We could feel the tension as we weaved through the explosion of gold. And, kindly, a couple of white guys downing castles shared their table with us. They were happy to meet some foreigners; even if we were Australians. Milo, the younger of the two, jumped up to include us in the next round and ran off to the bar. The other, who's name passes me by, sat back cigarette in hand as if tranquilly admiring the chaos around him. I looked up at what I could see of the screen; the boys, the boys were just stepping off the bus.
Milo returned with beers in hand and we began a pre-match analysis, 'well most importantly we can't lose', he added, 'we just can't afford it'. There was fear in his voice throughout the discussion. He talked of overrated players, the skill of Mexico and some less than impressive performances from the team in recent years (they haven't qualified for any recent major tournaments). However, a change of manager in the form of Brazilian Carlos Alberto Parreira and his six month training camp in the altitude of Johannesburg with the unfriendly jubalani ball had seen an undefeated run in their last 11 matches and had given rise to hope of success across the nation.
The players simply looked overwhelmed as they marched to the pitch for the ceremonies. Soweto's Soccer City provided the scene. The orange calabash turned yellow for the occasion. Over 90,000 were packed in, most with a vuvuzela. The stadium's design was deliberate: it was a reflection of Africa; the tournament's centrepiece; and a multi-billion Rand investment in a country that faces many crises; including extreme poverty and crime and corruption.
There had been on-going discussion in the press regarding the value of the World Cup considering the scale of investment. But it seemed that on the eve of the opening every South African had found a common ground for approval. Sepp Blatter, the FIFA president, was speaking, though intermittently when he found space between the vuvu blows, and championing Africa. He spoke it was proof South Africa can achieve anything, that to be here tonight was a victory already. The roar in the bar was deafening.
When the new democracy was united under the Springbok banner as they lifted the Rugby World Cup the players didn't know the words to their national anthem. Right now, it seemed every single South African was singing as if they held nothing dearer. Some players had tears rolling down their cheeks as they sang the trilingual tune and I suspected there wasn't a proper dry eye around us either. I had known it already and now I felt it: tonight had stopped being about football a long time ago.
Since the Rugby World Cup 15 years ago the hope of the nation had been in a slow decline because of a primary underlying problem evident in every aspect of life: every South African is still not equal. The laws of apartheid were banished and its physical aspects relegated to the horror pages of history but its influence has continued. Apartheid is not about the physical segregation; that is a by-product. Apartheid is a mentality, a mechanism to “divide and conquer”.
A majority that is oppressed, when united will overcome its oppressor. But a majority segregated further (by family, location, level of darkness) is prevented from doing so. By dividing the black, coloured and Indian populations into multiple miniature faux races the whites were the majority and thus were able to occupy the country. Nelson Mandela turned this around without the logical (seemingly inevitable) repercussion of a civil war and will forever be one of the great men of history. But now it is down to education, time and moments like these to banish apartheid for good.
And as the referee blew his whistle, and the boys kicked off, and the vuvuzelas roared, the country cheered. And there was hope.
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