Funerals, by nature, are wearying affairs, because they revolve around loss. However one may butter it up, there have to be tears, because someone has left a hole, a gap that can never quite be filled.
Poignantly enough, the memorial of one Joost van der Westhuizen on Friday, fittingly at Loftus, was anything but wearying. Granted, there were tears, but a lot of them were happy tears, weeping of joy, and pride and of nostalgia over one of the game’s greats. They were tears that reflected upon one of the few men who have managed to prick the world’s consciousness twice in their lifetime.
Once is usually enough for most, and becoming a world champion is certainly plenty for those who have reached the very top of their game. That in itself brings grown men to tears, as they reflect on the scale of their achievement, and soak it all in, aware that it may only happen just once in their lives.
In Van der Westhuizen’s case, he is all the more remarkable because he scaled an Everest twice, but in almost completely different forms, even if the essence of the man stayed true to form.
In 1995, he was at the peak of his instinctive powers, a meticulous predator coiled to strike at the first sign of weakness in the opposition. As the dreadful condition took hold of his body, though, he was transformed physically, and that metamorphosis of a superhero into a sufferer made as big an impact as his glory days.
Maybe even greater.
You hear or read about how grim motor neurone disease is, but when you see it etched in a picture of a man who is so familiar to millions, it truly strikes home. That may be Joost van der Westhuizen’s greatest legacy; greater, even, than the manner in which he changed the way the rugby world looked at halfback play.
His stoic stand of hope, of medical miracle, has surely inspired other sufferers, and it has also surely galvanised those who search endlessly for cures to dig deeper still.
They say that the deeds of men are inflated as they head to eternity, but there was no sense of exaggeration about the feats of ‘Joost, the Very Best’, as one of many banners remembered him.
They say that, at the sincerest part of battle, you see the fight of a man in his eyes. Those who are riddled with fear shoot their pupils from corner to corner, determined not to betray their fears to the mortal enemy.
In the compelling case of Joost, however, he gave one of the most debilitating conditions known to man the same, icy stare that he had given so many opponents on the field of play. Come hither he said, in the same manner that he hadn’t flinched at the thought of meeting the might of Jonah Lomu’s frame head-on, in the prime of his life. That takes bull-sized courage.
There were several moments on Friday, when the eyes of men shifted nervously once more, as the emotion tugged even more than they had anticipated.
When Ruhan du Toit belted out ‘Hallelujah’, a hymn as simple as the casket on stage but as moving as the story of the man inside it, the lumps started.
The touching tribute song by Van der Westhuizen’s niece, Sumari, hastened the search for handkerchiefs, before PJ Powers’ walk down memory lane with ‘The World in Union’ broke even the sternest Bull.
And when the body departed the scene of so many of his greatest days, the crowd didn’t let him go silently. ‘Joost, Joost, Joost!,’ they loudly chanted, turning tears into cheers.
True legends do echo into eternity. Go well, Joost, and thank you for the memories.