Has the World Cup been stolen?

JOHANNESBURG — South Africans’ worst fears have been realised. The World Cup, transported to South Africa over the weekend, has been stolen.

This according to a Polish syndicate calling itself Federacja Czerwonych Rysi (Federation of the Red Lynx), who claim to have broken into IFA offices on Monday and stolen the 36cm gold trophy. Photographs sent to various press agencies seem to confirm this.

Rumours started circulating in soccer circles yesterday morning, when the trophy was not available for an official photo session with AMU, a local academy for promising young footballers. This morning the FCR claimed responsibility for the disappearance. An anonymous email (in Polish) stated:

“Your of trophy. I only return if Poland immediately great participation into 2010 hedgehog. Best in one easy groups.” (Translation: www.poltran.com)

Poland did not qualify for this year’s tournament.

Officials have vehemently denied the FCR claims. Spokesperson José de Santa Teresita el Niño Jesús Rodríguez de la Rocha, when asked whether the trophy had been stolen, replied:

“No.”

cupHowever, when a contingent of journalists asked to view the trophy yesterday, they were told that it was being polished, and not available for viewing. This morning, they were again told that the trophy was not available, as the Trophy Polishers Union was on strike.

“Is problem,” De Santa Teresita el Niño Jesús Rodríguez de la Rocha commented.

Who or what Federacja Czerwonych Rysi are, is not clear. The photographs show two young women dressed in black, carrying the trophy in a canvas bag. Apart from sunglasses, they make no attempt to conceal their identities. They have not responded to emails, and their chat status indicates “busy”. Facebook friend requests have also gone unanswered.

South Africans can take some consolation in the fact that the alleged theft is not unique. The first World Cup, known as the Jules Rimet trophy, was stolen in London a few months before the 1966 World Cup, and found again seven days later, by a dog named Pickles. step

In 1970, Brazil became the permanent owners of the trophy after winning it a third time. But in 1983, it was stolen from the headquarters of the Brazilian football federation, and never recovered. The current trophy, in use since 1974, contains 5kg of 18-carat gold.

Champion Tshabalala, spokesperson for the ministry of sport, dismissed the allegations as “racism, plain and simple”. Asked whether there were special contingencies in place should such a theft occur, he hesitated a moment before repeating “racism, pure and simple”. Further questioning revealed that this was in fact, his answering-machine message.

Independent crime expert Stoney Steenkamp, on the other hand, said:

“Hell, these days they’ll steal bloody anything. I tell you, my brother once caught one of them [CENSORED] and [CENSORED] that [CENSORED] until he [CENSORED]. That’s the way to solve crime, my bru.”

After being shown the photographs, he retracted his statement, and described the images as “not bad, hey”.

South Africa has one of the highest overall crime rates in the world, comparable only to states where the government has effectively collapsed, like the Netherlands and the UK (www.nationmaster.com). When it comes to violent crime, however, South Africa is sometimes referred to as the “Michael Phelps of the ranking system”. As a result, fears have been expressed over the safety of the hordes of football fans entering the country soon. But no-one had anticipated that the first victim would be the hallowed trophy itself.

Taking a leaf from the book of the legendary Tintin, this reporter has decided to take the responsibility of recovering the World Cup on himself.

Professor Fanie Olivier of the Department of Dutch and South African Studies at Adam Mickiewicz University in Poznan, has stated that he has no knowledge of Federacja Czerwonych Rysi, but that stranger things have happened, presumably referring to the theft of the Arbeit Macht Frei sign from Auschwitz last year.

Attempts to contact Pickles have proven unsuccessful.

All white rugby

“I don’t know why it is, but it is a fact that the Afrikaner cultural group just seems to produce some freakishly built people with a freakish genetic make-up,” Nick Mallet famously said in 2007. Pierre Spies, Bakkies Botha, Schalk Burger and Os du Randt have absolutely nothing to do with the rest of this article. But now that I’ve got your attention, I’m talking about playing rugby in the snow. (Sucker).

Accidentally catching a snowflake on your tongue while waiting under the up and under, you start to think, not about the oversized Poles thundering in towards you, not about your heart beating a bass drum, your knees knocking against each other despite longjohns under the PT shorts, shaking your frozen fringers alive before contact, you think, not about this, but about how many times you’ve been here. This open space, waiting for a ball to drop from the sky, knowing the moment is turning over on its head and judgement day is coming, but for now, this rugby ball hangs in the sky, stretched across countless untraceable memories and therefore eternal. You know that you have to catch it, though, and you are trying not to think, thinking, not thinking, thinking, not, then all of a sudden impact, and impacts follow, like waking up in a thunderstorm, thoughts jarred as cerebrum and cerebellum wrestle for control of the body, step in, step out, accelerate, make contact, your face in the snow, sludge and mud and boots, and this is what a train wreck must feel like, and, within moments, it’s gone. The second phase plays wide and someone pats you on the back: “Dobrze.”

As human activity, “snow rugby” must find itself in the same category as “night swimming”, “cliff diving”, and “mampoer for everyone”. These are usually preceded by a diffident glance, the “Are we doing this?” look, accusations of cowardice and prompt denial before the madding crowd can take over and lead to the freedom of temporary insanity. Afterwards, you might feel a little sick. But it’s worth it.

My size (read: lack of) has seen the number on the back of my jersey climbing steadily upwards — 6, 12, 13, 14, and yes, sadly, 16. I revived my rugby “career” at Stellenbosch University just as the first wave of protein supplements hit the market, and as you can imagine, the creatine peddlers found a very lucrative emerging market in the Eikestad. At the time, I happened to be sporting a pair of green boots, which to my desperate and terrified mind should have added just a little bit of camouflage and make my next step slightly less predictable*. Obviously, it didn’t work. I have the X-rays to prove it.

As luck would have it, here, in Poland, the cheapest boots I could find were — you guessed it — snow white. Now I am beyond believing that this would do me any good. And at my age, when other men are battling with the distinction between mauve and lilac, grinding out Sundays with in-laws and building foundations for the beer bellies of the future, it is unlikely that I am experiencing a sudden spell of good form. But, and we will explore some alternative explanations in a minute, it does seem as if I am finally approaching the kind of game that my primary school teacher had in mind when he said I would one day play Springbok flyhalf (he also claimed to be on first-name basis with Klaas Vakie).

The reasons for this clearly have more to do with the opponents’ game than mine. The Polish play rugby the way rhinos make love: hard, and slow. Add to this the adrenaline rush generated by 15 mad Slavs trying to get at the white-booted African, and you manage to turn out a bit of pace that every now and again propels you over the line. (Which you can’t see. Because it is snowing. But blindly diving Habana-style into a bank of snow is quite a rush). The net result of all this is that this Sunday, I am representing Posnania against a town whose name I can’t pronounce. And with my useful Polish at this moment limited to “lewo” and “brawo” it should be an interesting affair. I’ll make sure to learn the words for “hospital” and “morphine” too before then.

In the meantime, the snow has let up, and I am left as vulnerable as a chameleon on a mirror in my shiny white boots.

Now where are those green ones…?

*Conventional rugby wisdom says that as a defender, you shouldn’t look (as many instinctively do) at your opponent’s shoulders. The experienced side-stepper uses his shoulders to create the impression that he is going one way, the rest of his body waiting for you to take the bait before he accelerates towards the other. No, the real indicators of intent on a rugby field, Doc Craven said, the only ones that don’t lie, are the hips. (Pop star Shakira made a ton with a song based on Doc’s theories — without so much as a nod to the source of this wisdom). Also, this has contributed to that most unfortunately ambivalent piece of advice to centres: “Watch the hips and don’t let him come inside you.”