Bok legends open up about life in the green and gold

BREYTON PAULSE

The Road Less Travelled

I grew up on a vegetable farm in the Koue Bokkeveld, near Ceres in the Western Cape. My mom was a domestic worker who worked for the farmer, Mr Charl du Toit. I was fortunate enough to be invited to play with Mr Du Toit’s son, and that was where it really started. The farm communities loved rugby, and we grew up with the Western Province versus Blue Bulls rivalry.

When I went to high school, I went to a farm school. Obviously, as farm boys we played a lot of sports. It was a crucial part of growing up and gave us something to do. We played rugby and cricket at school, and soccer for the local teams at the weekend.

We just played for fun, but it was very competitive. I was fortunate to be school head boy and captain of every sport. It was that kind of vibe. I was a bit above average at the time. I loved it, but I never thought of one day playing for Maties, let alone Western Province or the Springboks. I had a hell of a passion for the game, but I knew the school environment was very small. I was also small physically, so it never crossed my mind that I might have a career in rugby.

Our area fell in the Boland region, but because we were so far away, and our school never really had money to play in the main leagues, I was never in contention to play Craven Week. There were no funds. We played against other farm schools in the area and that was it.

But it was still competitive. There was a lot of talent out there, and I am sad to think of how that went to waste because of a lack of funds. There were some very talented young players who just never got the exposure they needed to make it.

I probably would have been one of those guys who got lost had it not been for Charl du Toit. My life changed when he called me in during my matric year. Usually that was when we were expected to go to the farmer and apply to work on the farm the following year. But he had a different plan for me.

I had grown up in front of him and had played sport with his kids. He saw the potential in me. He offered to pay for me to study at Stellenbosch, and that was where I got my ticket to life.

I didn’t go to Stellenbosch to play rugby, I went to study Human Movement Science. Mr Du Toit said that he would pay for me, but if I failed, I’d have to come back to the farm and pay him back. So that was a motivating force for me to study hard. I didn’t want to let either him or my mom down. They were the driving force, and I was determined to make it work. It was a massive opportunity for me and the first of its kind in the region.

It wasn’t easy for me initially. Going to Stellenbosch was out of my comfort zone. I was used to the farm environment and had never been exposed to big cities like Cape Town. For me, Stellenbosch was a big city. It was an opportunity, but I was also thrown in at the deep end.

At Stellenbosch, I was exposed to gyms and to the other trappings that the kids who had played good rugby throughout their school careers would have been well used to. Dawie Snyman, the former Springbok fullback who coached Western Province in the golden era and who is an institution at Maties, took my hand and guided me. In my first year, I started off in the Stellenbosch under-19 F team.

I was much younger than 19 at the time. The belief started to come as I worked my way up through the under-19 teams. I went from the under-19 F team to under-19 A in a month, and then got fast-tracked into the under-20 A team. The next year, I made the first team.

I arrived as a no-name brand, with no school representative honours. So I just wanted to see how far I could push it. I was surprised, though, how quickly I got sucked into the culture. I picked up quickly that I must start believing in myself. I needed to say to myself that I belonged there. That period in the mid-1990s was a transition time in our country’s history. I was the only player of colour. I think, though, that because I was from a farming background, I mixed well with the Afrikaans boys.

Playing with guys like Bob, and later Corné Krige, helped massively to accelerate my development as a rugby player

We had a captain by the name of Steven Brink. He also came from Ceres and was also a farmer. So we could connect. He was a lock. I got on well with him, and that was a big help. The university was experiencing a massive influx of English-speaking guys as well, so it was a good mix of cultures and language groups. One of those English-speaking guys was Bob Skinstad. He made a big impression on me early in my varsity career, and he would turn out to have a big influence on my career.

Bob just bubbled with self-assurance. He was always thinking outside the box. Even then, when not even 20 years of age, he wanted to change the way that flankers play. We spent a lot of time together and he helped me believe I could compete.

Playing with guys like Bob, and later Corné Krige, helped massively to accelerate my development as a rugby player. I think in both their cases, their schools had played a big part in preparing them for the world out there. Where you went to school obviously has a dramatic influence on the person that you become.

We farm kids were very reserved and conservative. Whereas the private schools and other big schools go on overseas tours from around the time they are in grade 8, we went to Cape Town once, in a bus. Just that once, that was the sum total of it. Guys like Bob were exposed to the wider world at a much earlier age, so I could understand where his confidence came from. I also understood that I was playing catch-up.

Being selected to play for the Maties first team was the moment when I realised I could go far in rugby. I was in good company — we had a talented group of guys at Maties at that time. Apart from me and Bob, Selborne Boome and Louis Koen were also at Stellenbosch then, and went on to become Springboks. But they all had very different beginnings and school careers from mine.

GCOBANI BOBO

The Grand Debut

When we were at school together, Shimmie [Hanyani Shimange] and I often talked about how we wanted to be professional rugby players. As it turned out, when we made our respective provincial debuts, we were playing against each other. He was on the bench for the Sharks, and I was on the bench for the Lions.

Even more coincidentally, our numbers got called out at the same time. So we were standing right next to each other about to make our debut. Before we ran on, I turned to him and said, “We going pro, bro,” and he was like, “Yeah, so we are.”

Shimmie and I also got called up to the Springboks at the same time, but I was the one who got the first opportunity to play Test-match rugby. I was selected to the bench for the first Test against Scotland, in Durban. It was a very dour game, one of the first where a Bok team was booed by a South African crowd. It left a sour taste in my mouth, and maybe it was a good thing that I didn’t mark that match as the occasion of my first cap.

However, it was also one of my proudest moments, because my dad and I had been estranged, and he and I met up and had a chat for the first time in ages. I remember giving him the jersey that I never played in, the No 22, and he was so proud and also pleased that, despite all my stubbornness and all the crap I had given him, at least here was something for which I was willing to make sacrifices. He was pretty proud of me.

The next week we played Scotland at Ellis Park, and this time the debut was dinkum.

The Lions had given me an opportunity to play rugby professionally, so it was poetic that I got to play my first Test match at Ellis Park.

I remember when my number was called, there was just a cacophony of sound. In fact, the whole day was just craziness.

That’s what makes Ellis Park such a special venue for the Boks. It starts with the bus trip to the stadium, and continues through the walk around the ground before the game, and then the singing of the national anthem. When you stand in front of a packed Ellis Park singing the anthem, you know this is the real deal.

Not long after running on I sniped my way through a gap, and 70,000 people went berserk. There was this sudden roar that went right through my entire body. It was like, “Aaaah …”

You can’t actually do justice to it with words.

JAMES DALTON

We’re No Angels

The incident in that 1995 World Cup game against Canada, where I was sent off, happened on the opposite side of the field to where the tunnel was.

In that game, crossing the field to that tunnel was like walking from Port Elizabeth to Johannesburg stark naked. It was that humiliating. To be sent off in a World Cup game was just such an intense disappointment that words can’t describe it. I got back into the change room and burst into tears.

Full marks to Kitch [Christie]. The game was still on at that stage, but he had the empathy to come down to the change room to check on me and make sure that I was okay. I was just sitting there, with my head in my hands, sobbing my eyes out. Kitch tried to console me, but I was inconsolable at that moment.

He was genuinely concerned about me, even though, obviously, he should have been concerned about the fact that his team had just been reduced to 14 men. And that there was also the possibility of wider ramifications in the tournament going forward. That gesture on Kitch’s part, the concern he showed for another human being, had a massive impact on me.

After that I was blessed, as Kitch selected me as his first-choice hooker in the game against Wales, which we played after the World Cup. And going forward from there, I was the first-choice hooker whenever I was fit. I could have played way more Test matches for SA than I eventually did, had I just kept my side of the sink clean.

But, obviously, that sending-off turned out to be the end of my World Cup. My dream was shattered. The positive side was that I received a lot of support from the public, for which I will always be grateful. There were boxes and boxes of faxes sent to 702, the radio station, in my support. There were something like 100,000 faxes.

The problem, of course, was that there was a deluge on the morning of the semifinal against France that waterlogged the field. It nearly forced the game to be cancelled, which would have meant that we would have been eliminated because of the red card I was issued on the field and the one Pieter Hendriks was given retrospectively off it. So I was very pleased when that game did take place.

I had a big bone of contention after the hearing that cost me my place at the World Cup. I felt that the team manager, Morné du Plessis, was only concerned about his image rather than with my welfare. Doc Luyt wanted to get me a lawyer and fight my case full on. Morné argued against that; he said, no, we must go and “represent ourselves as rugby men”. Luyt thought that was crazy, and looking back now, so do I.

It nearly forced the game to be cancelled, which would have meant that we would have been eliminated because of the red card I was issued on the field

I was 21 years old; my eyes were as big as saucers. I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to do what was right for the team, and obviously as Morné was my manager, I was inclined to go his way. Only it turned out that I was a lamb being sent to slaughter.

Two Frenchmen were running the hearing, and they couldn’t speak a word of English. They had an interpreter there, but they didn’t ask me one question. They didn’t understand a f***ing word I was saying.

So, almost inevitably, they found me guilty of foul play. But foul play is kicking, biting, swearing or spitting at the referee. I was the third man coming in and I hit the advertising board. Even the referee didn’t seem too sure why he sent me off.

I saw him once after that, in Ireland. He came up to me as if his poor decision had had no impact on my life. He made a joke about it. I didn’t appreciate that. He didn’t think for one second about how he could have destroyed a young man’s career. To me, that he could make light of it showed very little emotional intelligence.

The wrong idea

It is interesting how that one incident at the 1995 World Cup has given people quite the wrong idea about me. Because of that red card, people think that I must be a fighter and a dirty player, but if you look at my sporting career, that was the only time I was ever sent off.

They think, “We know James Dalton and he’s a thug.” You look at your life and it might be made up of 10 moments, and some of them are great or average, and two are bad. People focus on the bad and you become an enemy of the state.

It’s been difficult for me, as it has made me very sensitive and defensive. I spent a lot of time wanting people to know me and see the other side, but then I got to a point when I started thinking it doesn’t matter. If people dislike me, then that’s their problem; it has nothing to do with me.

What matters is how I treat people and how those I engage with treat me in return. The rest is irrelevant. If you go to a restaurant and there are people there whom you don’t like, just go to a different restaurant.

BAKKIES BOTHA

The Apprenticeship

I won’t ever forget the last day of my matric exams in Vereeniging. I hadn’t been stressed about my future in rugby — if I was going to play for Vereeniging club, that was okay. My school career was over and my car was already packed for our trip to Margate for the big post-matric holiday.

I was ready to go and was looking forward to the end of the exam so I could focus on partying. But while we were writing the paper, the principal came in and told the invigilator to let me know that he wanted to see me when the exam was over.

When I went into the principal’s office, he threw a piece of paper in front of me. “There’s your deal,” he said. It was a two-year contract to play for the Falcons. I had played Falcons Craven Week in 1998, and in 1997 for South Eastern Transvaal (when I was at Middelburg).

I looked at the contract. I liked it, but what was I going to do about my trip to Margate? I had been looking forward to it and, like the rest of the kids who had just finished matric, all I really wanted to do at that point was let off a bit of steam and celebrate the end of exams.

“Can’t the contract wait?” I asked the principal, Dries van Heerden. “I’m off to Margate and I’m all packed to go.”

“That’s your decision,” Dries said.

“When do I need to start?” I asked, in the hope that I’d still be able to squeeze in my holiday.

“Tomorrow morning. Are you going to sign?”

It was one of those moments that lets you know in no uncertain terms that life is all about decisions and choices. If I’d said, “No, I will go on holiday instead,” my life might have turned out differently. I thought about it for a few minutes. This would be my first salary. So I told Dries to tell them I would be there.

My friends were outside, ready to leave for Margate and champing at the bit to get going. Why was I holding them back? When I told them I wasn’t going to Margate, they called me a chicken. You know how kids are. But in the end they were quite happy.

So my life as a professional rugby player began the day after I left school. I walked into a locker room where there were senior players like Braam van Straaten, Jaco Booysen, Ralph Schreuder … Instead of leading the life of a varsity student, I was listening to guys talk about their babies, wives and good schools.

I knew I had to get stuck in and prove myself to these guys. Phil Pretorius coached us in those years, and in my first ever professional practice session, we trained line-outs and drives. Dawie van Schalkwyk was the fullback, and I remember putting in a nice tackle on him. I heard Jaco Booysen and the senior guys immediately say that they would have to “sort out this youngster”.

I knew I had to get stuck in and prove myself to these guys

Maybe what they’d said was tongue-in-cheek at that moment, but I always tell people that there is no better place to lay a good, hard foundation than to start your career in Brakpan. I’d never had an aggressive edge at school, but at Brakpan I had to find my grunt. I had to say, “Listen, I am not going to hold back; you can hit me and punch me and kick me, but I am here. I want to make a mark and I want to participate.”

Those were two tough, busy years for me, both on and off the field. My first job ever, apart from rugby, was to wash glasses in a nightclub. I’d tell my mom and dad I was staying over at my friends’, and then I would go and work at the nightclub. I was still living at home, but I was loving the nightlife, and I was doing a bit of work as a bouncer, too. Even though I was still a bit thin, my height helped create the right impression for that kind of work.

But after a while I realised that the nightlife and my career as a rugby player weren’t combining well. For a start, I had to get through some really long days. For the period that I was signed up with the Falcons, I was duty-bound to report for work in Brakpan every morning, where the senior team was based. Sometimes it was Vereeniging to Midrand Health and Racquet. Either way, it was a long drive, about an hour and 15 minutes.

Often Phil would tell me on a Tuesday afternoon that Ralph was struggling with a niggle and that I must be ready to play for the senior team on the Saturday. My hopes would be raised and I would start preparing as if I were going to play. But then, on the Thursday afternoon, Phil would invariably call me over and say, “Don’t worry, Ralph is fine.”

If the Falcons senior team didn’t need me, I had to go and play for the under-21 team, so I had to drive from Midrand to Brakpan to train at night. And if the under-21s weren’t playing, then I had to report to the Vereeniging Rugby Club. So there was lots of juggling in those years and it was full-on.

I spent a lot of time driving and rushing from one place to another, always putting in a lot of physical and mental effort to justify my first contract as a professional rugby player. I think that was where I found my mental toughness. I needed to be the best that I could be, even if I knew there was a good chance that I wouldn’t be playing for the senior team. I had to look after myself on and off the field, and it was tough. I think that set me on the path to becoming the guy who would later be known as the Springbok enforcer.

JAMES SMALL

A Rite of Passage 

Initiations were just shit. I got bliksemed so many times at Transvaal; it was the highlight of most okes’ evenings.

They just wanted to hit and humiliate me, and they found a way to keep at me. I didn’t just get slapped when I got my first cap; I got smacked for all sorts of things.

My Springbok initiation was horrendous. I was smacked 79 times. I saw my father a couple of days later, and he was appalled at what I told him.

I struggled to put my pants on. My arse cheek was swollen to three times its size. They hit me 79 times on one arse cheek. My leg was black all the way down to my calf.

Most of it came from Naas. He was bombastic and arrogant in those days. As the captain of the team, he thought he owned the world. It was a case of whatever he decided, happened.

The punishment meted out to me was part of the reason why this ritual was stopped later on. I never agreed with the initiations. Bob Skinstad was genuinely scared when he got initiated. I couldn’t understand its value, and fortunately I hear that today’s guys have done away with the bits that I think were nothing short of barbaric.

• Small passed away on 10 July this year, at the age of 50