The Enigma of Santana

There’s a strange question on my mind: why did Joel Santana ditch his translator? Is it the recession? Have things got so bad that from his monthly R1.8-million salary he could no longer afford to dish out a few bucks for her? Did they have a fall out? Or did someone at the training camp pub tell the Bafana Bafana coach a tragic lie about his abilities to speak English?
This is a strange question because I am the absolute opposite of a sports fan. In school, I played second team everything – and only because it was compulsory. In my adult life, I never owned a rugby jersey, never watched sport on television and didn’t invest any emotion into something I considered to be a waste of humanity’s collective time.
But this weekend I couldn’t help get sucked into some of the sporting action. I caught a bit of the rugby and then watched almost the entire match between Bafana Bafana and Spain.
The game was great, we only lost by two goals and I was very impressed with our goalkeeper. But the real action only began after the match – in those dreadful, rehearsed post-match interviews with a colourful kaleidoscope of brands in the background.
With microphone in hand, some former soccer star stumbled over his words and smiled stupidly for the SABC camera. Enter our captain, who told us that although “no one gave us any chances” they got through to the semis. What was he expecting? Is it not all about creating your own chances? Did he want to pull a Hansie on us?
Then came Santana, looking at us over his giant soggy potato of a nose. Asked about the match and the journey ahead, his answers went something like this: Yes… very happy…. Bafana Bafana… Brazil… play… Brazil… excited… challenge… Tshabalala… goals… happy… err… excited… Brazil… score… play… Bafana Bafana… chance… err… match… Bafana Bafana… goal…
By this point, my girlfriend, four of our friends and I were falling off the couch laughing. No amount of money could have bought this kind of entertainment. It was such a wonderful screw-up that we just had to keep watching.
The cameras went to some Spanish player, who praised Bafana Bafana for a game well played and then took us inside the SABC studio. At this point, some presenter with a shiny black suit and rimmed glasses, decided to end his career and went on a giant rave about how Santana should be fired and that he should take his captain with him. “I’m angry!” he kept chanting. “Like the rest of South Africa!” Speak for yourself Mr anger management.
And so came to an end our soccer bonanza and we switched over to watching an art film. And the universe slid back into orbit.