There are some moments in life where you have to put aside well-honed cynicism and a diligently instilled sense of perspective. So it was for me on Friday. My usual column on politics — Contretemps — was on page 32 of the Mail & Guardian and it argued that, alas, for all the excitement, new infrastructure and unifying veneer of the tournament, it was just that: veneer. The inequality will remain; millions of South Africans don’t have access to sanitation or what you or I would call a proper home.
Written last Monday, in Accra, I felt a tinge of remorse when I re-read the column in the paper on Friday morning: was I pissing on the parade, anti-patriotic even, at a time of such obvious nation-building potential? Of course not; the veneer-inequality analysis is unimpeachable. But, as my father always used to say to me about the operas he took me too as a young boy when I complained about the patent absurdity of the storylines, “opera requires the suspension of disbelief”. So too does the World Cup. And on Friday I suspended my disbelief. As I drove to The Firemans’ Arms, my preferred watering hole for big games, my excitement extended well beyond the thrill the World Cup always provokes.
I chose — actively chose — to succumb to the idea that South Africa — this deeply wounded, divided country — was coming together, if just for one day. Or even one month. There was an undeniable “1994” atmosphere; my eyes misted and throat choked as everyone stood for the national anthem, just as they had on May 10 1994 at Mandela’s inauguration. The Calabash was breathtaking; Bafana Bafana rose to the occasion and Tshabalala’s sweet left foot delivered a delicious moment, as uplifting as it was uproarious. As the game proceeded, I found myself willing a victory with every sinew. They deserve it. The Nation deserves it.
To my surprise, a latent sentimentality had risen up and set up camp within my psyche, which was unquelled by the Mexicans’ equaliser. Thence, on foot to the Greenpoint Stadium. On foot. Walking the mile along Somerset Road was in itself an unprecedented experience: thousands of middle class Capetonians walking. For a whole mile. Not a deluxe 4×4 or people-carrier in sight; nor were we inside a shopping mall. This was Greenpoint not Cavendish Square or Century City. Nor was this the ritual, stylised walk up the mountain on a Sunday morning that people like Judge Dennis Davis use to keep fit. No, this was neither shopping nor leisure. It was walking for functional purpose: getting from A to B. Just like the workers. Admittedly, the destination was not a crap, exploitative and dismally-remunerated workplace but the superlative new stadium, whose location has been the subject of such intense, misguided controversy in the mother city. Misguided because it was always as plain to me as the scowl on Fabio Capello’s brow that there was no other reasonable place to put it. The people who argued for Athlone or Khayalitsha were exemplars of political correctness who simply did not understand the political economy of Fifa’s global game. Nor of South Africa’s stake in it. Whether it has created jobs or other “tangible” benefits is beside the point. What the World Cup gives a host nation, especially a developing one with a new brand that needs strengthening, is a colossal TV advert. It does not come cheap — R60-billion and counting — but it certainly gets the attention of the world. Think how many millions of people watching the two-minute feel-good video insert at the beginning of the opening ceremony — how many millions of dollars was that, alone, worth? And Greenpoint’s is an iconic stadium that provides a global audience with an iconic image of this great city — sea and Robben Island on one side, Table Mountain on the other. As I took my seat, the text messages from friends around the world rained in: it looks spectacular on television! Precisely.
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