Thirty years. That is how long South Africa has been marinating this grudge — basting it, turning it, letting it dry out on the stoep and drip fat into the coals since Sean Fitzpatrick and his 1996 lot strolled in, won the series 2-1, and left with our lunch money. A whole generation of Bok fans has grown up, gotten married, gotten divorced, gotten remarried to the same person, and never once seen the All Blacks do a FULL tour of the Republic. And now here they are, eight matches deep, walking into every province like door-to-door salesmen who forgot the door is a tighthead prop.
An eight-match menu, and four Tests that end in the strangest place on Earth
The itinerary reads like a road trip planned by a man who loves punishment: Stormers on Friday to open, then the Sharks, Bulls and Lions, then FOUR Tests — Ellis Park on the 22nd, Cape Town Stadium on the 29th, the 94,700-seat cathedral at FNB on 5 September, and then — wait, hold my brandy — the fourth Test on 12 September at the M&T Bank Stadium in BALTIMORE. Yes. Maryland. The USA. They are going to settle a hundred-year-old southern-hemisphere blood feud in a car park across the road from a crab shack, in front of Americans who will spend the whole eighty minutes asking why nobody is wearing helmets. Rugby has officially discovered the phrase “expanding the brand,” and the brand is us, screaming.
Rassie gathers 43 disciples — then feeds five of them to the wolves on purpose
And how does Rassie Erasmus, resident wizard and part-time supervillain, greet the most feared team in the sport? On the 6th he names a 43-man squad to gather in Joburg on Sunday, and in the same breath cheerfully LENDS five of those men back to their franchises so they can go and rough up the All Blacks BEFORE the Tests even start. Read that again. He has essentially handed the tourists a welcome basket, and inside the basket is a live scorpion wearing his own team’s tracksuit. It is the most Rassie thing imaginable: recruit an army, then post half of them as undercover bouncers at the venue, so the guests get klapped at the door and softened up for the main event.
There is a beautiful, ruthless logic to it. Why waste a perfectly good four weeks of All Black touring on nice cups of tea? Let the Stormers, Sharks, Bulls and Lions do the reconnaissance — find the sore ribs, the dodgy line-out call, the winger who drifts — and file the report straight back to head office. By the time the real Boks answer the door on 22 August, Rassie will know New Zealand’s medical charts better than their own physio, because half his intel came from lads who were, technically, on both payrolls that week.
The cameras are on now — but the tour is where the folklore gets made
So strap in, boet. This is not a fixture list, it is a six-week national holiday of the heart. Every uncle has already re-litigated 1996 at least twice this week. Every braai from now until Baltimore will end with someone doing an impression of a haka and someone else threatening to fetch the hosepipe. Thirty years of waiting, four Tests, four provinces, and one gloriously deranged trip to a stadium named after a bank on the wrong continent — and a coach who greets the greatest team in rugby by handing them a squad list with five names quietly missing, all of them waiting outside in the dark.