Comrade Porky

BUSINESS DAY, 7 JUNE 2001

PORKY WITHERS IS in training for the Comrades marathon. You must understand the magnitude of that statement: the last time Porky Withers was seen moving at any pace faster than a contented stagger was when Big Bob Plummer accidentally zipped up Porky’s tie in his briefcase and walked out the door.

But it’s true: he has given up ordering a chaser with his breakfast beer, and Sad Henry caught a glimpse of Porky in tracksuit and running shoes just this morning, doing his warm-up stretches. “He was touching his knees,” said Sad Henry with an impressed sort of voice.

Every afternoon we sit in the Chalk ’n Cue and watch Porky Withers come sagging past the plate-glass window. Every 40 minutes or so he reappears, looking yet purpler in the face, his knees buckling further, his torso dragging closer to the ground, his sweat band slipping lower and lower over his eyes. It takes him two hours to complete four laps. Do not imagine that Porky Withers is running around the neighbourhood – nay, not even around the block. He is running around the Chalk ’n Cue.

Getting fit will kill Porky Withers, we all agree as we watch Leon the barman carry Porky inside, lay him down on the bar and pour gin into his mouth, using a rolled-up newspaper as a funnel. Some people are just not fit to be fit.

The rest of us know our limitations: we are in training to be Comrades marathon tele-refs. To be a tele-ref is surely a passion smouldering in every SA sport watcher’s bosom. We are all experts in our fields – being able to yell insults at the referee is almost a prerequisite to qualifying as an SA sport watcher. I once became an expert in curling, a peculiar northern hemisphere sport involving ice and flat weights with handles, after just four minutes of watching the Nagano Winter Olympics. You have not seen a sad sporting sight until you have seen a South African in grubby vest and white boxer shorts yelling advice at a bunch of Scandinavians in furry parkas on the other side of the world.

Most of us would reluctantly admit that we are probably not up to the rigours of actually running from one side of a rugby field to another or standing all day in the Calcutta sun and still being able to monitor every nuance of the tackle-ball rule or every infringement of the front-foot no-ball. Being a tele-ref, though, is a job that causes our very DNA to cry out in happy recognition. “Hell, yes! I can watch a slow-mo replay and tell you that the ball bounced this side of the line! That’s a job I can do!”

The latest tele-ref is to monitor the Comrades marathon. It was announced this week that some highly trained individual will sit in front of a television set, no doubt keeping himself hydrated and with a dedicated team to massage his thighs, and watch 11 hours of coverage, keeping a crafty eye peeled for suspicious behaviour during the race. The object is obviously to try to nab the legion of dedicated Comrades cheats, although I suspect the definition of “suspicious behaviour” may have to be more clearly defined. In my book, running for 11 hours dressed up like a rhinoceros is sufficiently suspicious to be grounds for thorough psychiatric investigation, and you can imagine how delighted I was one year to recognise my investment broker trotting along in baby’s diaper and bonnet, sucking on a dummy.

There will be other mobile referees on motorbikes, zooming between the runners and inspecting them for signs of being someone else, but I would guess that the tele-ref has the hardest job. If recent years are anything to go by, he or she will have to brave 11 hours of the commentary of Lindsay Waite – not a commitment to be undertaken lightly. Whoever the tele-ref may be, I hope they are up to the task. I wish all competitors well in the run-in to the big run-out, but always remember: there’s more to life than health.