Cricket has gone and won something big. How might that change its relationship with South Africans? ©Getty
It was April 23, 1992, long enough ago for apartheid still to be the law of the land in South Africa. For Nelson Mandela to have been out of prison for just more than two years but not yet elected president. For ordinary black and brown South Africans to hope - to expect, even - that a better life was imminent.
But it was not long enough ago for South Africa to remain banished from international cricket, part of the punishment for whites - the only citizens who were allowed to vote - repeatedly choosing racism at the ballot box.
Regardless of the fact that they represented an apartheid state, the national team had played three men's ODIs in India in November 1991 and in the 1992 World Cup in Australia and New Zealand, where they reached the semifinals. Weeks later they were off the Caribbean for an ODI in Kingston, two more in Port-of-Spain, and a Test in Bridgetown.
The world was different then. So was cricket. And cricketwriting. Incredible as it will seem to today's intensely cost-conscious reporters, we took the same flights and stayed in the same hotels as the teams. There was no internet as we know it, nevermind wifi, mobile phones or AI transcription tools. Communication with editors was strictly by landline. Pressboxes were filled with crusty old men, who almost never went to press conferences. Because there were almost no press conferences.
An exception was called after Andrew Hudson scored a century in the Bridgetown Test. Two of us missed it because we were busy dictating our stories down the phone line - yes, the landline - thousands of expensive kilometres away. So we did something that, today, would result in our accreditation passes being yanked off our necks on the spot, and maybe even being charged with trespass.
We walked from the pressbox to the dressingroom and knocked on the door, which was opened by South Africa's team manager, Alan Jordaan. We explained our plight and asked if Hudson might be able to spare a few more minutes.
Without moving from the doorway, Jordaan, a tall, twinkle-eyed, very Afrikaans senior counsel from Pretoria, turned his head to the side and yelled: "Hurrers! There's two okes here wanna talk to you. You wanna talk to them?"
A shuffling sound preceded the appearance in the doorway of Hudson himself. He had been hit on the knee behind the front pad by Patrick Patterson in the course of making his 163, and his movements were restricted. But he recognised one of the two anxious faces peering at him, hobbled out of the doorway towards us, closed the door behind him, and stood awkwardly on the stairs and chatted for 15 minutes. It's difficult to imagine Steve Smith, Kagiso Rabada or Jasprit Bumrah being asked - much less agreeing - to do that.
That was a happy day for South African cricket. Three days later, not so much. Needing 79 runs with eight wickets standing to win the first Test they had played in more than 22 years and their inaugural match against West Indies, the South Africans were able to add only 26 more runs before being dismissed.
So there was a ready comparison when Aiden Markram and Temba Bavuma walked to the middle at Lord's on Saturday. This time the South Africans needed 69 to win with eight wickets in hand. This time they got there with minimal drama and five wickets standing. This time their opponents were Australia, and nothing less than the ICC Test mace was the prize.
The other familiar number tossed about since Saturday is 27. As in the number of years Mandela spent in jail - and the same length of time South Africa went between senior global successes after they won the ICC Knockout, which became the Champions Trophy, in 1998.
Crass and glib, yes. But also, to cricketminded South Africans, apt. Because they have had to deal with so much pain. The history of hurt is long, and mostly related to men's World Cups: 1992, 1996, 1999, 2003, 2007, 2011, 2015 and 2023. What about 2019? They weren't nearly good enough to compete, so that one didn't hurt. Their men's and women's teams reached three T20 World Cup finals in 2023 and 2024, and lost them all. All of them hurt.
South Africans don't like to confront their failures. They don't accept that they are part of a dysfunctional country where crime is chronic, corruption endemic and inequality rampant; a place that many people who have the money to leave do exactly that.
Cricket, then, has held up a mirror to our society. It has dared to remind us that we are a long way from what we want to be, and we have detested it at a visceral level for doing that. Cricket? Nah. Boring. Rugby, with its record four World Cup triumphs, has done the opposite and we love it for sustaining the myth of our national exceptionalism.
Now what?
Cricket has gone and won something big. How might that change its relationship with South Africans?
"There are normally two voices in your head, the one that doubts and the one that believes," Kagiso Rabada said at Lord's on Saturday as the ongoing jamboree sparked by South Africa's win was launched. He was talking about rallying from a deficit of 74 to chase down the target of 282, but he was also saying so much about South Africans and cricket.
Their hope has, not before time, become belief. They know their team can do it because they have. They have heard the voice of belief.
South Africa won despite not harbouring as many giants of the world game as they have in the past. Or is that why they won? Because all of the players knew they would have to do their part, that they couldn't rely on Graeme Smith, Hashim Amla, Jacques Kallis or Dale Steyn to do what was needed?
The only current player with that kind of status is Rabada, who promptly shrugged it off: "I don't see myself as a star. I see myself as someone who's willing to give my blood for this team. I'm always wanting to improve and I play for the badge and with a lot of pride. Because you play for South Africa for a reason. It's not by chance."
Similarly, cricketwriters write for a reason. To earn a living, obviously. But that's also true of players. Cricket is a good vehicle for writers of several stripes because it invites comparisons with so much else we do as people. "It's not by chance" that it makes us look in the mirror.
Writers on South Africa's teams have had to keep a long list of synonyms handy when they've covered ICC events. Here's a flavour: crashed, thrashed, hammered, shambled, and - yes - choked. In many ways, South Africa has choked as a society. We had a shot at ensuring a better life for all, and we blew it.
We didn't think that would happen as we sat looking out at Kensington Oval on April 23, 1992. Just two of us who were there then were in the pressbox at Lord's last week. We're both a little crusty and we could do with fewer press conferences, thank you. But we're very happy not to have to dictate our stories down a landline telephone.
Tears duly spilled from at least one pair of our eyes on Saturday, and there was no attempt to stop them. Suddenly, and not by chance, April 23, 1992 was an awfully long time ago.
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