You Should Know Better

If I was expecting sympathy when I hobbled in the front door having just had my end-of-term staff hockey game against the Sweet Valley staff abruptly terminated, it certainly was not forthcoming. I should have known better. In fact, those were the same words which Pippa uttered when she saw me – but I suspect that she had another interpretation in mind.

KCR at the goal mouth ...

‘Acute tear of the hamstring’ was the prognosis from an unfeeling Mark Nathan when I crawled to his physio rooms the next day. ‘Did you stretch before the game?’

I started to explain that I come from a generation of hockey players who ran up and down the field a few times before a match, hit a number of desultory balls to one another and then finished up the warm up listening to team-mate, Denis Steyn, sum up the opposition by reminding us, yet again, that ‘Man-with-no-knees-can’t-play-hockey’. Then off we went to battle – but never forgetting to wish the umpire a pleasant match and remind him that we would be buying him beers after the game.

‘You should have known better,’ Mark said and it was clear that he was unimpressed by my long-outdated method of warming-up.

His response was becoming a common refrain.

I wonder how often that has been said to me in my teaching career? However, I do find it difficult to say no to what seems like a good idea at the time. ‘Wouldn’t you like to be a guest DJ at the Night of the Stars?’ said Gail Bevan to me some years back with a sweet engaging smile at one of the planning meetings. ‘My son, Judd, will set up the music and teach you the moves.’

I can never resist a sweet engaging smile and signed up. Judd proved to be a ruthless taskmaster. He insisted that my idea of playing Cliff Richard and the Shadows would not go down well and that I must learn how to scratch while throwing my arms in the air. Fortunately his interpretation of scratching was not what I thought when he first raised the term. He then brought me a selection of garments, wigs, glasses which I looked at with suspicion.

‘I am not wearing all that,’ I said. ‘I will just look like an idiot.’

'Rock DJ'

He was a true Wynberg gentleman. He just raised a quizzical eyebrow and didn’t say anything.

Many families from the area and our feeder junior schools normally attend Night of the Stars and thousands pass through the gates during the course of the evening. To this day, I still wonder how many mothers were put off coming to Wynberg by the apparition behind the turntables that evening.

The itch to 'scratch'

My son was mortified during the week afterwards. ‘They were talking about you at Varsity,’ he said. ‘Do you know how embarrassing it is?’

Now even my own son has joined the long queue of people who have told me that I should have known better.

I can categorically say, though, that I HAVE learnt my lesson when it comes to singing. After ruining Carole King’s beautiful song ‘You’ve got a Friend’ at this year’s Concert in the Quad, I won’t be EVER attempting something like that again. Yes, I agree, I should have known better and listened to our Director of Music, Brian Botha….

Years ago, when I was teaching at Plumstead High School, I was invited to perform the role of Officer Krupke in the school’s production of West Side Story produced by a staff member, Patty van Biljon. One of the leads was played by Paul Buckby and the role no doubt catapulted him later into a career on stage and TV where he became an actor well known to South African audiences. My role was a small one and I disgraced myself on the opening night by missing one of my entrances as I was chatting to Ollie Kemp in his PE room behind the stage. We were discussing the state of the world and I was clearly engrossed in the debate.

‘How could you?’ said an exasperated Patty van Biljon at the interval. ‘You are worse than the kids.’

This was just yet another variation of ‘You should have known better’.

I am a fast learner and didn’t miss any further entrances over the next two performances.

It was round about the same time when I was asked to be organising secretary for the annual Nuffield Cricket Week which was being held in Cape Town that year. At the final dinner at the Old Mutual in Pinelands with all the players, coaches and officials in attendance, I had been delegated the task of closing the dinner with a few words of advice, thanks and wishing everyone a bon voyage home for Christmas.

I travelled to the dinner with fellow committee member, Bruce Probyn – who had also been in that production of West Side Story and would be my predecessor as Headmaster of Wynberg – and I was going over my speech in the car. He suggested that it would be a nice touch for the upcountry folk if I delivered some of my address in Afrikaans.

My response, as expected, was immediate and positive. As usual, it was given with little thought. ‘Good idea,’ I said and with the help of Bruce, promptly started planning something. He had farmed before coming back into teaching and had a plethora of agricultural expressions which we had great fun trying to weave into cricketing terms – not many of which were appropriate to a schoolboy cricket dinner. I was scheduled to be the final speaker and by that stage of the evening had repeatedly gone over what I was intending to say – so did not feel the necessity for notes. A fateful decision. I gave my bilingual address, offered advice liberally (in Afrikaans) and wished everyone well for the festive season. I sat down to polite clapping.

‘Not bad,’ said Bruce cryptically as I was basking in the applause. ‘Just a pity that you did not have a single verb in the Afrikaans part of your speech.’

‘What made you do that?’ said David Craig, the Chairman of the organising committee, giving yet another variation of ‘You should have known better’. ‘You could only throw your name away pulling off a stunt like that.’

Is this the right time, many years later, to point out that some of the players must have been listening to my advice, albeit in anglicised agricultural Afrikaans, because a number of them from that Nuffield Week went on to play for South Africa or coach internationally – Daryll Cullinan, Allan Donald, Gary Kirsten, Lance Sherrell, Mickey Arthur, Paddy Upton and Clive Eksteen. I will take all the credit!

‘Are you sure that you want to go through with this?’ said Pippa as I was leaving with hockey stick in hand to join the staff team on the Bergvliet astroturf for the Sweet Valley match. ‘I won’t be coming to watch. I will wait for the call from the hospital.’

Muttering about women of little faith, I arrived to find Rob McLean running up and down the side of the field. ‘What are you doing?’ I said. ‘It is only a social game.’

‘I need a good 20 minutes warm-up,’ the current South African Masters canoeist said, ‘otherwise I am bound to pull something.’

At this stage, I should have been getting the message. Even our young tearaway, Gregg Davis, a current club player, was gyrating his hips around. ‘Are you really playing with that?’ he said, looking at my well-used decades-old stick suspiciously. Even I had to admit that the wooden antique stick did look somewhat out of place in the company of its Kevlar descendants.

Jason Bright, one of our second team players, was on the turf playing with some friends, so I pulled rank. To his credit, he made no disparaging comment as I exchanged sticks. I think he found his new acquisition quite cute.

The comments did flow once the game started though. Many boys had turned out to watch and the advice was plentiful. Some of the well-intentioned counsel proposed was somewhat injudicious as the boys had clearly forgotten that end of term reports were coming out two days later. Teachers do have long memories and might well remind their charges in class next term of their generous off- the-field verbal offerings.

Wynberg photographer, Tania Robbertze, 'should have known better' than to try capturing speed and agility without a blur

Spurred on with by vocal encouragement of the spectators, first blood went the way of the Wynberg staff. Not long after the first goal, I was given the ball by Gregg Davis. I had acres of space and with visions of glory, I charged off for the opposition goal leaving defenders flailing in my wake – or so I told everyone later. A dummy, a shimmy, a change of pace – and then, crack! I went down in a whirl of floundering limbs and sticks. ‘I think he has been shot - did anyone spot the sniper?’ commented one of the wags as I lay writhing on the ground. At least it was a genuine injury – unlike some of those World Cup soccer players we have been watching on the box recently.

‘Should you really be playing?’ said a concerned spectator after I was helped from the field. I was leaning heavily on the side fencing, clutching my shattered hamstring, wondering how I was going to make it to my car. How many variations are there of ‘You should have known better’?

Back home with a strategically placed ice-pack and with many comments from the One Who Had Foreseen It All ringing in my ear – none of which could be described as sensitive and understanding - I received an sms from a sympathetic Sweet Valley player, Jigger Halkett. He and I have played against and with one another for years. He was with all the players of both sides in the Bergvliet club where they were no doubt discussing the highlights of the game. ‘How is your hammie?’ he asked. ‘It is a cheap round at the moment. You are not here.’

Good thing, too. I might have pulled the other hammie stretching for the glass.