Johannesburg My introduction to rugby superheroes came in the form of a hulking Tongan who was still a teenager but already trampling over men old enough for him to say “Sir” to when passing by.
I can clearly remember the 1995 Rugby World Cup.
There are many significant reasons for this.
The opening ceremony meant we didn’t bother with school much because the teachers invited us to cram into the Clarendon Primary School staff room to watch the Springboks get off to a fairy tale start.
None of their names were especially significant to us then, but they grew much over the course of a month. In the townships of Imbali where we used to live, soccer balls became make-believe oval things for a month, and though the tune to the tournament anthem was whistled with ease, the words were made up as we went along.
Darkies, we innovate. “It’s the world, and the univeeeeeerse… Umhlaba, uqoqene! Umhlaba uqoqene!” You know the rest. They were weird times, but exciting too, because suddenly South Africa had another team worth supporting, outside Chiefs, Pirates and Bafana, when duty called.
And so we watched on in fascination before adulation, as the Boks lived out the perfect script. But, long before the final, this Tongan badass, bedecked in black, with a funny wisp of hair at the top of his head, had turned our collective eye.
It was all to do with his sheer block-bustability. Sure, there were quick guys, there were kickers – always respected ekasi– and there were tackling machines, like Ruben Kruger, who looked like they could scythe humans in half.
But, this was The Incredible Hulk, with a ball in his hands.
And so, every day after school, after our Universe rendition, and the craziest version of a township haka (more, bizarre adaptations of an original), we would play mini World Cup games.
Forward passes and illegal tackles aside, they were epic, and always ended in a drop-goal that would never register on normal fields.
And, in every game, someone drew the lucky straw and played as Jomo Lomu. Who knew that one of South Africa’s greatest No10s would have a world rugby star named after him, we wondered?
He must be as big as Pele, we surmised.
It took us a good few games – and one smart arse – to get the name right, but eventually we learnt that the sporting world didn’t revolve around Mr Sono. Armed with this tonic, we appreciated Lomu for what he actually was – a sheer freak of nature, born at the right time to take rugby to a far wider audience.
And, boy, he did it in the most devastating manner possible. Will Carling first, then Tony Underwood’s enquiry was shut down before poor Mike Catt was reduced to a mere speed bump on the way to the try-line.
At that moment, for my mates and I, anyway, rugby was cool. Francois Pienaar and the Boks made it more than a sport a few weeks later, but Lomu and his savage combination of skill, power and pace just made the whole thing cool.
Maybe, after that game, Jonah Lomu did say “Sir” as he went to ask one of the Englishmen he bulldozed over to swop match jerseys.
Everything that we have learnt about the gigantically great, sadly late, Jonah Lomu, is that his power and size was used only for the purposes of advancing the black jersey on the field.
Off it, he was every bit the gentle giant, as many rugby powerhouses so often are.
Go well, Jonah. You and your flavour of cool will never, ever be forgotten.