rugby Saturdays in winter

When I was a kid my Dad used to take my sister and me to local rugby matches at the Police Grounds. I remember him in too-short-shorts with thick socks and veldskoens ('felt scoons') and a big green windsheeter ('wind cheater') standing up to cheer but keeping his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

Emily and I were more interested in the location of the toffee apple man than in the game. Later, faces sticky, we would prowl under the stands looking for smoking cigarette butts and polystyrene cups, gleefuly pushing the cigarettes through the polystyrene until we were holding cuppy holes rather than holey cups.

It was there that I first saw a Mexican wave and I remember being amazed at the simultaneous mass action. I'd stand and wait and wait and wait and then jump up with my hands in the air, full of self consciousness.

Once, the car was stolen and Dad was angry. Secretly I wondered if a tsotsi from Chikarubi Prison next door had taken it. Margaret our maid had a son who was in Chikarubi, his name was Zanda and even Margaret said that he was penga. After the car was stolen we didn’t go to the rugby as often. Mum wouldn't let Dad because it was her car.