Ellis Park Mischief
I was so excited I couldn’t sleep.
I was a youngster and my dad was going to take me to my very
first International Rugby game at Ellis Park in Johannesburg.
I was rugby mal ek se.
I loved Frik Du Pree and Dawie DeVilliers and all the bokke. I couldn’t believe I was going to be in
the stands on a Saturday afternoon watching my beloved Bokke playing against
the All Blacks.
I was ready for braaivleis, rugby, sunny skies and…ja well
you know the rest.
I was chuffed china. What a jol for a little oke. It was especially ‘special’ not only because the All
Blacks were (and still are) one of the best teams in the world, but my dad had
lost his job at that time and tickets were very, very expensive. Earlier in the week I heard him and my
mom actually discussing the fact that we couldn’t go to the game because of the
money situation. I don’t know how
he managed to pay for the tickets but I wasn’t asking any questions.
I woke up early that special Saturday and sat in our kitchen
and ate my Pronutro like a good little boykie.
Then I had a glass of Oros orange juice and almost had an
instant seizure from the orange dye #12732 in Oros that often closed my throat
and almost killed me.
I’d about turn purple with bulging Eddie Eksteen or Pip
Friedman type goo-goo eyes after a half a glass of that kak. Yet I still drank
it.
And there I am clutching my throat, with my tongue hanging
out, gasping for air and the maid klaps me on the back of my head and tells me
to go make my bed.
She didn’t take any kak for sure.
In support of the Springboks I donned my favourite green
cardigan with yellow specks in the wool and with leather buttons that my gran
knitted for me for my birthday.
Looking at pictures now, I notice that the cardigan was the ugliest
thing I have ever seen. What the
hell was I thinking?
We got into my toppie’s car and we went to pick up his
friend who was coming with us. We arrived
at the oke’s house and there he is standing outside clutching a ladder. Yes a wooden ladder.
Now I’m just a happy go lucky kid who is as excited as a
little puppy at the prospect of the game that afternoon so I go with the flow.
My dad and his buddy open both the back windows and position
the ladder in the car with an end sticking out of each window.
“Sit in the middle and hold the ladder, “ says my dad. “Don’t let if fall out boykie.”
So while those two okes are gaaning aan in the front seat (about
how the Bokke and going to moer the All blacks) old kippie is sitting in the
middle of the back seat battling to hold on to the bloody ladder.
We get to what feels like ten miles away from the Ellis Park
Stadium. Actually it was at the
top of Harrow road there. Not
exactly ten miles but for a little oke with short legs, and two grown men
carrying a ladder, it felt like a moer of a long way.
We arrive at the stadium and are milling around outside with
all the rugby fans. And these okes
are poes dronk and shouting. “Moer
hulle.” “Op die boere.” “Naartjies.” “Biltong.”
“Kussings.” “Ice
cream.” “Programs.”
There are so many people crowding around that I am lost in a
sea of knees. I am so short that
all I can see is safari suit pants and long socks with combs in them.
We wait and wait as the people go in.
Suddenly there is a huge roar from inside the stadium as the
players run onto the field. I’m
getting upset because I want to see the first punch.
As the crowd roars everyone surges through the gates and the
cops are sukkeling to help the ticket takes maintain order.
“Let’s go,” yells my dad. And he starts walking away from the gate.
Huh?
“But…but,”I stammer.
My dad grabs me by the hand and now two men, a kid and a
ladder are running away from the entrance.
I don’t what the hell is going on. I’m digging in.
Dragging my feet and my old man is pulling me.
He drags me half way around the bloody field.
“Right here,” he yells over the roar coming from
inside. He is pointing at a very
high wooden gate.
My dad and his buddy put up the stepladder and I am
propelled to the top, followed by my dad and his buddy.
And amazingly, from the top of the ladder we can see over
the bloody fence and because there is a gap in the stands right there, we can
see a portion of the field.
“Lekker,” says my dad, grinning. He is standing behind me and clutching the fence so we don’t
fall off the ladder. (Apparently
my dad had done this before during a Transvaal Currie Cup and saw
everything. At least that’s what
he told me.)
So now I’m atop a ladder straining to see between the
stands. All I can really see is
the ball when it is kicked into the air or green and gold and black streaks of
color as the players become visible for a few seconds in the gap in the stands.
My dad’s buddy has a transistor radio in his pocket so we
can hear the game too. So now I’m
beginning to enjoy the whole gedoente.
My imagination, plus a few glimpses of the ball, makes it better than
sitting and listening to the Gerhard Viviers commentating home.
“This is lekker hey dad.? I say turning to look at him. He is so chuffed with himself. I enjoy his smiling eyes.
Then suddenly the expression on his face changes.
Above the noise I see him mouthing the words, “Oh shit.”
Then I see him putting his hands up to his face.
I turn back toward the stadium just as the first naartjie
hits us.
I then realize that a large number of rugby fans on the top
of the stand have turned away from the game and have noticed us ’non paying
patrons, on the ladder, and have decide to show their disapproval with a volley
of naartjies.
And shit man it was a naartjie blizzard.
With glee and hatred in their eyes and water-melon soaked
brandy in their veins they started pelting us.
I must say being moered by nartjies is uncomfortable and
quite painful.
“Let’s go,” yells my dad as the disruption catches the eyes
of a couple of Seth Effica’s finest polisie men.
On the other side of the fence the boere start running
towards us. We scramble down the
ladder. My dad scoops me up. His
buddy grabs the ladder and we run like hell.
My teeth are knocking together and jostling in my head as my
dad runs with me tucked under one arm and one side of the ladder in the other.
As we run I hear the crowd go crazy.
The cops didn’t give chase. I think they just wanted to scare us off. And they did.
A few miles away, out of breath, and out of range of the
law, we all collapsed in a heap on a grassy patch of pavement on Harrow road.
And the giggles started.
My dad and his buddy were giggling like little schoolboys.
I’m glad I experienced my first international rugby game the
way I did. I wouldn’t want it any
other way. This may sound strange
but I’m so happy my dad didn’t have money for tickets for the game that day. I
truly am.
Because now that he is gone. That memory of my dad’s dancing eye, his uncontrollable
giggle and his shit-eating grin is something I will treasure forever.
Frozen for all time, in my mind, is a black and white
picture of the three of us, sitting on the pavement, laughing our heads off.
Piccadilly Passion
(My
Picadilly bioscope story is re-posted by request. This story may be
offensive to certain audiences. Please stop reading if you blush
easily.)
My heart was beating faster than that time when we
were little okes and we tried to blow up a bee hive in a cave on
Linksfield Ridge and the bees chased us down the hill.
It was beating faster than that time I was busted trying to look up my teacher’s dress in standard eight.
It all took place at the Piccadilly movie house.
It was my first ‘alone’ date ever.
No mates. No brothers or sisters. Just me and her. Her and me. And
the love between us. (Although I think there was way more love between
me and her than her and me but she did like me. She told me so.)
I had to catch two buses from Orange Grove to meet her at the bioscope
for the flick. (Her mom dropped her off and picked her up.)
I
was in such a dream state getting off the bus that I almost got run over
by an oke on a bicycle yelling, “Mielies. Mielieeeeeees.”
The movie was called Harold and Maude. I’ll never forget.
We met outside and I bought the tickets.
I was kaking myself because I didn’t have much money and you were
supposed to buy your chick a box of Black Magic chocolates in those
days. (Thank God she had just come from the Dairy Den where she probably
had a Choc 99 so she didn’t want anything.)
So we found ourselves a spot in the middle of the movie house and sat down.
Then the lights went down.
I was ready and primed for love. Looking for romance. And, would you
believe, a bloody Three Stooges short comes onto the screen. Ag no man! I
am trying to be romantic and hold her hand but she has her hands up to
her mouth and she is giggling.
Then Interval.
Damn, I just wanted the lights to go down. That was the longest interval in history.
Then the lights went down. And my piel went up.
So after ten minutes of sweating bullets I just grabbed her hand. And guess what?
You’re wrong.
She didn’t pull away. She actually took my hand and held it. Held my %$# hand. She WANTED me hey. WANTED!
I let a few more minutes go by and I took a deep breath. I almost choked because everyone around was smoking.
Now I was ready.
I was going to pull the ultimate move. Like the older okes in the
neighborhood told us to do. They told us if she holds your hand it means
she ready china.
Ready to be GRIPPED.
And you know what?
I was ready to GRIP her ek se. I was born ready. So the okes told us to
put our arm around a chick very slowly…while looking the other way.
Yes, looking the other way, so as to be unobtrusive.
Sounds good, right?
Wrong!
Do you know how STUPID that looks? Pretending you are yawning and
looking the other way and slowly putting you arm around a girl and
thinking that she doesn’t know EXACTLY what’s happening.
Who
taught those idiots the nuances of romance I ask you with tears in my
smoke-filled eyes? I mean they told us youngsters, “Once you get your
arm around her you must just, like, accidentally let your hand pop into
her shirt and rest your hand on her boob. Don’t make a big deal of it,
just, like, rest it.”
Ja right. Accidentally pop your hand into her shirt and rest on her boob.
Accidentally?
Seriously?.
“Just rest it bru. Just, like, rest it on her boob.”
C’mon.
I knew bugger-all about making out and I assumed those ous knew
‘everything’ because they had stove-pipe jeans and white t-shirts and
Lucky Strike packs rolled into their sleeves. They MUST know what
they’re talking about.
So I started the slow-hand creep along
the seat behind her neck while looking the other way. Let your fingers
do the walking. But hey! Guess what? She didn’t klap me or punch me or
anything. She actually nestled into me. Yes I said nestled. I was in
like Flint. (Who ever he was.)
Then everything happened very
quickly. I put my arm around her and she shifted towards me…and
boom…there it was. The accidental slip. And I felt skin.
Her boob!
Oh my God. My dream came true. My hand was in her shirt. Just like that.
I was a born stud ek se. My heart was pounding so much that the blood
rushed to all my heads and confused me. I almost forget what the ous
told me to do next.
“Gentle touch, bru. Just move your hand in a swirling motion. That’s all. Otherwise she’ll moer you.”
Okay. Okay. Swirling motion.
I tell you what. I was in seventh heaven. So I started a swirling
motion. I swirled a bit, but for some reason I couldn’t find her, you
know…err…her nipple. I swirled in a wider arc. But I couldn’t find it.
Then it hit me!
Oh my God she is deformed. Perfect. Just my luck. I pick a chick with
a deformed boob to start my puberty with. It was weird. I was swirling
and searching and she was almost purring.
Yes! I said purring.
Ag sies man. I was kind of put-off by her deformity…but she nestled even closer to me.
Then I opened my eyes and looked around at her to see what the hell was happening and that’s when it hit me.
Oh no. I was NOT caressing her boob.
I was caressing her shoulder. Yes, her friggin’ shoulder. I swear it
felt just like a boob. (According to my vast experience of the female
anatomy. )
Oh my goodness. There I was…like a bloody
mampara…moving my fingers in a circular motion on her bare
shoulder…looking for a nipple.
No wonder I didn’t find it.
Idiot!
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