Those of us who derive delirium from watching sport played with balls of all shapes and sizes were disappointed on Thursday night.
Disappointed because the person on the podium, the Maskman of Mahlamba Ndlopfu - he who would start a television station just to teach us how to wear what has become the world's latest fashion apparel - delivered a lot of delight to those who enjoy to drag a fag and puff clouds of smoke.
Purchase of cancer sticks is now permitted. Fake news is that a virtual concert to celebrate this milestone is being planned for next week.
With a beady eye, the guys who were given freedom by judge Raymond Zondo to constitutionally puff and pass are side-eyeing the cigarette smokers and go like, yeah, mon, we been having it, mon.
But there was no such joy for the sports lovers as we move to level four of the Covid-19 lockdown restrictions.
"Concerts, sporting events and religious, cultural and social gatherings will not be allowed until it is deemed safe for them to continue," said President Cyril Ramaphosa.
That disappointment translates to continued starvation of the staple diet for those of us who worship at the altar of football.
The withdrawal symptoms of being inside a colourful cauldron dressed up in carnival atmosphere, pregnant with expectation of an impending mother of all humdingers.
Especially when the terraces are full to the brim and an ambience for the ages is created.
The electric atmosphere.
Those graduation gowns in the colours of the clubs some fans garb in. They must be light like a feather when your team wins and heavy as lead when they have suffered a humiliating drubbing.
Oh the stadiums.
The banter between rival fans.
The smell of pap and vleis or chicken or wors.
The frown of stubborn security guards blocking an arrogant "do you know who I am" peacock who drives a German SUV and demands to park in the VIP section, even though he doesn't have a ticket.
Oh the stadiums
The cathedrals where a chorus of delirium is a constant companion of goal celebration.
Football is for the fans, or soccer is for the spectators. Whichever tickles your fancy it would be.
The cellular (nip of brandy).
The crazy cabbage-munching fans.
The mock coffins.
The queues at the turnstiles. The queues to the toilets.
The only queues one gets exposed to now are the ones enforced by the new ways of living. Jumpers.
They come out of their cars, walking while facing down on their smartphones, pretending to be oblivious of the obvious queue and walk straight to the door.
They feign surprise when the ever- vigilant trolley collector alerts them of their mishap and nudges them nicely in the direction of the long line.
Sporting events will be allowed when it is deemed safe.
And that is a sensible thing to do under the circumstances we are confronted with.
When it is allowed, the stadiums will be empty as it is highly likely that games will go on behind closed doors.
It will rob soccer of its soul.
Because football is about the cheers and the jeers. The oohs and aahs.
Shouting.
Swearing.
Sweating.
Nail-biting. Edge of the seat. On your feet. Without bums on the seat, the game is lifeless. It has no soul.
But life as we know it is being stripped of the very soul as the coronavirus continues to mercilessly rip at the heart of humanity.
Stadiums are being prepared to serve as field hospitals as SA prepares for a devastating blow.
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