We should probably stop sniggering right about now.

Ever since the dawn of professionalism in rugby we’ve been able to crow about the sustained superiority of the southern hemisphere. Our players have always been bigger, faster and more skilled, notwithstanding occasional flurries by England (2003 World Cup) and Ireland (Chicago, last year). Sometimes even Wales and Scotland came to the party.

But the wheel has turned. The rampant All Blacks were famously smashed at Soldier’s Field by Ireland last year and the Springboks limped through Europe, collapsing against Italy, England and Wales. Australia got in on the act, too, losing to England.

For good measure, Wales, Scotland and England all scored wins over Argentina late last year.

It was a far cry from events in 2015 when the four Rugby Championship teams reached the semifinals of the World Cup. Teams from the north were dire.

It’s not just that northern hemisphere teams have caught up; some appear to have edged ahead. England are the obvious example. While they’ve always been big and bruising, Eddie Jones has added invention and imagination to their play. They have a sharp edge to their attack and possess the priceless ability of all good teams of being able to grind out wins under severe pressure, Cardiff last weekend being a case in point.

England’s soft underbelly is gone and in its place is a team that looks ready to face the number one All Blacks front-on. The pity is they won’t get to do so this year.

Ireland’s tactics last November were inspired. Whereas they normally bag any three points on offer, they rather kicked to touch and used their maul to break down the All Blacks. Their attitude at the breakdowns was telling: they were physically dominant to the point of being violent, exploiting New Zealand playing with only their fourth and fifth best locks.

The past weekend again offered visceral evidence of teams up north casting off the shackles. France rumbled hard against Scotland and England and Wales dished up a moving feast in the Six Nations. The rise in standards was plain to see. Even France appear to have woken from their prolonged slumber.

Teams like Scotland have often scrapped hard, but they now play with an ambition that will give them a chance against anyone.

The irony of this resurgence is that much has been engineered by coaches from New Zealand and Australia. Jones, born in Tasmania, has had the most impact, transforming bedraggled England into a team banging down New Zealand’s door.

New Zealand’s Joe Schmidt has been the architect of Ireland’s rise and already has two Six Nations trophies in the cabinet.

And Vern Cotter, who will soon succeed Jake White at Montpellier, has given Scotland a sharp edge, as you’d expect from a no-nonsense New Zealander.

Even Wales, who have a local man in charge, admit that Kiwis Warren Gatland and Steve Hansen, who both coached them a few years ago, fundamentally altered their approach.

France’s belated return to the party must also be welcomed.

Once asked why Les Bleus sometimes never turn up, former lock Olivier Magne said, “I am not a psychiatrist”.

This perfectly sums up the French philosophy and ought to frame the challenge that awaits the Boks in mid-year when the Tricolors head our way for three matches. France might be awful. They might be awesome. It depends on their mood.

Yet the heavyweight championship of the rugby world will not be decided in South Africa. It will be decided in New Zealand.

This is because the British and Irish Lions will tour there for the first time in 12 years. Eleven times the pale northerners have taken the long haul down there; 10 times they have lost, the exception in 1971 when John Dawes’ Lions won 2-1.

Gatland will take the coaching reins again after his success in Australia four years ago. He has an embarrassment of riches to choose from. If he gets his selections right and suffers no major injuries, Gatland will ensure none of his New Zealand countrymen are able to sleep easily.

The beasts from the north are at our door.

What will we do? – © Sunday Tribune

 

 

 

 

Twwo years ago, there they all were, gathered at Ellis Park to commemorate the marvellous triumph of 1995.

Joost van der Westhuizen, already ailing and emaciated, had sworn he would be there with his teammates to honour the memory of the great day the Springboks outmuscled the All Blacks.

Van der Westhuizen arrived on the pitch in a wheelchair, as he had promised. There were gentle pinches of his shoulder from his warrior teammates; some embraced him. He squeezed out a smile each time.

“Yster,” said Chris Rossouw as he held him close. The hooker had beaten cancer. He knew what looming death felt like.

Those who claim there are no second acts in sport won’t have factored Van der Westhuizen in. As a player he was raw-boned, bloody-minded and windgat.

After being diagnosed with motor neuron disease in 2011, his deterioration was devastating. The irony was lost on no-one who knew him. He was the stereotype of masculinity: strong, vris, physical. Those very gifts abandoned him as he succumbed to the cruel, insidious effects of a disease that slowly squeezed the life out of him.

Remarkably, he never lost his spirit. As a player, he always spoke his mind and possessed an impish sense of humour. Interviewing him and engaging with him in recent years, he was much the same.

The spirit that sustained him as a Springbok sustained him as a victim. “I’m glad I got MND,” he told me a few years after being diagnosed. “It made me who I am, it made me who I was supposed to be . . . I don’t take life for granted any more. I was windgat. I got away with plenty, but this has humbled me. In the past, people praised me, begged for my autograph. I could do what I liked.”

Van der Westhuizen was a powerful symbol of MND, his J9 Foundation becoming a lodestar for sufferers. He lent his voice and stature to the cause even as the disease tore at his body.

He took 40 tablets each day, plus two injections. One bag of vials cost R60 000, and he needed two bags every month. He tried every manner of treatment, at one time taking two daily doses of Tasmanian goat serum at £200 a shot. He consulted medical experts the world over.

Rugby’s beloved brotherhood helped him endure his battle. Businessman Gavin Varejes, who started the SA Rugby Legends, discreetly helped pay for his care for many years. Srumhalves George Gregan, Justin Marshall and Matt Dawson and Bok wing James Small would drop whatever they were doing to fly out to support causes in Van der Westhuizen’s name. Fiercely competitive in their prime, they were only ever noble in backing their old rival.

A few years ago, a function was held in London to raise funds for the J9 Foundation. Shane Warne asked how he could help.

“An hour in the nets,” someone suggested.

“What if no-one bids?” the cricket great asked.

He needn’t have worried. There was a frenzy with one punter stumping up the equivalent of R150 000 for an hour of Warne’s wizardry.

The last time I interviewed van der Westhuizen was at Varejes’ office in Sandton. His tongue’s muscle function had almost completely seized up. His words came out as a slurred jumble. But he smiled and laughed; his turquoise eyes still burned bright.

Two weeks earlier the SA Rugby legends had hosted an event with the like of John Smit and Krynauw Otto. Van der Westhuizen arrived in his wheelchair. Later, away from the wisened players sharing beers and laughs, he retched in a flower bed. He was rushed to ICU that same night.

A year after he first started getting pains in his hand, in 2009, I asked Van der Westhuizen if he would give a talk at my son’s school on the East Rand. He couldn’t have been more obliging. He gave a warm-hearted speech and later stood around making small talk with wide-eyed kids and grateful parents.

Having always taken a liking to sportsmen who emerged from the working class, I warmed to Van der Westhuizen even more. Humility had begun to creep into his personality.

As his illness raged, his very own children became his raison d’être. They spurred his brave fight against MND.

He told the story of how his young son would watch his heroics on YouTube. “Daddy, is that why everyone wants a photo taken with you, because you were the best Springbok?” little Jordan asked.

His life was punctuated with headlines as much as trylines. Van der Westhuizen lived the celebrity life and, almost inevitably, he got caught in a sordid honeypot episode in the late 2000’s.

He endured it manfully, but it was a damaging episode. “My biggest challenge was to forgive myself, to take responsibility,” he told me. “All the shit I caused was in 2006, but it only came out in 2009.  I had to make peace. Only when you forgive yourself can you open yourself up to others. It made me realise who I am.”

Van der Westhuizen’s death this week at the age of 45 was another savage blow to the legacy of 1995 with coach Kitch Christie, flanker Ruben Kruger and superstar Jonah Lomu all having succumbed.

Two years ago, in a cameo faithfully captured on film, the great Lomu went to visit Van der Westhuizen at his home. It was the coming together of two old warriors, both in rapid decline.

The majesty of the moment was reflected in a beautiful, touching exchange. “Take care, my friend,” said Lomu, who then bent down to kiss him on top of his head. “Love you.”

Months later, Lomu was dead.

Van der Westhuizen wasn’t frightened by his own looming death. He had come to terms with it and embraced its inevitability.

“I’m proud of what I did, for my parents, my kids and my country,” he said.

Having borne his illness with magnanimity, his legacy is profound. Van der Westhuizen was a magnificent Springbok who became a magnificent man. – © Sunday Tribune