Do not fret. Everything will be in place by 2010. Everything. The stadiums will be in place. The trains and taxis will be in place.
Naturally it is possible that the stadiums will be in place somewhere else, a decimal on the GPS display overlooked, to provide concrete amphitheatres in which demagogue dassies harangue termites and sun-bleached Pick ‘n Pay packets. It’s also possible that the trains and the taxis will still be in place where they were on delivery in 2007, melted to pitted tar or rusted to warped rails. Possible, but not probable.
No, the World Cup will start and finish in South Africa, more or less on time, depending on how many pedestrians the presidential motorcade wings en route to the stadium. But happen it will, and how we will cheer as we catch a fleeting glimpse, under the armpit of his minder, of our leader’s leopard-skin fez and ivory baton. How beautiful will be the sound of 80 000 voices united in a chorus of “Bring me my machine gun”.
We will be ready to stage the World Cup in 2010. This much is certain. But will we be ready to host it, in the true sense of that word? We adore football; but is it love, or simply pimply lust?
If Sunday night’s effort by the national broadcaster is any indication, we’re still groping with undies in the back seat of our emotional and intellectual jalopy. Indeed, SABC1’s broadcast of the final wasn’t so much a barometer of our readiness as it was a rectal thermometer, exploring dank depths best left unplumbed.
Steve Khompela, coach of the national under-23 football team, seems a sensible man. David Kekana, introduced as a “soccer analyst”, comes across as a similarly straight arrow, even if his title disappointingly turned out not to involve footballers being regressed via hypnosis into a foetal state. Individually, each man possesses some poise, more passion, and an encyclopaedic knowledge of football, ideal for half-time and post-match insights. But nothing even partially sentient could have withstood the lobotomising chute of SABC Sport’s scratching-will-just-make-it-worse studio this past weekend.
Walter Mokoena is young, engaging and lively, with slightly puffy, pleasantly oriental eyes that speak of wit, candour and a teasing, flirtatious sleaziness. He knows football. And he never, ever, shuts up. Walter talks and talks. If there is silence, Walter will fill it. If there is sound, Walter will howl in close harmony. Right now, somewhere in Johannesburg, Walter is speaking. Listen … there he goes now …
All of which is why, after the shootout, as Italy soared on wings of destiny and disbelief, and France skulked about raggedly in the shadows, all we heard was Walter, Steve and David. We should have heard the cheering, and the Verdi pumping through the cordite-singed air, and the short bursts of Roman jubilation as players ran babbling past effects microphones. All we heard was Walter, Steve and David; the former puking words, the latter providing careful, precise and eyeball-shrivellingly dull technical analyses.
Oh, where was the SABC blacklist now, one wondered? Please God, let Walter say something lukewarm about Zimbabwe, and let Snuki lunge for the Big Red Lever. Let silence descend, and let us watch the spectacle sans the pathological verbal muzak.
At last it seemed our wish had been granted. Robert Marawa was waiting outside the stadium, under a fiery shower of pyrotechnics; but then Robert starting talking.
It turns out that French thug de jour Zinedine Zidane, aka Zizou, aka Le Dolt, is no stranger to red cards in World Cups. Indeed, said Bob, recalling a previous sending-off, the Gallic bounder “got two red cards in that match”, presumably for adding insult to injury. But Bob didn’t want to dwell on ugliness. The tournament had been memorable for so much else. Like mass skydiving exhibitions, apparently. “We saw over a million people descending there in Berlin,” revealed Bob, giving us a glimpse into a much more private and compelling tournament, before admitting that there had been “a lot of soccer on the ground”, despite, one assumed, the best efforts of the million paratroops.
And so once again, one must ask: will we be ready intellectually and emotionally to host the 2010 event? “It’s not about the ability to host it,” said Marawa on Sunday night. “It’s about the weather.” So that’s a no, then.