball races to the boundary.
Our bowler stands dead in his tracks. The sound like the gunshots that punctuate life in Salt River.
That day – a week after South Africa’s first match back in international cricket in 1991 – held much promise for 12 young boys from Salt River. All over the country, times were changing. The air was ripe with opportunity.
A week before, 100 000 Indian fans had packed into the intimidating India’s Eden Gardens to witness South Africa play India. It was complete bedlam.
A week later, a prestigious southern suburbs school hosted a rag-tag under-12 side from Salt River drawn from schools in the area.
Hours before fielding on this picture of a cricket field in Newlands, we had somehow all filed into Uncle Dullah Abbas’ silver Toyota Cressida. He owns the butcher on the corner of Pope and Goldsmith Roads and was always first to help in the community.
Some of us boys rarely got the chance to get out of Salt River and we counted down the days to this rare occasion. Uncle Dullah chose the M3 highway so we could beat traffic. It felt like a different world – away from the smoke, hustle and traffic of Salt River. The roadway was lined with beautiful trees that created a canopy and made the sunlight dance.
I was apprehensive. We all were. We seldom met white kids and would laugh when our friends changed their heavy Cape Flats accents to a twang when speaking to white people.
We had watched South Africa play that match in India on our TVs a week earlier. We looked like the Indian team and our opponents the all-white South Africans. Before, we weren’t allowed on fields as beautiful as these. Its outfield manicured, surrounding a pitch especially prepared for today. It was brown, which meant batting would be easier. We were used to playing on artificial pitches or mats.
It took a while to take it all in. There were massive trees surrounding the playing oval, a digital scoreboard took pride of place and parents on camp chairs had picnic baskets filled with snacks.
(Our parents couldn’t make it. Not because they didn’t want to. They were at work.)
Our coach, Boeta Timmy Lakay, reminded us our opponents were boys just like us and this was just another cricket field. But they weren’t and it wasn’t.
Boeta Timmy was a top cricketer, who in his day hit Garth le Roux, then the fastest bowler in South Africa, for a few sixes at Newlands. His career was cut short when a stray bullet hit his knee during a shooting and he focused on coaching. He always reminded us that opportunity was around the corner if we put our minds to our game.
When we stepped out of our visitor’s change room, our opponents clapped us onto their Eden Gardens, which was more like the Garden of Eden. The air smelt of hops and spring and squirrels darted around the trees.
We became conscious of our mix-and-match kit as our opponents were in proper uniform with brands like Kookaburra, Gunn & Moore and Gray Nicholls. We worried our hand-me-downs of two sets of batting pads and two helmets we shared would be laughed at. But our worries were soon way laid as each boy stepped up to shake our hands.
Our captain called us into a huddle and asked me, the wicketkeeper, to give their batters the verbals – otherwise known in cricket as sledging – to break their concentration.
I’m not sure if the Newlands lads had ever heard such choice words, that would’ve made their mommies and daddies blush, but we bowled them out cheaply. Boeta Timmy glared at us at the break as we feasted on the spread laid out for us. Cheese sandwiches, biscuits, tea and Oros. The home coach reminded us it was all halaal.
‘Remember, gents, they’re human like us,’ our captain reminded us. ‘We have a chance to do what South Africa couldn’t last week.’
That summer afternoon, a lifetime ago, we made history by winning by 7 wickets in their backyard. They seemed relieved it was a friendly lest news spread a team of misfits had beaten them.
We were cheered with a standing ovation. We made friends and the only person who seemed worried on the day was the home coach. We said our goodbyes, knowing we weren’t that different and left their planet for our own world barely 20 minutes away.
Watching the Proteas beat Sri Lanka on Saturday I remembered this moment lost in time. It was almost 32 years to the day and Saturday’s Proteas looked like my opponents that day in Newlands. Sri Lanka looked like us. It was a moment lost in time.
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Picture: Alessandro Bogliari / Unsplash