Carol’s Column

Listen up Mallett! My old mom has some ideas

Up above, the heavens are turbulent and down on earth there is much movement among the icons. And I'm not talking about international icons as everyone knows of last week's tragedy.

No, I'm talking local icons here.

I grew up in a household where sport was discussed with enthusiasm. Until he died at 80, my father would go off to rugby and soccer matches. He'd sit in a line with about 20 other grandfathers all wrapped in thick coats with plastic bags on their heads to keep off the rain.

His great passion was rugby, probably because he attended Stellenbosch Boys High School in the days when Paul Roos was captain. He'd always talk proudly how Paul Roos would coach them on the hard veld - none of them wore shoes - and even though their feet were bleeding, they learnt how to pass the ball with speed and tackle even the largest foe to the ground.

Now that he's upstairs in the great rugby field in the sky, I am left with the second family expert, my 85-year-old mother. Who phoned me late last night snorting with outrage.

"What's he doing?" she said.

"He's taking a painkiller, his head's sore," I replied.

"He needs a head transplant, that's what I think," said my mother.

I was shocked. My husband has just had brain surgery. "Ma, he's my husband, you cannot talk like that," I retorted.

"Mallett, I'm talking about Mallett, not Robin," she said quickly. "I'm not sure that Gary Teichmann was the best choice for captain, especially after his last injury."

"Well. He's an icon but he's no longer captain," I said.

"No, but Joost van der Westhuizen?" she pondered. "He's a very fine player, a very fine player but I don't think he's a captain. Now Bobby Skinstad, he's an excellent captain and he's a good player."

"Ma, why don't you phone Nick Mallett and tell him," I snapped.

"I think that's a good idea," she answered vigorously.

Poor Nick Mallett, I thought to myself. Not only does he have the official selectors on his head as well as the media, he also has every rugby playing and watching South African who knows he or she is a better selector. All this and my mother too.

I'd just poured myself a beer, when the phone rang again...

"It's probably the icon oracle again," said my husband who was nursing his poor old bandaged head.

"You'll never guess who's getting divorced," said my mother.

"Tell me, tell me," I sighed.

"Chris Barnard and his third wife Karin. I feel sorry for his two little children, the baby is only two, but really, although age doesn't matter, 40 years is a large age difference."

"Ma, you've always brought me up to believe that age is unimportant, that it doesn't matter who you are, it's what you are that counts."

"True," said my mother, "but when you have to iron your wrinkles before you can sleep with your wife, there's a problem."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. My little mother being waspish?

"There is good news," she added. "Our Benni's showing those Europeans how to play soccer. What a superb soccer player he is and what a lovely looking young man," she added pensively.

"Is he married?"

"Ma, I think McCarthy is married or has a girlfriend and if he isn't he's much too young for your granddaughter Nicky."

"But age doesn't matter," she said.

"Then what about Chris and Karin?"

"That's different," she said.

And thus the oracle of the icons ended the conversation.

■