The covenant - James A. Michener [628]
'That's the minister of finance,' the Johannesburg man said without taking further notice, but apparently there was some kind of governmental meeting, for within a few minutes the new prime minister came bustling in. He had been in office such a short time that Philip only vaguely recognized him. 'Is that who I think it is?' he whispered.
'Yes, that's the prime minister.' And again no one moved.
A little while later an extraordinary man walked past them. It seemed to Philip that one of the Drakensberg Mountains had come to Pretoria, for the man was gigantic, not in height, although he was quite tall, but in the girth of his body, the enormous spread of hips, the lower jaw that jutted at least four inches farther than normal. He had black hair and great dark eyes.
'Who's . . .' Philip started.
'My God!' the chairman of Amalgamated cried. 'That's Frik du Preez!' At this, all the businessmen stood up and nodded at the great Springbok who had played in more international matches than any other South African. Like an Alp wading across the Mediterranean, he moved majestically through the lobby to enter the dining room, and everyone in Saltwood's party marked his progress.
'That was Frik du Preez,' the chairman repeated.
'I think my family had some doings with the Cape Town Du Preezes,' Saltwood said, and at this news all the men regarded him with additional respect.
The most revealing incident concerning rugby occurred one morning at the camp when Philip received a day-old Pretoria newspaper, across the front of which appeared four excellent photographs depicting one continuous play in Saturday's game against Monument. The left-hand picture showed Frikkie Troxel being savagely tackled by a Monument brute named Spyker Swanepoel, who was using what American football called 'the clothesline tackle,' in which a man with the ball running full speed east is grabbed about the neck by a bigger man running full speed west. In this photograph it looked as if Frikkie was about to lose his head.
Shot two showed him flat on the ground, unconscious, ball flopping away, while Spyker Swanepoel delivered a savage, heavily booted kick with full force right at his temple. It was a blow which would have killed a mere human being, but rugby players were something beyond that.
Shot three was the precious one. Frikkie lay almost dead, spread-eagled.
The triumphant Spyker was striding away. And up behind him could be seen Jopie Troxel, leaping off his left foot, his right fist swinging forward with terrifying force and striking Spyker so fiercely that it was clear that his jaw jumped sideways three inches.
Shot four was total bedlam. Frikkie lay dead, or almost so. Spyker Swanepoel lay unconscious, his jaw awry in such a way as to impart a beatific smile. And seven Monument men, engulfing Jopie, were knocking him to the ground and kicking him. In other parts of the photograph some half-dozen major fistfights were taking place, with one Venloo man neatly kneeing his opponent in the crotch. The series was entitled spirited play at loftus versfeld.
When Frikkie regained consciousness in the hospital, sports reporters wanted to know how he felt about the game, and he said, 'We should've won.'
'You did,' they told him.
'Hooray!' He tried to get out of bed, but could not control his movements and fell back.
'Did you know that Spyker kicked you?'
'What if he did?'
'Did you see the papers?'
'I haven't even seen daylight.' They showed him the four photographs, and he spent some time on the first one. 'That Spyker made a strong tackle, didn't he?'
'But the kick?'
'Jopie took care of that,' he said, pointing to the ferocious blow in the third shot. Then he studied the last picture: 'I'm down. Spyker's down. Jopie's