when I
could be canoeing down rivers or waterskiing. His first love
was, and remains to this day, motor racing.
In the months following my mother's death we became
keen to assert our independence. As a result, when Carl was
still only seventeen he bought his first car. I thought it was a
beautiful car – a small white Golf, in which he had made a
point of installing a fantastic sound system. We were elated
to be free (or almost, as in South Africa eighteen is the legal
age for a driving licence). I was only fifteen, but every now
and then Carl, being the fantastic big brother that he is,
allowed me to drive around the streets of Pretoria with the
music blaring.
Nothing could have prepared me for my next traumatic,
life-changing event. On 21 June 2003 I was playing rugby
when I was tackled with what is commonly called a 'hospital
pass'. I never even saw it coming. A hospital pass is a high
pass that earned its particular name from the high probability
that it would land you in a plaster cast or even a hospital
bed. I was playing on the wing. A high ball came my way,
and as I stopped and then jumped to catch it, I was tackled
from either side by two enormous players. They simply
slammed into me, one on the left and one on the right. I felt
a sharp pain, and when my body finally hit the ground I saw
that my left leg was sticking out all askew. It did not look
good, but I assumed (or hoped) that it was just my prosthesis.
At least they were relatively easy to fix.
As you may know, rugby in South Africa is more a religion
than a sport. Fathers pass their teams down to their sons and
it is all taken very seriously. The majority of the fathers come
to watch the matches, and so there is often a beer tent by the
field. They can drink as they egg their sons on, and inevitably
they often become rowdy and boisterous. That afternoon one
of the spectators started goading me to stand up and 'stop
behaving like a girl'. Not wishing to be seen as a sissy, I
pulled myself up but was in a lot of pain. Somehow I
managed to finish the match and pedal the 6 kilometres
home. The next day I woke up with a very swollen and
bruised knee. I could hardly move, and soon found myself
back in the care of Gerry Versveld. It looked like my sporting
days were over. I was only sixteen.
Chapter 6
The First Time
S O THERE I WAS , back in Gerry Versveld's office. We had
never lost touch, but it had been a while since we had
last seen one another, and he knew nothing of my sporting
successes. When I told him that I had hurt myself playing
rugby he was astounded and burst out laughing. My morale
was low, and I could not see what there was to smile about.
Gerry was able to heal me without the need for any
surgical intervention, and he further reassured me that if I
followed instructions and respected my rehabilitation process
of low-intensity gym workouts and aerobic training in water,
I would soon be able to return to sport. After three long
months of enforced inaction and rest, I began my physiotherapy
at the Sports Science Institute, which is part of the
University of Pretoria. I was placed in the care of Heinrich
Nolte, who advised me to concentrate on sprinting, which is
apparently the best way to regain functionality in the knee
joint. He put me in touch with Ampie Louw, who was
coaching athletics at university level. I was sceptical about
the arrangement as I had never had an affinity for athletics,
and I even tried to pull out, but was duly informed by Nolte
(whose opinion was supported by all my sporting heroes)
that if I wanted to be ready and perform in the next rugby
season (which was due to begin the following April), I needed
to do as instructed and start sprint training. I acquiesced, and
my training with Ampie began on 1 January 2004.
At the start of that year I was still using the handcrafted
prostheses made by our family friend Chris Hatting. They
were less expensive than the mass-produced equivalents but
they were brittle and temperamental,
could be canoeing down rivers or waterskiing. His first love
was, and remains to this day, motor racing.
In the months following my mother's death we became
keen to assert our independence. As a result, when Carl was
still only seventeen he bought his first car. I thought it was a
beautiful car – a small white Golf, in which he had made a
point of installing a fantastic sound system. We were elated
to be free (or almost, as in South Africa eighteen is the legal
age for a driving licence). I was only fifteen, but every now
and then Carl, being the fantastic big brother that he is,
allowed me to drive around the streets of Pretoria with the
music blaring.
Nothing could have prepared me for my next traumatic,
life-changing event. On 21 June 2003 I was playing rugby
when I was tackled with what is commonly called a 'hospital
pass'. I never even saw it coming. A hospital pass is a high
pass that earned its particular name from the high probability
that it would land you in a plaster cast or even a hospital
bed. I was playing on the wing. A high ball came my way,
and as I stopped and then jumped to catch it, I was tackled
from either side by two enormous players. They simply
slammed into me, one on the left and one on the right. I felt
a sharp pain, and when my body finally hit the ground I saw
that my left leg was sticking out all askew. It did not look
good, but I assumed (or hoped) that it was just my prosthesis.
At least they were relatively easy to fix.
As you may know, rugby in South Africa is more a religion
than a sport. Fathers pass their teams down to their sons and
it is all taken very seriously. The majority of the fathers come
to watch the matches, and so there is often a beer tent by the
field. They can drink as they egg their sons on, and inevitably
they often become rowdy and boisterous. That afternoon one
of the spectators started goading me to stand up and 'stop
behaving like a girl'. Not wishing to be seen as a sissy, I
pulled myself up but was in a lot of pain. Somehow I
managed to finish the match and pedal the 6 kilometres
home. The next day I woke up with a very swollen and
bruised knee. I could hardly move, and soon found myself
back in the care of Gerry Versveld. It looked like my sporting
days were over. I was only sixteen.
Chapter 6
The First Time
S O THERE I WAS , back in Gerry Versveld's office. We had
never lost touch, but it had been a while since we had
last seen one another, and he knew nothing of my sporting
successes. When I told him that I had hurt myself playing
rugby he was astounded and burst out laughing. My morale
was low, and I could not see what there was to smile about.
Gerry was able to heal me without the need for any
surgical intervention, and he further reassured me that if I
followed instructions and respected my rehabilitation process
of low-intensity gym workouts and aerobic training in water,
I would soon be able to return to sport. After three long
months of enforced inaction and rest, I began my physiotherapy
at the Sports Science Institute, which is part of the
University of Pretoria. I was placed in the care of Heinrich
Nolte, who advised me to concentrate on sprinting, which is
apparently the best way to regain functionality in the knee
joint. He put me in touch with Ampie Louw, who was
coaching athletics at university level. I was sceptical about
the arrangement as I had never had an affinity for athletics,
and I even tried to pull out, but was duly informed by Nolte
(whose opinion was supported by all my sporting heroes)
that if I wanted to be ready and perform in the next rugby
season (which was due to begin the following April), I needed
to do as instructed and start sprint training. I acquiesced, and
my training with Ampie began on 1 January 2004.
At the start of that year I was still using the handcrafted
prostheses made by our family friend Chris Hatting. They
were less expensive than the mass-produced equivalents but
they were brittle and temperamental,
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