Rule Number Six

Perks

There are not many perks in this job of headmastering. One of them, jealously guarded by me, is a parking space outside the front door with an impressive and intimidating ‘HM’ painted in large letters on the tarmac. Various interpretations have been offered over the years suggesting what this might stand for – varying from a pejorative Afrikaans slang term to colonial regal terminology. I much prefer the latter and have been gently encouraging boys over the years to bow respectfully from the waist when I pass.

Unfortunately there is little chance of that which is yet another indication of how standards continue slipping in South African education. However, I did once have the regal bar set for headmasters when I was given a tour round his campus by the Headmaster of Chand Bagh School - which was about an hour’s drive from Lahore in Pakistan. As we drove past staff working on the grounds, they would snap to attention and salute the headmaster’s official car – chauffeured of course. When I returned to the cricket field where the Wynberg team was playing, I mentioned this to our coach, Eric Lefson, and suggested that saluting the Headmaster would be a fine new tradition to take back to Wynberg.

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ said Eric with his accustomed dry wit. ‘You might find that they don’t use all five fingers in their salute.’

Those dozens of families still trying to ensure their son’s entry to Wynberg next year would probably appreciate Eric’s point.

I did enjoy sitting on the couch in the Headmaster’s tent on the side of the Chand Bagh cricket field. The two of us were in splendid isolation on this luxurious Eastern divan watching the cricket in the shade provided by the tent. I momentarily felt sorry for our boys in the sun – but I soon pushed those weak feelings aside. I could become accustomed to this way of headmastering. The only aspect missing from this colonial throwback scene, was someone waving a palm frond over my head.

Watching cricket at Chand Bagh School in 2006

‘Just clap your hands if you want anything,’ said my host. I was (initially) far too embarrassed to try anything like that, but my hospitable host showed me how it was done. He asked me if I would like some tea. I concurred.

He clapped his hands and what can only be described in colonial terms as a Headmaster’s ‘wallah’ emerged from the back of the tent. ‘Two teas please.’

Ten minutes later, he clapped his hands again and the wallah appeared and took away the tea cups.

Later on, the process was continued with delicious home-made lemonade – with the lemons coming from their own estate, the Headmaster informed me. As we were in a Moslem country, I thought it inappropriate to tell him that we grew our own vines on our estate. One-upmanship is so tacky.

I soon learnt to clap my hands. I have never ever drunk so much lemonade in so short a time.

Wynberg's 1st XI: Coach Eric Lefson commandeered the electric fan ...

On my return to Wynberg, I made the mistake of suggesting to my secretary, Glenda Hepworth, that this effective system of clapping hands could be way forward. Her reply was unprintable. I had a similar reaction from my wife. I have had a reasonable amount of success from my dogs who found the clapping amusing and wagged their tails enthusiastically – but as a concept, clapping for service seemed doomed never to take off as business model here at the tip of Africa.

I think I will suggest to the Western Cape Education Department that Pakistan schools know how to do things. If Pakistan was not so volatile today, I would suggest that they send me back there to pick up a few more of these valuable educational tips.

These delusions of grandeur, have caused me to digress from my only perk – my valuable parking space. Its value is that, when there is an event on, I can always arrive knowing that there is a parking space available to me.

A few weeks ago, we had a meeting for matric parents. I returned from attending an earlier function and arrived back at school at the last moment. Cars were parked all along Lovers Walk, but I was able to slip my car into the allotted spot designated by the imposing ‘HM’. A parent walking passed my car, greeted me and we fell into conversation. As we approached the steps at the front of the school, clearly thinking he was addressing a fellow parent, he asked me whether this was my first son doing matric.

I was somewhat taken aback. It brought home to me, yet again, that delusions of grandeur for a Headmaster (except in Pakistan) are just that – mere delusions!

‘Er, no,’ I said thinking furiously how I could make a suitably appropriate response. My rejoinder was lame. ‘No son here – I am a teacher at the school.’

‘Oh,’ he said, the penny still not dropping. ‘Enjoy the evening then,’ and off he went. After a few paces, he stopped and said, ’As you are one of the teachers, perhaps you can show me where the Fish Bowl is?’

Fortunately his son came up to him at that point and was able to help him to the meeting venue. I wondered where he had been for five years. Had he not supported his son at any prize giving? Any Founders’ Day Ceremony? Any play or musical event? Any sports event?

As I did not see him afterwards, I am not sure what he thought when I stood up later to address the gathering. Maybe he didn’t recognise me as the ‘parent’ who walked in with him.

It reminded me of a similar situation fifteen years ago when I was first appointed. I was addressing the beginning-of-year Ladies’ Association AGM. As I was standing there waxing lyrical with what I hoped were witty and droll anecdotes of school life, I noticed a lady come in late and slip into the back row where my wife, Pippa, had seated herself. She listened to me for a few moments before leaning over to Pippa and in a conspiratorial whisper asked her who this speaker was.

Pippa never one to bear cudgels for her husband, said airily, ‘Oh, some chap whom they have just appointed as Headmaster.’

‘Really?’ was the response. ‘What happened to that nice Mr Probyn?’

On thinking about it now, it would have been appropriate back then to have applied for a job at Chand Bagh. Matters did not improve at my first Old Boys’ gathering. It was the 60th reunion of that year group and a number of them had gathered with wives at the Bill Bowden Pavilion. I had been invited to address the gathering about the latest events at their old school and was duly given a label with my name on it.

One of the class wandered over to greet me. After peering at my label, he said loudly, ‘Richardson? Richardson? I don’t remember a Richardson in our class.’

As this would have added a good thirty years to my age, I hastily assured him that I was not at the function as a classmate – but as a teacher.

I saw him furrow his brow and scrutinise my label again – and then examine my face. He then shook his head slowly with resolute conviction. ‘Are you sure? I don’t remember you teaching us.’

For ever the diplomat, I let it rest there. If I had taught that 1950 class, it would have made me about eighty five years old at that re-union. Not bad for a newly appointed Headmaster of Wynberg Boys’ High School.

There are probably many on the teaching staff who are also convinced that I was a teacher in that early era, when I took a staff meeting on exam procedure one June some years back. ‘Don’t forget,’ I exhorted them, ‘that there must be no borrowing at all during exams. No exceptions. If the pupils forget something – tough luck. They must learn to be organised. No borrowing of rulers, pens, calculators, log books. Nothing!’

There was a palpable restlessness through the staff room. I saw a few sidelong glances going around. There was a hint of a smile on some faces. It was quite clear that I had said something that was causing this reaction. Ignoring everything, I ploughed on regardless with all the other exam regulations.

After the meeting, I spoke to Deputy Principal, Larry Moser. ‘Did you pick up something in that staff meeting?’ I asked. ‘I felt that I lost them at one point.’

Larry was as diplomatic as ever. ‘It was your reference to logbooks,’ he said. ‘We haven’t used log books in over twenty years.’

Well! Someone forgot to tell this Latin teacher that little titbit of information. We all had logbooks for Maths when I was at school.

‘Are you thinking of changing your email address?’ said one of the teachers to me the next day without a semblance of a smile. ‘I think it should be krichardson@dinosaur.com.’

I think that they eventually found that teacher a post, somewhere in the country.

The best advice ever for Headmasters - or indeed anyone in leadership positions – was given by Benjamin Zander, conductor of the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra, in his inspiring book: The Art of Possibility.

I have continually to remind oneself about Rule Number Six in my daily dealings with schoolboys. During the final week of last term, two Grade 8 boys - about 14 years old - were talking in the corridor outside my office. It was a few minutes before school and they were waiting for their Grandparents to arrive for the annual Grade 8 Grandparents’ Day.

I was drowning in end-of-term reports. 850 comments on 850 reports is a time-consuming business especially as one wants to write meaningful comments which will evoke a reflective response and philosophical discussion between parents and son when the report arrives back home.

‘Come on,’ urged one of the boys. ‘Let’s go and ask him.’ Eventuality they plucked up courage and knocked on my door. ‘Sir, are you busy?’ I usually find that comment about as helpful as the customary, ‘Do you have a minute?’

I did my usual growl, but that did not put them off – they were far too intent on asking their question.

‘Sir, we have been talking. Can you tell us what a headmaster actually does? ‘

Biff at the Bill Bowden

Paul Barichievy manages to pull it off every time.  I don’t know how he does it, but he unfailingly comes up with quality speakers for every Open Microphone event organised every few months under the auspices of the Wynberg Old Boys’ Union.

Graeme Smith & Paul Barichievy

Twenty three speakers, usually renowned sportsmen, have visited the Bill Bowden Pavilion over the last few years and chatted to the assembled company of Old Boys, Parents and Friends.  The evening is finished off with questions from the floor, before the gathering can tuck into eats prepared by the Committee wives.  As any discerning potential girlfriend knows – you involve yourself with a cricketer at your peril.  Before you know it, your relationship will be sorely tested when you are requested:

• to score or
• to prepare lunch or
• to set out teas or
• to wash up.

If the budding relationship is really going places, then all the above might have to come into play.

Captain & Headmaster

For years, the mother of a newly appointed school cricket captain has groaned in horror as she realised the implications when her son arrived home announcing that he has been made captain of the cricket team.  Usually, the proud son – and even more delighted and honoured father – then  closet themselves away in a father-son bonding session to discuss tactics for the next few days.  These sentiments are in no way shared by the mother for whom hours with tea cups and dish cloths loom ahead.  Visions of those Saturday and Sundays in the kitchen of the cricket clubhouse during her courting days come rushing back to haunt her.

At the Open Microphone events, the realities of phase three of the Cursus Honorum of Cricketing Spouses hit home.  By marrying a Committee Member of the Wynberg Old Boys’ Union, they are now expected to prepare plates of eats for over a hundred expectant sport lovers.

Presumably they make a mental note to advise their daughters to write something into ante-nuptial contracts in case they are even vaguely considering involving themselves with a cricketer!

Brendan Venter

If it is any consolation for the catering brigade, the quality of the speakers organised by Paul  is worth every minute spent in the kitchen.  Once he decides on a speaker, he does not let go.  In his opening few lines in his talk, rugby Springbok, Brendan Venter,  bemoaned the fact that Paul did not know how to take a hint.  For months, Brendan told Paul that he was not prepared to travel out from Somerset West to speak to Wynberg Old Boys and Friends. Bulldog Barichievy was not prepared to let go and eventually, tired of the incessant phone calls, Brendan succumbed and gave us an excellent address.

This seems to be Paul’s modus operandi and it works for him.  The impressive list of celebrity speakers, who have been prevailed upon to grace the Bill Bowden Pavilion, bears testament to his doggedness.

Over the years, we have marvelled at the cerebral speakers such as Dr Tim Noakes, Morne du Plessis and Vincent van der Bijl.  We have celebrated the passion of Rassie Erasmus, Gary Kirsten and Alastair Coetzee.  We have laughed along with Allan Lamb, Andre Watson and Rob Louw.

Ali Bacher
& Dave Williams' book

Many of the speakers encompass all these attributes – and current SA cricket captain, Graeme Smith, was one of these.  He won the entire audience over with his sincerity and his obvious love of his profession.  He was the third old boy of King Edward V11 School in Johannesburg (KES) to speak  superbly in the Bill Bowden Pavilion that week.   He followed his KES fellow old boys, Dr Ali Bacher and Dave Williams, onto the podium.  They were co-authors of ‘Jacques Kallis and Twelve other Great South African Allrounders ‘ who had launched their new book  to much acclaim a few days before.

Graeme took no nonsense from Brad Bing, the MC for the evening,  easily managing to steer his way round the seemingly innocent  traps into which Brad was trying try to lure him.

I still have a semblance of guilt about a question I asked Graeme  eleven years ago when he took over the captaincy of the Proteas at the impossible early age of 22.  I found myself invited to a breakfast marking the occasion which was hosted by the Cape Times.  The squad to tour England had just been announced and Lance Klusener had been left out.  The headlines were all provocative. 

‘Smith is threatened by me,’ lamented Klusener later in one article.  ‘He got rid of me.’

So, in all innocence, I asked Graeme whether Klusener had a future under a Smith captaincy.  The newly-appointed 22 year old South African captain did not hold back.  I am not quite sure who was more flabbergasted  - Smith, Klusener or me – when the reply was reported in full in the press over the next few days:  

‘Lance Klusener is a disruptive force who can ruin a team…..  We decided Lance as a team man can only cause hassles and we want to move forward in SA cricket. To be honest Lance, as fantastic as he is . . . can sometimes infect a team and bring down the youth.’

Whew!   Sorry I asked.

Brad Bing

After eleven years and 101 tests as captain of South Africa, Graham Smith has now learnt a few tricks of the trade and was easily able to nudge Brad’s questions to the boundary.  He would have done the same to Brad’s gentle left arm looping spinners in the old days.

‘You have a cheek, Brad, asking about Jacques’ hair when you hardly have any….’

Wonderful.

Brad was not put off.  ‘Tell us about Minky van der Westhuizen,’ he asked, referring to a voluptuous model who had been frequently seen on the arm of the national captain.  ‘Were her natural assets as impressive as we were led to believe?’

Graham hit it for a one-bounce four over square leg.  ‘How do you think I became such a good slip fielder?’ he replied, while cupping his hands to imitate taking a slip catch.

U14s caught in the slips

I glanced at the door where two U14 cricketers were coming straight from practice to listen to one of their heroes.  I could just hear what was going through their minds.

‘Excuse me, Sir,’ they would be saying to their cricket coach, Shaun Hewett, at their next practice. ‘We really do not think that our slip catching is up to scratch.  Graeme Smith has recommended this new method of mastering the art of slip catching.’

As a practical-thinking headmaster, I was just wondering who was going to do the quality testing of these new slip-catching machines.

Sensibly, Brad then decided to take discussions to serious cricket matters.  I did notice, though, that  the two U14 boys spent the rest of the evening day-dreaming - presumably of double hundreds at Lords.

During the course of the discussions, Brad asked Graeme when it was that he had finally realised that he could make it as an international player.  He replied that it was after his first two hundred at Lords.  He recounted how the England skipper, Nasser Hussain, had tried to rattle him at the toss by deliberately calling him Greg.  However, that did not put him off the marathon innings which followed which was one of guts, character and concentration.

Personally, I think that the defining moment of Graeme’s career came on 7th January 2009 at the Sydney Cricket Ground when he went out to bat at no. 11 with a broken hand, to face an Australian attack in full cry.  Wearing Paul Harris’ hamburger stained cricket pullover, the protective cast removed from his broken finger  and with the advice of Jacques Kallis ringing in his ears (‘remember that chicks dig scars’),  he went out for the only time in his life to be the junior batting partner of Mkaya Ntini.  They needed to survive 37 balls to secure an improbable draw.  He fell 10 balls short.

‘The Bravest Man in World Cricket’.

That they nearly pulled it off was a credit to both batsmen.  One Australian headline the next day said:  ‘The Bravest Man in World Cricket’.

Ricky Ponting said that the character traits displayed by Smith were what everyone looked for in a leader.

I wonder if Graeme Smith, or indeed any of the speakers at our Open Mike evenings, realises how inspirational they are.  For an hour or two every few months, we receive a glimpse of the tenacity, determination and drive which sportsmen at the top of their professions invariably display.

He also knows how to impress the locals.  As a new neighbour of the school, he remarked during his talk that he would love to send his young son, Carter (born July 2013) to Wynberg Boys’ High School one day.

Good move, Biff.  Imagine how good a cricketer you may have become if you, too, like your mate Jacques Kallis, had gone to Wynberg Boys’ High.