It is truly sad that much of the national sport sector has also largely been subjected to decline through inept governance.
Rugby and cricket are the exceptions, of course, because we still compete and win against the best in the world.
Although winning on the international stage is somewhat infrequent, soccer is also up there by virtue of its massive support base.
What I’m referring to are boxing, athletics, swimming and tennis, among others.
The older generation will recall the magic days decades ago when these were big news with significant public following.
That is all but gone now.
Apart from individual superstars such as Tatjana Schoenmaker, Chad le Clos and Wayde van Niekerk still keeping a spotlight on the so-called “minor” sport codes, the culture of consistent talent and excellence has gradually disintegrated.
It saddens me that we have reached the stage of reading about some SA boxer listed as a world champion, but have to Google the name to get more information or verify the fact.
Decades ago the media covered boxing extensively. Everybody would have known about him and discuss his next fight prospects around braai fires. Nobody seems to care much anymore.
It depresses me that no South African featured prominently at this month’s Wimbledon or any other Grand Slam tournaments.
And so on.
As a former sport writer, what I almost miss most is the total demise of “rofstoei” (professional wrestling).
Strictly speaking it never was (or is) regarded as a bona fide sport but rather well-rehearsed theatrical circus performances.
But it was entertaining and attracted tens of thousands of fans to tournaments.
Today’s WWE pansies would have had a hard time of it if South Africa’s six-time world super heavyweight champion Jan Wilkens (sixties to eighties) and our masked Apollo had still been around.
They didn’t prance around the ring with microphones in hand trying to whip up fervour with rehearsed pseudo-intellectual babble.
They simply sauntered in, pulverised the opponent for a while, had the customary temporary lapse to work the home fans in a frenzy before turning the tables (obviously), and beating the dastardly foreigner to a pulp before waving to the crowd and going home.
It was an easy (albeit limited) write-up for the sport pages, the only predictable sport which you could actually script before the fight and only adjust here and there afterwards when things didn’t quite go according to plan.
The best part though was writing the preview.
The doyen of pro wrestling promotion at the time, “Oom” Bull Hefer, and Wilkens’ new opponent would march into the offices, pose for a pic with a blonde “poppie” on Bulldog or whatever’s tree-trunk arms and march out.
No interview was ever necessary. “Write what you want,” Oom Bull simply said.
And we did. We creatively invented crazy stuff, liberally quoting Bone Cruncher McFadden or some such about his plans to dismember Wilkens and run off with his wife.
The fanatical fans went gaga and filled the city hall to the brim demanding Bone Crusher’s limbs be torn from his body as retribution for his disrespect (which he never said, of course, but everybody accepted the “rules of engagement”).
Old Jan always obliged, unleashing fire and brimstone while “Oom” Bull happily made music on the till.
Writing about “rofstoei” was the only fabricated nonsense allowed in the newspaper.
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