Deep in the second half in a hair salon

As the All Blacks completed their impassioned haka, and I squinted at the screen trying to work out whether this was a new one, or the same one they always do, I mused on how my viewing of rugby test matches has changed over the course of my odd life. Rugby tests, I will always watch the bloody, stomach-churning things, but where I watch them has changed fundamentally.

There was a time when I would travel cross-country to attend a test match. From my rural stronghold of Port Elizabeth to Cape Town, or from Joburg down to Durban for a hazy weekend of chaos, culminating in a post-match evening of such unwise decisions that even nightclub bouncers, exotic dancers and casino staff start throwing side-eyes. As if to say, “Bro, this is really not a good idea. Don’t you have a bond to pay off?”

Before match scheduling became more copacetic, I would set my alarm for pre-dawn test matches, showing up in sports bars in pyjamas and a dressing gown. Other times, I was on the other side of the aisle, among the jollers who had pushed through from the night before, to be found simultaneously drunk and coffee-tripping, swaying by the bar at 5am, conscious, but no longer able to understand the sport of rugby.

The one time – I think it was that test against Australia where we lost 49-0 – we convened at the Jolly Roger in Parkhurst for kick-off. We commenced drinking beer around 8.30am and cast our fortunes in the hands of the gods. My colleague made it to work on Monday with his head bandaged, and the sheepish demeanour of a man deeply unimpressed with himself.

Perhaps not surprisingly, there was a rugby test in the immediate lead-up to my decision to quit drinking. That state of dogged sobriety lasted about five years, its biggest challenge being – you guessed it – how to watch rugby tests sober. The solution, you’ll be interested to know, is several ironic cups of rooibos tea.

Those test viewings certainly reflected my stage of life, the values that saw me through them, and my negligible responsibilities at the time. This past weekend saw the most eagerly awaited Springbok rugby test of the past four years. My viewing locale and its aftermath spoke volumes for my current circumstances. I watched the Springboks-All Blacks test in a children’s hair salon.

There was a point where I had nursed hopes of getting out of there in time to at least find a likely Spur with the match on the big screen and a crowd of Bok fans to complain about the ref to. Alas, braids take a long time to put in.

I can confirm that it takes three and a half hours to install braids on the head of a six-year-old, which is significantly longer than cornrows. The decision to go braids was what finally torpedoed any slim hopes of a Spur test this time. No, Kurlz & Kutz for the rugby it would be.

To the whining of hair-dryers, the gossiping of hairdressers and some lightie’s game of Minecraft on PS4, myself and another dad on hair duty annexed the TV, displacing some of the Peppa Pig’s mid-period work, and watched the hell out of that rugby test.

He was a black gent in a Bok jersey, me a white guy in casual civvies, and together we lived the rainbow-nation dream of a multi-hued fan base, there between the nail station and the Duplo table in the middle of that hair salon.

“Come on, defence,” we blurted to each other, in between shouts and inarticulate outbursts that scared the small child getting a treatment and some twists.

And then, “Yuss! But that Kolbe is just too good for everybody else,” as he weaved through eight New Zealanders and again failed to find a teammate to pass to.

We started well, and even went a penalty up at the outset. Then a pass from Handre Pollard went wildly astray, and things seemed to go downhill from there. The Pieter-Steph du Toit try gave us a glimmer of hope, but then our own imprecision, All Black urgency and the referee’s point of view conspired to defeat us.

The final whistle blew on a 23-13 Springbok loss. The two of us rugby fans stood awkwardly and put CBeebies back on. My daughter emerged from her chair looking radiant, and I reached for my wallet. Times change. This test would have no boozy aftermath. Perhaps McDonald’s for a Happy Meal.

For more news your way, download The Citizen’s app for iOS and Android.