Blade Runner (5 page)

In order to mark their arrival at the senior school, all the
Standard Six boys go away together on a camping weekend
at the beginning of the year. It is an initiation into the ways
of the school. The prefects have free rein and they certainly
put us through the mill. We were woken up in the middle of
the night as they screamed at us and then drenched us with
buckets of freezing water. I remember one boy who had a
broken leg in a cast being chucked into the swimming pool
as he confused some of the lyrics while singing the school
hymn. It was wild.

We were all in tears and pleading to go home. I remember
the older boys yelling at us and asking us who we thought
we were. Did we think we were adults? Did we think we
were young men? 'Make a point of watching your step,
young boy. This is serious, respect the rules because if you
don't you will be punished!' They set us all sorts of different
tests: one was an obstacle course, while another involved
being dropped off in a field seemingly in the middle of
nowhere, equipped with nothing but a compass, the task
being to work your way back to the camp within a certain
time frame. It was really tough, but in my opinion the
experience was character-building.

I was still a lightweight at that age and I found the older
boys terrifying. The rough language and abrasive approach
were so intimidating. Some of them were huge burly rugby
players who weighed up to 100 kilos; to us they seemed
almost superhuman.

In my last year in the dormitory I became responsible for
the first-year students. They slept in dormitories of twenty
children per room, with a small adjoining room with a
cupboard and a desk for the person overseeing them. Lights
out was nine o'clock, but they were allowed to talk to one
another until ten, when silence became obligatory. On the
whole the children were well behaved and respectful of the
rules, and always generously shared with me the endless
supply of treats their mothers sent to them. Mothers have a
tendency to spoil their sons rotten when they first leave
home.

Over and above taking care of the dormitory the older
children were expected to mentor the younger children and
look out for them generally. In principle the older boy must
advise and support the younger, and should be there to help
him should he experience any problems or difficulties at
school. This system of mentoring, also known as fagging or
skivvying, has plenty of advantages for the older child as
well. I remember with great affection a little boy called Allan
Burnett who was my skivvy. He used to sleep closest to my
door; if I became hungry during the evening or when I was
studying late, all I had to do was call his name and he would
wake up and bring me a coffee with cookies. When I needed
to stay up late to study but found myself falling asleep, I
would wake him. We would chat a bit, I would have a break
and a snack, and then he could go back to bed and I would
continue studying. In return I was responsible for Allan: I
helped him with his homework wherever possible and went
to support him when he played in sports matches. Many
schools no longer use the fagging system, but I think it is a
fantastic way to mentor children, ensuring that they have the
support of someone who has already been through the same
experiences. It is a little like having a big brother. Of course,
one has to make sure that the system is not abused, but when
it is correctly and sensitively handled I think there are
significant advantages for everyone involved.

I
N MY FIRST YEAR
at Pretoria Boys' High I played cricket.
I was eager to try rugby but slightly apprehensive as I had
never played before (my junior school had not had a rugby
field). By my second year I had grown in confidence, so I
decided to substitute rugby and water polo for cricket and
tennis and I have never looked back. I did not do athletics,
but loved long-distance running. My preferred distance was
10 kilometres, and I was helped by the fact that I was using
much lighter prostheses. Chris Hatting, a friend of my
father's, designed the prostheses. Chris was an aeronautical
engineer obsessed with design; he had begun to produce the
prostheses towards the end of 2001. They were handcrafted,
relatively short and shaped like hooks; as they were still at a
fairly early stage of development they frequently broke, but
I used them until at least June 2004.

Pretoria Boys' High hosted a range of endurance races: one
was called 'The Ten Kilometre Classic', another 'the King of
the Mountains'. I was very competitive and generally finished
within the top ten or fifteen in the school. I had become very
fit as I cycled a lot. While I lived at my father's I often cycled
to school and back, a distance of 24 kilometres. I was never
part of the school cross-country team, but the only reason for
this was the importance the sporting officials at the school
placed on focus and training: they believed that it was more
important truly to excel in one or two chosen sports than to
be merely good at five or six sports. Excellence was their
priority, and indeed by my penultimate year at the school
three boys had qualified for national level athletics, five were
playing in the Springbok under-nineteens rugby team and
many more were playing at provincial level. We were
semi-professional sportsmen, not just all-rounders. My
strengths were rugby and water polo, to which I was totally
committed. I was continually striving to better my achievements.

I adored rugby and thoroughly enjoyed playing it. I was
never shy to exploit the fact that some boys were nervous or
frightened of my prostheses. I remember one match that I
played in Johannesburg: I was running with the ball and my
opponent was nervous of tackling me, but eventually he
pushed me forward and I duly fell over and lost a leg in the
process. I just carried on as I was determined to keep the ball
in play, and so I hopped over the line, but this guy kept on
pushing me. This time I punched him, drawing applause
from my friends, and then put my prostheses back on and
calmly scored a try. I really savoured that moment of victory
and was delighted when the coach scolded my opponent for
his behaviour.

Running was part of my rugby training. In addition to
your chosen sports training programme, Pretoria Boys' High
had four obligatory track races per week. There were always
boys milling around the dormitories who did not have sport
that day or who had already finished training, and at such
moments we were all packed off to the tracks to practise
running. Our school's sporting routine was intense but
without doubt it produced some fine athletes. My rugby
team, for example, was made up entirely of boarders, and
this was probably because the training was so hard and
concentrated that it was much easier to live on the school
grounds; boarding also gave the pupils ready access to all the
useful material support.

In November 2001 my mother remarried.

At first my mother's decision hit my brother Carl really
hard. She had always promised that she would never remarry
unless she met the perfect man and even then she would do
so only with our consent. For many years she had been as
good as her word, despite a steady flow of suitors through
the door. She was a real lady, and her views were traditional
in just about every respect: she would never have agreed to
live with someone or have them stay over, since for her it was
important to do things properly, for which I have always
respected her. We were already living at boarding school by
this point, and so I was completely taken by surprise when,
without any warning, she took us aside and told us her plans.
Carl felt betrayed, and his initial reaction was to storm out
in fury, leaving my mother in tears. Aimée and I felt rather
awkward to begin with, but we were soon reconciled to the
idea of her remarrying: we were happy to know that
somebody was making her happy. In Carl's opinion, when
our parents divorced he became the man of the house and
responsible for our wellbeing; the fact that our mother had
not made him party to this important change in her life left
him feeling slighted. Fortunately for all of us, although Carl
can be hot-headed and tends to be frank in the expression of
his opinion, he isn't a man to dwell on life's problems, and
so by the time of our mother's wedding he had come round
to the idea and understood her decision. In fact, he took my
mother's new husband – a pilot by profession – to his heart
and to this day they remain close friends.

The summer after their wedding, and again without
warning, my mother fell ill and was hospitalised. Her illness
was virulent and complicated by an initial misdiagnosis. Her
health deteriorated extremely rapidly and she passed away
just one month later. The doctors initially diagnosed her with
hepatitis. Carl had been ill with it not long before, and she
was showing similar symptoms. When the treatment brought
her no relief it became clear that they had to do further tests;
however, by the time the correct diagnosis was made it was
too late.

During her stay at the hospital we would often be
summoned by friends and relatives telling us that she had
taken a turn for the worse and that we should come to the
hospital, but each time this happened she seemed to pull
through and begin to recover. These false alarms happened
so often that we eventually became inured to them; it never
occurred to us that she might not get better.

I remember the day my mother died very clearly. It was 6
March 2002. I have since had this date tattooed alongside
her birth date on my arm, my only tattoos. That day I was
at school in a history lesson when the school principal
interrupted the class to tell me I had ten minutes to collect
my things; my father would be waiting for me at the school
gate. Carl and I arrived at the gate just in time to witness
my father driving his enormous Mercedes towards us at
breakneck speed. It was clear that something was not right:
he was shouting at us to hurry up and get in, and seemed to
be on the verge of tears. Although my parents had been
divorced for years they still felt great affection for one
another. All of our closest friends and family were at the
hospital, and it became increasingly obvious that this day
was different and that my mother was very close to death.
We were rushed into her room to be by her side, and ten
minutes later she left us.

It was a very distressing moment. She could no longer
recognise us as she had slipped into a coma, and she was
heavily intubated as her organs were failing. It broke my
heart to see her this way. She no longer looked like herself.

Initially I thought I handled her death pretty well. I was
the only one who was not crying and I helped to comfort my
brother and sister. After the funeral I decided to return to
school. I told everyone I was fine, but what I did not realise
was that I was desperate to get back into my routine and to
a world where my days were structured. Only a few of my
classmates knew about my loss; this suited me, as it kept the
questions to a minimum. Everything seemed under control,
but then I woke up the next morning in floods of tears. I had
completely lost my bearings. I went to stay with a friend for
a couple of days as I had lost all interest in my school
environment. I would then recover my composure and return
to school, only to be stricken by my grief once again and
have to go and stay with someone else. It was awful.

Sport was my salvation, as it helped me to get through this
difficult time. My mother had been a strong woman, the
centre of my world. Sporting activity was the only thing
which could distract me from such a loss.

After our mother's death we spent weekends at our Aunt
Diane's house. Diane is my mother's sister, and Aimée lived
with her while she finished school in Johannesburg. For a
couple of years, Carl and I were rather like rudderless boats
– effectively homeless, floating between boarding school,
Diane's house and the houses of our closest friends.

Carl and I used to run together. He was faster than me,
but he would encourage me endlessly and spur me on. Carl
has always had a soft spot for extreme sports. Even when we
were boys he used to make fun of my playing cricket, asking
me what on earth was keeping me on a sports pitch when I
could be canoeing down rivers or waterskiing. His first love
was, and remains to this day, motor racing.

In the months following my mother's death we became
keen to assert our independence. As a result, when Carl was
still only seventeen he bought his first car. I thought it was a
beautiful car – a small white Golf, in which he had made a
point of installing a fantastic sound system. We were elated
to be free (or almost, as in South Africa eighteen is the legal
age for a driving licence). I was only fifteen, but every now
and then Carl, being the fantastic big brother that he is,
allowed me to drive around the streets of Pretoria with the
music blaring.

Nothing could have prepared me for my next traumatic,
life-changing event. On 21 June 2003 I was playing rugby
when I was tackled with what is commonly called a 'hospital
pass'. I never even saw it coming. A hospital pass is a high
pass that earned its particular name from the high probability
that it would land you in a plaster cast or even a hospital
bed. I was playing on the wing. A high ball came my way,
and as I stopped and then jumped to catch it, I was tackled
from either side by two enormous players. They simply
slammed into me, one on the left and one on the right. I felt
a sharp pain, and when my body finally hit the ground I saw
that my left leg was sticking out all askew. It did not look
good, but I assumed (or hoped) that it was just my prosthesis.
At least they were relatively easy to fix.

As you may know, rugby in South Africa is more a religion
than a sport. Fathers pass their teams down to their sons and
it is all taken very seriously. The majority of the fathers come
to watch the matches, and so there is often a beer tent by the
field. They can drink as they egg their sons on, and inevitably
they often become rowdy and boisterous. That afternoon one
of the spectators started goading me to stand up and 'stop
behaving like a girl'. Not wishing to be seen as a sissy, I
pulled myself up but was in a lot of pain. Somehow I
managed to finish the match and pedal the 6 kilometres
home. The next day I woke up with a very swollen and
bruised knee. I could hardly move, and soon found myself
back in the care of Gerry Versveld. It looked like my sporting
days were over. I was only sixteen.