This was rugby at its best. An utterly transfixed crowd being lashed by freezing rain as our fellows kept them out so doggedly; the crowd there 'til the bitter end. Total identification with the team, a hoarse roar at every yard gained, every tackle put in, every line-out forced. This was Horatio on the Bridge, to the laws of rugby union, an epic.
And haunting the mind of all of us old enough to remember it, the spectre of that Currie Cup final of 1956 – our first ever – when, in very similar weather conditions, Northerns (the very same old enemy) were throwing at Peter Taylor's Natal side everything including the kitchen sink in the dying minutes of the game, seeking to rub out our 8-6 lead.
It's history that they managed it – a very dodgy try as injury time ticked away its last few seconds and they took it 9-8 (tries were worth three points in those days). Was it going to happen again?
This was truly desperate stuff. Our defence was absolutely heroic. This was hard, hard rugby, throughout the game. No quarter asked or given. Both sides attacking the gain line; both putting in the most crunching tackles.
Our pack were magnificent. It's difficult to find the right superlative. So starved of possession were the Bulls in the first half that when Morne Steyn did receive, he seemed somewhat surprised and puzzled by this oval object that had landed in his hands.
Our backs were also magnificent, especially under the high ball. The Bulls tried the hoist and chase time after time – the up-and-under, the Garryowen, the skop en donder, as it's variously known – and only once did it half-work. Our fellows were cool as cucumbers, steady as rock, even in that driving rain.
Magnifico! The game proved yet again that strength on paper means nothing. The match is not played on paper but out on the turf, on the day. Eighty minutes decide matters. The side that really wants it generally gets it. I wonder what the bookies are saying about tomorrow week?
Our win last Saturday was celebrated with customary decorum in the Duikers' Club – a bit of high-spirited bok-bok, some Cossack dancing on the bar counter and, er, exotic dancing by the Tattooed Lady. I understand things got a little out of hand in Florida Road.
In fact I understand the ladies of the Pub With No Name are planning a streak down Florida Road next Saturday if we should clinch it against Western Province. It sounds a little alarming but, on the other hand, why not? The fellows will be using their knicker elastic anyway to shoot out the street lights in celebration. Yes, the Florida Road feu de joe. What a way to end a rousing season!
But first the lads have to deliver. There's no reason why they shouldn't. They've got a week now to recover from that cruncher. To get their kop right again, as it was last week. Plummers and the boys have had a fantastic season. Let's keep the focus, end on the highest of high notes. Let's give Florida Road a fright!
'Erewego, 'erewego, 'erewego!
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