JOHANNESBURG - I was there at Twickenham. I was in the stand. There was a clear plan to deny him, if not the ball, then space in which to use it. The defensive tactics bordered on the unlawful and certainly the unsporting.
The England team did not care. They had one plan and one plan only and that was to stop the danger man from running and causing them mayhem. I watched his face carefully. At first he was almost amused. It was as though he took the close marking as a compliment. It was.
The crowd, although partisan, was partisan in a very English way. When it became clear that the tactics were, so to speak, not cricket, they started to boo and slow hand clap. After all, they had come mainly to see the legend of South Africa and of the rugby game in general.
The crowd’s reaction coincided with his losing patience as time ran out. As each late tackle or check came in, you could see the level of frustration rise. He appealed to the referee, who seemed oblivious. Then he started to give it back. Late tackles were answered with a jostle and once, even a punch.
The game wore on, his side were going to win but he hadn’t scored his try. It was an issue. Near the end he made a clean break, beat the fullback hands down and he dotted the Gilbert under the sticks. He wore a broad smile as he trotted back to halfway. He had crossed the line, he had received his fix and could now relax.
I had never seen such a desire to score a try, ever. That was what made Danie Gerber so special. It was the 75th anniversary of Twickenham, Danie was playing for a World XV against England in 1984 and I was on the bench for that side. Interestingly, the man who marked him so slyly that day was Clive, now Sir Clive, Woodward.
That was the moment I realised that although a good one, I could never be a great player. To do that you needed physical strength and speed, but also that obsession with delivering. Danie Gerber had it to a degree I thought would never be seen again.
Then along came Joost. The comparison with Danie Gerber is the highest rugby praise I can pay.
I first saw Joost as a laaitjie at Loftus. The idol of the Bulls, Robert du Preez, had departed to Durban and was back to play with the Sharks. Joost was a lanky, scrawny unknown when I saw him that day, but he looked different. Special. A young pretender.
Most who played against Robert, forward or back, took a back seat physically. I remember once, he held me off with one hand, despite my enthusiastic and total attempts to tackle him. He was like a farmer holding a young collie puppy back with one hand until the sheep had gone through the gate. I was embarrassed to hell as the crowd laughed.
Joost was different. He had a point to prove that day and looked to intimidate the Shark as the Shark had done to so many. In the end, with honours even, Joost fumbled a pass on his own line and Du Preez pounced to score the winning try against the Bulls. Joost was disconsolate after the game and was blaming everyone except himself.
As a recently retired No9, I sought him out and advised him to suck it in and learn. He had plenty of time.
Since then I followed his magnificent rugby career with admiration and a degree of envy. He used to do things in every single game that most of us regarded as career highlights. He would score spectacular tries in multiples. He would drive big forwards backwards in the tackle. He would cover and support at a level of athleticism and fitness that were remarkable. He learnt to kick with his weaker left foot and made it a strength. His passing improved beyond recognition. He tackled Jonah. He also smiled a lot, especially after scoring, with those scary blue eyes lighting up his face. He was Dale Steyn, but with a smile rather than the look of a mad man.
Now he is dead.
I had heard that fame went to Joost’s head but I never experienced it. Rumours of arrogance rather than confidence were picked up and there were those widely publicised family ordeals. He made mistakes. He smashed the Dainfern gate. He was human. He was always in the public eye. He was always special.
Then the news broke of the dreadful disease and we observed the slow, painful evidence of decline. As his once powerful physique deteriorated, along with his speech, we all wept at the inevitability of the outcome, despite his determination to fight.
But more and more we heard and saw evidence of a change in Joost. Gone was any arrogance and there was no self-pity. That day at the Test when he stood in his callipers with his kids at his side, the pride and self-respect were there again. He was facing the world and far from being a loser, he was a winner once more. He had scored his try. He had got his fix. He was Joost.
There are special sports stars. There are also people who become special for many different reasons. Joost was without a doubt not just as a scrumhalf, but as a rugby player, one of the greatest of all-time.
But that pales into insignificance now. His chequered journey, with all the mistakes and pain, ended on a spectacular high. He showed us how sickness and disaster can be faced with dignity. He remains an inspiration, not just to rugby, but to all of us. It is hard to believe he is gone. However, as with all real legends, it will never really be so.
It was an honour to know him.
John Robbie is a former British Lions, Ireland and Transvaal scrumhalf