My history master punted me as the star student of my final year at Pretoria Boys High. But he was a better rugby coach than a history teacher. Though I loved the subject, and still do, I was lazy and indifferent about all exams, and scared, and I got only a C, so he didn’t score from me. Why am I slipping into rugby metaphors? I was lousy at the game, never doing better than a couple of matches in the under-16 Bs, getting my ears crunched in the front row. In cricket, my bowling, batting and fielding were embarrassing. I managed to make the house teams occasionally, in swimming and tennis. All these things mattered terribly to sense of self, especially to a schoolboy boarder in (white) South Africa, who couldn’t escape compulsory regular team activity in everything from long distance running to cadets. How fortunate we were, most boys starved of good facilities would say today. I know what they mean. All my boarding school days, from the age of six and a half, in physical things
Left wing commentary from the heart and the head