“Eish,” said Pieter* sitting next to me before sipping the foam off the top of his draught. “Jeandré Rudolph is due a big game,” he continued, followed by three whale-like gulps of the golden brew. The captain of the FNB NWU-Puk had just led his team onto the field for their must-win clash against FNB UFS Shimlas.

We are perched square in front of the television screen nearest – by coincidence, I may add – to the bar. The Broken Pot in Potchefstroom is shaded in hues of red and tinted golden by the sun lazily reclining to its chair in the east. Having successfully persuaded Henry to switch the broadcast from the Proteas playing Sri Lanka to the Varsity Cup clash between the traditional foes and, backed by the support only our waiter Nicholas can provide, we settled in.

As the game progressed, Pukke was putting on a dashing display of running rugby. At times, they seemed to break Shimlas’ defence at will. Swift passing, deft stepping, handling as smooth as if borrowed from a Dove soap commercial; this was all on display.

Filtered through the visor of Charles Glass’ finest, we spotted a jersey just a tad more prominent than the others, the number ‘eight’ an omnipresent threat to defenders and attackers, alike.

Recalling his navy days and revealing his age – his lining of Nik Naks chips having worn off – Pieter was equating Jeandre’s performance to Francis Drake destroying the Spanish Armada.

Then, at precisely 33 minutes and 34 seconds into the game, Rudolph laid his hands on a poached ball. He set forth from a few metres inside the Shimlas’ half, sprinting like a gazelle, chased by a lion who is chased by a big game hunter, who is chased by an environmentalist. Rudolph scored a try for the ages. NWU-Pukke went on to beat Shimlas 37-21 at Cape Town Stadium.

Rudolph was awarded Man of the Match and Pieter awarded himself the accolade of greatest pundit the game has ever known. If only he could later find a few Disprins in his cubbyhole.

The next day, I gave Rudolph a ring, uncertain whether Oudtshoorn’s son would answer, for he is surely more loved, now, than his hometowns’ iconic ostriches, more popular than the town’s yearly Little Karoo National Arts Festival.

He answered. I asked the most important question since the whole chicken-egg debacle: “I didn’t know you are that fast?”

“Neither did I!” he laughed. The end result surprised him as well. “No, jeez, I knew I was going to make a few yards, but there was a second line of defence and I was sure they were going to stop me. Not for a second did I think I was going to score a try.”

“Helluva game ou,” I said, lauding his performance.

“I really needed a big game,” he replied in earnest. “I’ve had three yellow cards this season and I owed it to the guys. I owed it to everybody. I think I was unlucky with one or two that stemmed from a team warning, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that I needed to perform.”

He led the charge to a semi-final showdown with FNB UJ next Monday and he has little doubt that the boys will be able to extend their run to at least a game more. “We are going to take it. We’ve got a lot of momentum going into that game. This is one of the best squads I’ve ever been part of. It is one big family playing for each other. Every one of UJ’s 15 players on the field are dangerous, every one of them poses a threat. They have the home-field advantage, but none of this matters. We have a job to do,” he said, his tone invoking that field marshal in the European theatre circa 1941.

A Varsity Cup crown has proved to be as elusive as Pieter’s Disprins for the NWU-Puk. Another performance like the one on Monday could see that change.  Spare a thought for Nicholas should that happen.

*Not to be confused with any ‘Pieter’ of virtuous character or moral high standing. This is Pieter Möller.