Another favourite was to make you run the 50 metres with another boy sitting on your shoulders and then swap you around and so on. At the end you were absolutely exhausted and could hardly stand. Another much-loved punishment was to make you run 400 metres with two bricks on your head in under two minutes and fifteen seconds, otherwise you had to start all over again. Of course it was impossible: the more tired you became the more chance you had of dropping the bricks and the slower you went. The genius behind the punishment was in setting the time limit according to the slowest child. If the slowest child did not make it everyone had to start again. It was a surreptitious way of getting children to care about one another and particularly of getting them to work together and help the weakest link. At the end of these sessions we were all shattered and desperate to go back to bed, but by then it was time for school. Luckily, at that age your strength returns quite quickly.
I found the written punishment more difficult than the physical ones. The prefect in charge would write a topic on the blackboard, but we were forbidden to name the topic in the thousand words we were required to write. The more absurd the topic the better, for example 'The Six Lives of a Ping Pong Ball' or 'The Story of the Mongolian Mouse and the Turtle'. A further dimension to the punishment which proved popular with the prefects was to oblige us to write every fifth line in Chinese – a nice touch, but impossible for most of us. My worst punishment ever was being ordered to 'Describe an object that is colourless, odourless and shapeless without using any of these words'. To complicate matters the prefects actually read our essays, and so if we made a mistake or went off the topic, or were a bit too smart, we would then be given two thousand words to complete for the next day. It was a no-win situation.
Sometimes the prefects punished us with the equivalent of community service. We had to stay indoors and paint the doors, sand the tables, or carry out any leftover tasks that needed to be completed. I far preferred physical punishment to the other types of task.
Every year, the eve of our first day at school was reserved for the Standard Six 'Walking the Table'. The event took place in our Honours Hall, which was formerly the dining room and still boasts long tables with benches alongside them. All the boys crowd into the room and then line one of the long tables on either side. The new kids – the Standard Six children – then make their entrance one by one and are obliged, alone, to walk barefoot the length of the table. It is a frightening moment, as you are a newcomer and know no one. Once you get to the end of the table you are instructed to tell a joke, but this, it turns out, merely prolongs the mockery at your expense: no one laughs, and once you have been duly informed that your jokes are rotten you are asked to try harder or to lift your T-shirt and show off your muscles. If you refuse the other boys jump onto and around the table and scare you witless threatening you (I am sure you can imagine the noise that 150 boys can make crowding around a table). I found the experience terrifying, but thereafter you are accepted as one of them into dormitory life.
In order to mark their arrival at the senior school, all the Standard Six boys go away together on a camping weekend at the beginning of the year. It is an initiation into the ways of the school. The prefects have free rein and they certainly put us through the mill. We were woken up in the middle of the night as they screamed at us and then drenched us with buckets of freezing water. I remember one boy who had a broken leg in a cast being chucked into the swimming pool as he confused some of the lyrics while singing the school hymn. It was wild.
We were all in tears and pleading to go home. I remember the older boys yelling at us and asking us who we thought we were. Did we think we were adults? Did we think we were young men? 'Make a point of watching your step, young boy. This is serious, respect the rules because if you don't you will be punished!' They set us all sorts of different tests: one was an obstacle course, while another involved being dropped off in a field seemingly in the middle of nowhere, equipped with nothing but a compass, the task being to work your way back to the camp within a certain time frame. It was really tough, but in my opinion the experience was character-building.
I was still a lightweight at that age and I found the older boys terrifying. The rough language and abrasive approach were so intimidating. Some of them were huge burly rugby players who weighed up to 100 kilos; to us they seemed almost superhuman.
In my last year in the dormitory I became responsible for the first-year students. They slept in dormitories of twenty children per room, with a small adjoining room with a cupboard and a desk for the person overseeing them. Lights out was nine o'clock, but they were allowed to talk to one another until ten, when silence became obligatory. On the whole the children were well behaved and respectful of the rules, and always generously shared with me the endless supply of treats their mothers sent to them. Mothers have a tendency to spoil their sons rotten when they first leave home.
Over and above taking care of the dormitory the older children were expected to mentor the younger children and look out for them generally. In principle the older boy must advise and support the younger, and should be there to help him should he experience any problems or difficulties at school. This system of mentoring, also known as fagging or skivvying, has plenty of advantages for the older child as well. I remember with great affection a little boy called Allan Burnett who was my skivvy. He used to sleep closest to my door; if I became hungry during the evening or when I was studying late, all I had to do was call his name and he would wake up and bring me a coffee with cookies. When I needed to stay up late to study but found myself falling asleep, I would wake him. We would chat a bit, I would have a break and a snack, and then he could go back to bed and I would continue studying. In return I was responsible for Allan: I helped him with his homework wherever possible and went to support him when he played in sports matches. Many schools no longer use the fagging system, but I think it is a fantastic way to mentor children, ensuring that they have the support of someone who has already been through the same experiences. It is a little like having a big brother. Of course, one has to make sure that the system is not abused, but when it is correctly and sensitively handled I think there are significant advantages for everyone involved.
Chapter 5
The Coldest
Summer
IN MY FIRST YEAR at Pretoria Boys' High I played cricket. I was eager to try rugby but slightly apprehensive as I had never played before (my junior school had not had a rugby field). By my second year I had grown in confidence, so I decided to substitute rugby and water polo for cricket and tennis and I have never looked back. I did not do athletics, but loved long-distance running. My preferred distance was 10 kilometres, and I was helped by the fact that I was using much lighter prostheses. Chris Hatting, a friend of my father's, designed the prostheses. Chris was an aeronautical engineer obsessed with design; he had begun to produce the prostheses towards the end of 2001. They were handcrafted, relatively short and shaped like hooks; as they were still at a fairly early stage of development they frequently broke, but I used them until at least June 2004.
Pretoria Boys' High hosted a range of endurance races: one was called 'The Ten Kilometre Classic', another 'the King of the Mountains'. I was very competitive and generally finished within the top ten or fifteen in the school. I had become very fit as I cycled a lot. While I lived at my father's I often cycled to school and back, a distance of 24 kilometres. I was never part of the school cross-country team, but the only reason for this was the importance the sporting officials at the school placed on focus and training: they believed that it was more important truly to excel in one or two chosen sports than to be merely good at five or six sports. Excellence was their priority, and indeed by my penultimate year at the school three boys had qualified for national level athletics, five were playing in the Springbok under-nineteens rugby team and many more were playing at provincial level. We were semi-professional sportsmen, not just all-rounders. My strengths were rugby and water polo, to which I was to
tally committed. I was continually striving to better my achievements.
I adored rugby and thoroughly enjoyed playing it. I was never shy to exploit the fact that some boys were nervous or frightened of my prostheses. I remember one match that I played in Johannesburg: I was running with the ball and my opponent was nervous of tackling me, but eventually he pushed me forward and I duly fell over and lost a leg in the process. I just carried on as I was determined to keep the ball in play, and so I hopped over the line, but this guy kept on pushing me. This time I punched him, drawing applause from my friends, and then put my prostheses back on and calmly scored a try. I really savoured that moment of victory and was delighted when the coach scolded my opponent for his behaviour.
Running was part of my rugby training. In addition to your chosen sports training programme, Pretoria Boys' High had four obligatory track races per week. There were always boys milling around the dormitories who did not have sport that day or who had already finished training, and at such moments we were all packed off to the tracks to practise running. Our school's sporting routine was intense but without doubt it produced some fine athletes. My rugby team, for example, was made up entirely of boarders, and this was probably because the training was so hard and concentrated that it was much easier to live on the school grounds; boarding also gave the pupils ready access to all the useful material support.
In November 2001 my mother remarried.
At first my mother's decision hit my brother Carl really hard. She had always promised that she would never remarry unless she met the perfect man and even then she would do so only with our consent. For many years she had been as good as her word, despite a steady flow of suitors through the door. She was a real lady, and her views were traditional in just about every respect: she would never have agreed to live with someone or have them stay over, since for her it was important to do things properly, for which I have always respected her. We were already living at boarding school by this point, and so I was completely taken by surprise when, without any warning, she took us aside and told us her plans. Carl felt betrayed, and his initial reaction was to storm out in fury, leaving my mother in tears. Aimée and I felt rather awkward to begin with, but we were soon reconciled to the idea of her remarrying: we were happy to know that somebody was making her happy. In Carl's opinion, when our parents divorced he became the man of the house and responsible for our wellbeing; the fact that our mother had not made him party to this important change in her life left him feeling slighted. Fortunately for all of us, although Carl can be hot-headed and tends to be frank in the expression of his opinion, he isn't a man to dwell on life's problems, and so by the time of our mother's wedding he had come round to the idea and understood her decision. In fact, he took my mother's new husband – a pilot by profession – to his heart and to this day they remain close friends.
The summer after their wedding, and again without warning, my mother fell ill and was hospitalised. Her illness was virulent and complicated by an initial misdiagnosis. Her health deteriorated extremely rapidly and she passed away just one month later. The doctors initially diagnosed her with hepatitis. Carl had been ill with it not long before, and she was showing similar symptoms. When the treatment brought her no relief it became clear that they had to do further tests; however, by the time the correct diagnosis was made it was too late.
During her stay at the hospital we would often be summoned by friends and relatives telling us that she had taken a turn for the worse and that we should come to the hospital, but each time this happened she seemed to pull through and begin to recover. These false alarms happened so often that we eventually became inured to them; it never occurred to us that she might not get better.
I remember the day my mother died very clearly. It was 6 March 2002. I have since had this date tattooed alongside her birth date on my arm, my only tattoos. That day I was at school in a history lesson when the school principal interrupted the class to tell me I had ten minutes to collect my things; my father would be waiting for me at the school gate. Carl and I arrived at the gate just in time to witness my father driving his enormous Mercedes towards us at breakneck speed. It was clear that something was not right: he was shouting at us to hurry up and get in, and seemed to be on the verge of tears. Although my parents had been divorced for years they still felt great affection for one another. All of our closest friends and family were at the hospital, and it became increasingly obvious that this day was different and that my mother was very close to death. We were rushed into her room to be by her side, and ten minutes later she left us.
It was a very distressing moment. She could no longer recognise us as she had slipped into a coma, and she was heavily intubated as her organs were failing. It broke my heart to see her this way. She no longer looked like herself.
Initially I thought I handled her death pretty well. I was the only one who was not crying and I helped to comfort my brother and sister. After the funeral I decided to return to school. I told everyone I was fine, but what I did not realise was that I was desperate to get back into my routine and to a world where my days were structured. Only a few of my classmates knew about my loss; this suited me, as it kept the questions to a minimum. Everything seemed under control, but then I woke up the next morning in floods of tears. I had completely lost my bearings. I went to stay with a friend for a couple of days as I had lost all interest in my school environment. I would then recover my composure and return to school, only to be stricken by my grief once again and have to go and stay with someone else. It was awful.
Sport was my salvation, as it helped me to get through this difficult time. My mother had been a strong woman, the centre of my world. Sporting activity was the only thing which could distract me from such a loss.
After our mother's death we spent weekends at our Aunt Diane's house. Diane is my mother's sister, and Aimée lived with her while she finished school in Johannesburg. For a couple of years, Carl and I were rather like rudderless boats – effectively homeless, floating between boarding school, Diane's house and the houses of our closest friends.
Carl and I used to run together. He was faster than me, but he would encourage me endlessly and spur me on. Carl has always had a soft spot for extreme sports. Even when we were boys he used to make fun of my playing cricket, asking me what on earth was keeping me on a sports pitch when I could be canoeing down rivers or waterskiing. His first love was, and remains to this day, motor racing.
In the months following my mother's death we became keen to assert our independence. As a result, when Carl was still only seventeen he bought his first car. I thought it was a beautiful car – a small white Golf, in which he had made a point of installing a fantastic sound system. We were elated to be free (or almost, as in South Africa eighteen is the legal age for a driving licence). I was only fifteen, but every now and then Carl, being the fantastic big brother that he is, allowed me to drive around the streets of Pretoria with the music blaring.
Nothing could have prepared me for my next traumatic, life-changing event. On 21 June 2003 I was playing rugby when I was tackled with what is commonly called a 'hospital pass'. I never even saw it coming. A hospital pass is a high pass that earned its particular name from the high probability that it would land you in a plaster cast or even a hospital bed. I was playing on the wing. A high ball came my way, and as I stopped and then jumped to catch it, I was tackled from either side by two enormous players. They simply slammed into me, one on the left and one on the right. I felt a sharp pain, and when my body finally hit the ground I saw that my left leg was sticking out all askew. It did not look good, but I assumed (or hoped) that it was just my prosthesis. At least they were relatively easy to fix.
As you may know, rugby in South Africa is more a religion than a sport. Fathers pass their teams down to their sons and it is all taken very seriously. The majority of the fathers come to watch the matches, and so there is often a beer tent by the field. They can drink as they egg their sons on, and
inevitably they often become rowdy and boisterous. That afternoon one of the spectators started goading me to stand up and 'stop behaving like a girl'. Not wishing to be seen as a sissy, I pulled myself up but was in a lot of pain. Somehow I managed to finish the match and pedal the 6 kilometres home. The next day I woke up with a very swollen and bruised knee. I could hardly move, and soon found myself back in the care of Gerry Versveld. It looked like my sporting days were over. I was only sixteen.
Chapter 6
The First Time
SO THERE I WAS, back in Gerry Versveld's office. We had never lost touch, but it had been a while since we had last seen one another, and he knew nothing of my sporting successes. When I told him that I had hurt myself playing rugby he was astounded and burst out laughing. My morale was low, and I could not see what there was to smile about.
Gerry was able to heal me without the need for any surgical intervention, and he further reassured me that if I followed instructions and respected my rehabilitation process of low-intensity gym workouts and aerobic training in water, I would soon be able to return to sport. After three long months of enforced inaction and rest, I began my physiotherapy at the Sports Science Institute, which is part of the University of Pretoria. I was placed in the care of Heinrich Nolte, who advised me to concentrate on sprinting, which is apparently the best way to regain functionality in the knee joint. He put me in touch with Ampie Louw, who was coaching athletics at university level. I was sceptical about the arrangement as I had never had an affinity for athletics, and I even tried to pull out, but was duly informed by Nolte (whose opinion was supported by all my sporting heroes) that if I wanted to be ready and perform in the next rugby season (which was due to begin the following April), I needed to do as instructed and start sprint training. I acquiesced, and my training with Ampie began on 1 January 2004.
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