Intellectual combat with Buster Koekemoer

WHEN it comes to humour, few sectors can equal the stories of hilarity sport and sport people bring forth.

So, with all sport in lockdown because of the coronavirus crisis, it is perhaps a good time to fill the sport pages with some humorous reminiscing of the past.

We invite all local sportsmen and -women to share their hilarious moments on and off the field over the next couple of weeks, which we can publish.

Email contributions to zulobs@zob.co.za

To get the ball rolling….
As a young sport writer in Pretoria in the seventies, I also played rugby (at loose-forward) for Harlequins in the Northern Transvaal club rugby league.
Pretoria Rugby Club, just across the road, was Quins’ arch-enemy, so matches between these two ‘Boere vs Engelsmanne’ sides tended to be more testosterone-fuelled and testy than usual.

Mutual intimidation tactics, as any rugby player will know, at some point might involve, among others, cheap snide remarks about opposition players (scummy players go as far as dragging in the spouses and family as well), to encourage crazed stupidity and violent, aggressive responses attracting penalties and points.

So it was that a Pretoria lock, clearly of limited intellect, decided upon this form of juvenile bullying, addressing me in demeaning manner at every line-out during one of our Loftus Versveld encounters.

Being of superior intellect, I of course simply ignored, with contempt, his futile attempts of getting under my skin – until….

The match was played on the Loftus B field, divided from the C field by a wide grassy strip on which hundreds of supporters milled about at close quarters.

It was a rainy day.

Eventually, quite late in the game, blabbermouth Buster Koekemoer (can’t recall the man mountain’s real name, but this is close enough), received the ball while charging down the touchline. For defenders, the touchline is the sweet spot from where offensive runners have no escape.

Perfectly positioned, I was embraced by joy. Happiness loomed. Not for me the crude method of combat babble. My upcoming bone-jarring crash-tackle would do the talking and settle the score.

Noticing me homing in like an Exocet missile, Buster (the coward) wildly flung the ball inside to avoid the mother of all collisions.
Being still a few metres away and now obviously in penalty zone, my superior intellect inexplicably evaporated.

I had come too far and no such golden opportunity would again present itself.
I took him – hard – the best tackle I have ever executed. He folded like a rag doll and we ploughed into the crowd.

This is where Murphy stepped in – probably as punishment for my transgression.

We landed in a heap right at the feet of Buster’s mother and girlfriend-cum-wife, who – fleetingly judging the two books by their covers I must confess – were clearly also homo sapiens of limited faculties and therefore ominously unpredictable. And so it was.

‘Jou vuilgat!’ they screamed and set upon me with their umbrellas.
What was a man to do against two fierce, shrieking banshee women brandishing dangerous traditional weapons?

I fled… back onto the playing field where the ref would keep me safe. I didn’t mind his penalty finger and stern expression.

The final score? Buster Koekies 1, Superior Intellect 0.

HAVE YOUR SAY

Like our Facebook page and follow us on Twitter.

For news straight to your phone invite us:

WhatsApp – 072 069 4169

Instagram – zululand_observer