The incredible Schalk

There are certain things that are non-negotiable in rugby. One of these is that when you run down the tunnel and on to the field you have to look as mean as possible. Scowling is good, as is the 1 000-mile stare and in France it is de rigueur for a forward to already have a little blood dripping from the forehead. This is achieved by head butting the dressing room wall or, in certain cases, one of your own players.

Schalk Burger is different. The South African and international player of the year has all the physical attributes. He’s 1,98m tall, weighs 106kg, possesses hands like dinner plates and a shaggy mane that gives him a tangible presence. Afrikaans is his first language and he was an inmate at Kamp Staaldraad.

What makes him different is that when Burger runs down the tunnel and on to the field he smiles.

Chances are that he doesn’t know this. He probably thinks that he looks as grim and centred as the rest of his team-mates, but he doesn’t. It is crystal clear when you watch Burger play that he is enjoying himself and, since that is supposed to be the main reason that human beings play sport in the first place, that may seem a pointless observation. But anyone who has had their soul put through the wringer by Springbok rugby in the 21st century knows different.

In this country rugby is not meant to be enjoyed: it’s far too important for that.

With Burger being the son of a Springbok of the same name, it would be easy to assume that there was pressure at Paarl Gymnasium, but as has already been suggested, Schalk Burger is different.

‘My dad never interfered in my sport — his big idea was that I must just enjoy myself and play the game as I see it. We all look at things differently and react differently to certain situations and if there was anything it was that he would have preferred me to be a cricketer.”

That’s quite an admission, but Schalk Snr will vouch for its authenticity. At the family wine farm outside Wellington the man who won six caps in the mid 1980s against England and the New Zealand Cavaliers has just built a cricket field. He is busy stocking the pavilion with books about cricket and his first vintage, due out any day now, is a blend called Cricket Pitch Red.

He is immensely proud of his eldest son and, recognising the fact that the demands of professional rugby would end Schalk Jnr’s hopes of playing provincial cricket, he decided to give him a toy. Other parents buy their children ‘Twister” or the latest mountain bike, Schalk Snr built a cricket field so that when his son comes home he can play the game he loves with his mates.

Many of those mates are gifted cricketers. ‘Justin Ontong was my captain at Paarl Gym and he was a big influence on me and we’re still mates. I also hang around with Con de Lange, the WP/Boland all-rounder. During my first year at Maties I was quite close to choosing cricket as my career, but I think those guys who play first-class cricket are out of my league now.”

In much the same way Burger is out of the league of all but a handful of his contemporaries on the rugby field. He may be playing his second-choice sport, but the pace of his progression from teenaged wannabe to 21-year-old icon has been truly remarkable. So just what is it like to be a superstar?

‘You don’t realise it till you walk through a shopping mall and everybody stops you. It’s nice and I try to be natural — I haven’t developed a stock response — and my feeling is that if I perform on the rugby field then [my celebrity] will look after

itself. Being younger than everyone else never really fazed me. I played first-team cricket for my club and rugby at school from the age of 14 and I think that helped a lot in the transition of being with older people.

‘In rugby I did feel a bit uncomfortable in the 2003 World Cup squad, but as soon as you get on the field that falls away because you realise that everyone else is only human.”

That’s an interesting observation because most observers believe that Rudolf Straeuli’s shock tactics prior to taking the Springboks to last year’s World Cup were designed to remove any trace of humanity from the players. The infamous Kamp Staaldraad, with its quasi-militaristic overtones, appeared to have the desired effect for the former coach: it reduced players to automatons and removed character from the equation.

Among the trivial pursuits entered into was a boxing contest, something that really incensed Schalk Snr when he learnt of it. ‘They put Schalk up against one of the senior guys and I believe it was a war. You don’t build spirit like that. He still hasn’t talked to me about it at length, but he will when the time is right.”

By the time the Springboks reached England last month Burger Jnr was ready to open up to Donald McCrae of The Guardian. He said: ‘The worst, for me, was the fact I was made to fight Corné Krige — my captain for Western Province and the Springboks. That was Straeuli’s way. We had to fight. Me and Corné were second up in the ring. The first fight ended in a knockout. What can you do?

‘No one wants to throw the first punch but then Corné gave me a couple of good cracks on the nose. I caught him with a big one and it became a war — three minutes of vicious fighting. A lot of guys got knocked out that day but, with me and Corné, there was no winner. It was just distasteful and meaningless violence. I never want to punch anyone again.”

The emotional scars of the players may have been well hidden, but it was fairly obvious that something odd had transpired when Burger emerged from the two-day camp with a skinhead haircut, like Sampson after his tryst with Delilah. Had Straeuli ordered this tonsorial butchery as a further attempt to homogenise his squad? Apparently not, according to Burger.

‘There were rumours in the camp that Rudolf wanted me to shave it off and I just tried to avoid the issue. But one day I met this kid with cancer from the Reach for a Dream Foundation and they wanted me to shave my hair off to show my support, so I did. I think the idea of Kamp Staaldraad and the way things were structured afterwards was to try and take away the individual flair of the players. We were all drilled a certain way and I think that was reflected in the kind of rugby we played.”

That’s a rather perceptive comment for one so young, one that helps to explain Burger’s meteoric rise through the ranks. Straeuli recognised his talent, but didn’t have the management capability to use it in the right way. Things changed when Jake White took over earlier this year.

White was the coach of the South African Under 21 team that won the World Cup in this country two years ago and he included Burger in his squad despite the fact that he had only turned 19 two months earlier.

White didn’t make the mistake of throwing Burger to the wolves: he used him sparingly off the bench. But when the shock-haired kid came on for the last 20 minutes of the final against Australia it was clear that something remarkable had arrived. Among players two years older than himself, Burger’s upper body strength stood out, as did his apparent inability to feel either pain or fatigue.

So when White became Springbok coach 18 months later he didn’t have to worry about using Burger as an impact player, like some latter-day Bobby Skinstad, he just built his team around the most remarkable talent to come out of the Republic since readmission.

Says Burger: ‘Jake is very different to Rudolf. I suppose you’d call him normal! It’s like being at Western Province where you’re expected to be yourself and your personal life is your own story, as long as you deliver on the field. Hopefully we can just perform on the field for Jake and make him happy for a change.”

White has a huge regard for Burger, something illustrated by a no doubt apocryphal story doing the rounds about a conversation between the coach and his other long-haired prodigy, lock Victor Matfield. Matfield had been sent home from Australia during the Tri-Nations to rest a knee injury, ‘and while you’re at it”, said White, ‘get a haircut”.

‘But why? Schalk’s hair’s longer than mine.”

‘If you can play like Schalk you can have hair down to your arse. Until then, get a haircut.”

Apocryphal the story may be, but it is perhaps no coincidence that since that meeting Matfield has been in the form of his life. Because that’s what great players do: they raise the bar for their contemporaries and make them realise that they have to aim higher.