So much has happened in the past 20 years it seems scarcely believable that it has been that long since South Africa’s greatest sporting triumph, the 1995 Rugby World Cup.

The anniversary will be commemorated on Wednesday when, fittingly, available members of that most special group of men will reconvene at their field of dreams, Ellis Park.

As anniversaries go, there are none better.

June 24, 1995. It was the most beautiful of days. Johannesburg, and indeed the whole of South Africa, was in festival mood as rugby fever swamped every corner of the country. For once, the Rainbow Nation stereotype held true: blacks and whites lined the streets roaring on the team bus from Sandton to Doornfontein, deep in Joburg’s mean streets. As the warm winter sun beat down, people danced and sang and cheered.

The stadium heaved in anticipation and when Captain Laurie Kay broke every aviation rule in the book by sweeping low over Ellis Park in a SAA Jumbo, the earth shook mightily. But that was nothing compared to the arrival of Nelson Mandela.

A year after South Africa had become a democracy, it was a grand gesture by the noble old man. Wearing Francois Pienaar’s No 6 jersey was a masterstroke and moments after the president was led onto the field, the largely white Afrikaner crowd began the chant: “Nelson! Nelson! Nelson!”

One team, one country indeed.

It was a staggering moment, easily the greatest in World Cup history, which demonstrated the majesty and power of sport. Sean Fitzpatrick, the captain of the Boks’ supreme rivals, the All Blacks, admits that his heart sank at that very moment: it wasn’t just “Suzie”, the mystery waitress; the most revered man on earth was on the opposing team.

The final was played at great pace and intensity. Only two players scored: Andrew Mehrtens for New Zealand and Joel Stransky for South Africa. The scores were locked at 12-12 after 80 minutes. For the first time, a final had to use extra time.

Seldom mentioned in all the nostalgic talk is the role of Kitch Christie, the coach who died three years after engineering the Boks’ famous win. It was Luyt who plucked him from obscurity in Pretoria’s Carlton League and gave him the job at Transvaal, with the Boks in the grand plan.

Christie didn’t suffer fools. He cared little for politics and posturing. His method was rooted in unmatched fitness. The players were drilled endlessly for he knew that when it mattered it would be the players with the deepest reserves who prevailed.

And so it proved.

Two minutes into the second half of extra-time, the Springboks won a scrum call in the All Blacks’ 22m area. Pienaar called a backrow move, but Stransky famously overruled him.

Joost van der Westhuizen shot out the pass, Stransky righted himself and banged over a beauty with Mehrtens unsuccessfully racing up to try and stop him – 15-12.

History tells us that the Boks held firm, even keeping out the monstrous Jonah Lomu, and pandemonium reigned the second referee Ed Morrison blew the final whistle.

It was the start of the mother of all parties, interrupted only by the iconic moment of Madiba, No 6 shirt on his back and Protea cap on his head, handing Pienaar the Webb Ellis Cup. Had you to frame a single image of South Africa as paradise, this would be it: resplendent, proud, unified.

I wrote through tears that day, having cried like a baby at the reality that we were world champions.

That wonderful day was a tipping point for rugby, but sadly the magnanimity of Madiba was never repaid. Rugby failed to harness the goodwill demonstrated by millions of black people, chiefly when Louis Luyt took Mandela to court, and the game’s relationship with the populace at large remains, for many, fractured and fallible.

We all thought the country was on its way – naively, perhaps – but for a few weeks at least we were offered a glimpse of what the New South Africa could, and should, be like.

Sadly, the public warmth and generosity were frittered away. We battle on.

But we will always have that day to remind us how great we could have been. – © Sunday Tribune