28 years have passed since that wonderful 1995, the year in which the Springboks, the South African rugby team, opened themselves to the world and showed their powers.
Against all odds, the South Africans surpassed themselves to win the world title, they became prophets in their land, they did so in the presence of Nelson Mandela, in the times of post-apartheid, a magnificent fertilizer for literati (John Carlin: The human factor) and filmmakers (Clint Eastwood: Invictus).
Since then, South Africa has always been there, at the forefront of rugby, with two other semi-finals and two other titles, the last four years ago.
And all that is legend, the South African legend.
Last night, France was looking for its own, its legend: Les Bleus have never won a World Cup.
They will not win this one either, the one that was celebrated in their land.
(...)
We are in the quarterfinals of the World Cup in Paris, and eighty thousand throats appear at the Stade de France. They paint the tricolor on their faces. They sing La Marseillaise. They intend to stun South Africans, to trace their own unique story. Be, like those, prophets in their land.
The match is a kind of early end, and the French play with their body and soul, they start fast, vertically, not at all intimidated by the aura of the rival, and after three minutes they already add a try (Cyril Baille) and the subsequent conversion by Thomas Ramos: 7-0.
The game becomes a street runner. The South Africans rely on the order generated by Mannie Libbok, the agile fly half who has arrived to replace the veteran Duane Vermeulen (37), and the speed of Kurt-Lee Arendsee and Chestlin Kolbe, two bullets who score two tries. Faced with South African subtlety, the French respond with more volume. Cyril Baille scores another try, and the hosts go into half-time with a 22-19 lead, a partial that worries the world champions.
The Stade de France is rubbing its hands and the most veterans are dreaming about the revenge of that semi-final in Durban, the 19-15 that the South Africans had inflicted on the French in the 1995 semi-final, under a storm, in the days that inspired Carlin and Eastwood.
Passion overflows in Paris when Thomas Ramos converts another penalty shot and makes the score 25-19, but that's where South Africa transforms.
Faf de Klerk enters the scene.
He is small and has long blonde hair, he doesn't look like a rugby player at all, and yet he plays like an angel.
De Klerk orders, waits and distributes, and the Springboks fuel. They take the shape of a world champion.
There are 37 minutes left in the game and the French dismantle. Eden Etzebeth, 2.03m and 117 kilos, breaks the blue defense and scores a try, Pollard converts (25-26) and the Springboks show off their stripes. They take over the tempos, they applaud the antics of the fast Kolbe and the success of Pollard between the three sticks. When the referee blows the final whistle, France curses his fate.
How the French suffer when they play at home, be it rugby, be it tennis, be it cycling!
