It’s a Tradition!

The height of temptation at Littlewood House

‘It is a tradition, Sir,’ the boy said to me without a trace of regret or remorse when he was found by the duty hostel master clambering in through an upstairs window  a number of years ago.  During evening Prep, he had clambered onto the window sill of his dormitory window, grabbed a branch of the avocado tree and climbed out.  He had then put two large avocados into each pocket and manoeuvred himself precariously back along the same route – probably about 15 metres above mother earth.

As luck would have it, he was met by a bemused duty master who had been hovering in the area. I was summoned from a meeting at school to pronounce judgement.  As adults, words tend to fail us in this situation and we revert to rhetorical questions.

‘What do you think you were doing?’ is the immediate fatuous question which springs to our lips.  In this case, the answer was somewhat obvious as two prize avocados were sitting on the window sill.

I remember once asking a similar pointless question of another boarder, Andrew Mandy,  when he was guiltily poking his head out of the bushes on the school campus.  I posed the same inane enquiry to his retreating back as he endeavoured to leopard crawl at pace to the imagined safety of another bush.  In this instance, the question was made even more superfluous by the glowing embers of something hastily discarded and left smouldering in the dead leaves underfoot.

‘Sir, Sir!’ he said to me in feigned enthusiasm from the next bush trying to lure me away from the incriminating evidence.  ‘Just look at these bugs, Sir! They are so interesting!’

To this day, I still regret that I missed a trick.  I should have made him write a thousand word essay on the bugs of the Wynberg Campus!

Forbidden Fruit ...

The attitude of the avocado smuggler, though, was a mixture of triumph and truculence.  ‘It is tradition of this room,’ he assured me. ‘Every year, the occupants of Room 12 are expected to bring back avos for the rest of the room.’  He was probably right as stories of avo raiding were doing the rounds shortly after Headmaster Bill Bowden had originally planted the tree in the 50’s.

‘Oh well, in that case as an honorary member of Room 12 these two are mine.’ I proceeded to pocket the fruits of his escapade.  For the first time, I saw a hint of panic tinged with disappointment in his eyes.

‘If I promise not to do it again, can I keep them?  We have already bought the biscuits,’ he pleaded, showing me the packet of Pro Vita.

How could I harden my heart against such a plea?   But I had already planned my next step and organised the tree fellers to come in the next day to trim the branches of the avo tree well away from the windows to a distance which would deter even the most agile (and ravenous) boarder.

Not an Old Boys’ dinner goes past without some ex-Littlewood boy remonstrating with me that I have stymied a fine boarding house tradition.  Nicking the fruit from the avo tree without being caught by the masters (or even headmaster when he lived on the premises) was always considered a worthy rite of passage for the occupants of Room 12.

Of course it was also a traditional nocturnal exit for those who wished to savour the bright lights of the Claremont Main Road.  Many an occupant of the window beds in Room 12 will tell stories of being woken in the early hours of the morning by the rattling of a stone against the window and an urgent whisper from the branches of, ‘Let me in….’.

I am all for tradition.  Boys need it.  It is a source of pride and binds the boys to something bigger than themselves.  It enables them to feel they belong – an important ingredient for all males. However, when tradition threatens life and limb then it is probably time to draw a line.  The skill in running a school for boys – and certainly a boarding house  -  is to offer the boys challenging opportunities to flex their muscles and to test their burgeoning potential in legitimate and safe pursuits.

When I started at Wynberg many years ago there was a ‘tradition’ which covered both aspects, an opportunity to flex muscles but also to threaten life and limb – the annual staff versus school rugby match. This took place at the end of the season against a ‘3rd XV’ but was in reality a matric side.  It was talked about for weeks on end amongst the staff and it soon became apparent that the match was seen as an opportunity to settle a few classroom scores at the bottom of the rugby scrum.  I have no doubt that similar conversations were taking place amongst the boys in corridors and on the fields at break.  Most of it went  over my head as clearly they would not be needing a scrawny hockey player like me.

My shock and horror can only be imagined when the appointed captain of the staff side, English teacher Clive Jordaan, captain of False Bay,  mentioned to me in passing a few days before the match that I would be playing.  I sounded like a schoolboy who had not done his homework as the excuses poured out.  My bad back, asthma, dodgy knee, sole breadwinner for two dogs and an aged grandmother.  And I did not possess rugby boots.  I needn’t have bothered.  I was just told it was traditional for male staff.  To this day, I don’t know what trick John Baxter pulled to get out of it.

Lunch in the boarding house on the day of the match took on the air of a funereal  Last Supper. Gloomily I then dragged my feet, shod with tackies, to the field and on the way bumped into vice principal, Ray Connellan,  who was still in tie and jacket.
‘Why aren’t you playing?’ I demanded suspiciously.  ‘I thought it was traditional…’

‘I leave it to the youngsters,’ he said breezily.  I should have remembered that comment many decades later when I was prevailed upon to play in the staff hockey match. It would have saved me many agonising hours on the physio’s table.

Afternoon school was cancelled and hundreds of boys poured out to the rugby field  - reminiscent of ‘the ranks of Tuscany’ lining up along the banks of the River Tiber in Macauly’s poem on Horatius. There was a buzz of excitement in the area. While waiting for the opening whistle, I glanced across at the opposition.  My downy cheeks and boyish complexion were no match for those bruisers who clearly shaved twice a day and all seemed to have their wife and kids on the touchline.  The first half was a bruising affair in which I played a negligible role.  The forwards pounded away at each other and it was clear that events were happening in the dark recesses of the scrum which were of no concern to me.  I spent most of the half on the wing trying to look athletic and ready for any action which hopefully would not come my way.  At no point did I touch the ball and my shorts were pristine.

I did not like the tone of the half time team talk.  ‘We need to throw the ball along the backline more,’ said the skipper.

I thought it was time for me to offer my rugby advice.

‘We are doing so well keeping it tight,’ I said to the nodding approval of Terry Nelson and Johan Fourie who were loving every moment of the contest down in the scrum. Both played first team club rugby in the northern suburbs. ‘Let’s stick to what is working for us,’ I exhorted.

No-one listened to my advice and it was not long before the ball came spinning down the line.  The inside centre was Eddie Blignaut, who had played full back for WP B while at university.  I am told by those in the know that the only reason that he didn’t play for the full WP side was that a certain HO de Villiers was the incumbent.

Eddie straightened the line and drew two of the opposition and proceeded to lay a perfectly timed pass into my reluctant hands.  I looked up and there was not a single player in sight – just acres of green field and an enticing try line beckoning.  This I could handle!  I put my ears backs and with visions of glory, went into overdrive to the accompanying roar of encouragement from the ranks of Tuscany.

All the more fool me.  The school full back trotted across like a prize pony to cover the line. I decided to take him on the outside.  I was told by the boys later that I went into a wheel spin (in my tackies) as, apparently,  all the full back did was push out an exploratory arm in my direction.  I don’t recollect that bit – but what I do remember was being sent into orbit doing  three or four cartwheels  into the ranks of Tuscany. As luck would have it, I came to a standstill virtually in the lap of one Julian Hadwen, a member of my Standard Nine Latin class.

He thought Christmas had come early. ‘Bad luck, Sir!  You nearly made it.’
I banked that one.  I took great pleasure in writing the same comment on a Latin test he wrote a few days later.

When the final whistle blew, the school team all charged at the referee, Peter Broster.  He was picked up unceremoniously and dumped into the swimming pool which was alongside the field.

‘What are they doing that for?’ I asked incredulously to Clive Jordaan.

‘Tradition,’ he replied nonchalantly.

Before anyone decided to extend this tradition to the right wing,  I departed hastily for the safety of the staff room.  There I found splendid post-match fare set out on the table, ready and waiting.

Now that’s a tradition I can heartily support.

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.