New Springbok coach Jake White is a great motivator. He’s a student of the game. He’s a thinker, a facilitator, a mover, a groover, a philosopher-king. But consider this, in light of the state of South African rugby: Is there anything a modern Springbok coach can do that a trained chimpanzee can’t?
Which is not to question Mr White’s godlike qualities as expounded by the South African Rugby Football Union (Sarfu) Director of Rhubarb, Heartthrob Petersen. Indeed, trained chimps can do more than most of us. For instance, they can put whole oranges in their mouths.
They were even trained to pilot space capsules in the Mercury programme, and while teaching Percy Montgomery to run in a straight line has its own unique challenges, it can’t quite compete with toggling the retrothruster programme sequence during manual oblique re-entry through million-degree plasma.
Frankly, the appointment of White is rampant speciesism, and simian liberation has been dealt a grievous blow. Rugby’s administrators will never know the broad, sunlit uplands they might have entered had they overcome their outmoded attitudes to the big apes and appointed a four-year-old chimp called, say, Mr Bojangles.ÂÂ
For one thing, Mr Bojangles would have demanded physical respect from his team. An angry Nick Mallet with brows in full beetle is one thing, but having a coach who can tear one’s arm off at the shoulder and who flies into screaming rages every time his favourite beach ball deflates, is something else altogether. That’s real respect.
Mr Bojangles would work for bananas and sleep in a nest of straw in the Sarfu broom cup- board, freeing the union to divert the millions they would have paid White to lure back the fans. Paying them to watch the Springboks would be a good start.
Naturally there will be nagging doubts about the technical details of a chimp training a squad of rugby players and the possible discrepancy in their motivation. After all, can one trust someone who is paid in fruit to nurture professional sportsmen who play for the love of money? But the question is academic. In a showdown between the Springboks and four chimps, who would you put money on? The prosecution rests, and has a banana.
Mr Bojangles would have been a public relations coup. Just hours into the job he’d have the press corps literally eating out of his hand as he passed around some squashed naartjies and jellybeans: some slightly funky bean-encrusted naartjie pulp couldn’t be more insulting to one’s intelligence than the average press release.
The press conference begins with Mr Bojangles colouring in Ngconde Balfour’s tie with a red crayon before searching Brian van Rooyen’s ear for termites. He finds only a fish moth and is dejected. Pensively he sucks on an e.tv microphone.ÂÂ
What are your plans for the future, coach? Mr Bojangles picks his nose and proffers his findings to the SABC cameraman. Fortunately he has been taught some rudimentary sign-language, and quickly settles into his inaugural policy speech, Van Rooyen at his side translating.
”Mr Bojangles says, ‘Springbok contingency plan happy happy banana, transformation sticky-tape Pronutro.’ Next question please.”
”What’s he saying now?”
”He’s signing, ‘England backline stinky poo rubbish cupcake.”’
”Cupcake?”
”Alright gents, that’s all for now, the coach needs his nappy changed. Silas, please fetch another cupcake for Mr Bojangles.”
”But he’s still signing! What’s he saying?”
”’Tri-nations kitty doll beach ball cupcake cupcake cupcake.’ Mr Bojangles, get down from there! I promise your cupcake is on its way. Security, please fetch Mr Bojangles’s little sleepy-sleepy darts and the g-u-n. Thank you gents, that will be all.”
At least the sport’s power-brokers in business and government and away from all accountability would finally have a coach that looked the part. After all, they think the players and the public are monkeys, so why not give them one of their own?