Playing The Game

Kim du Toit
May 12, 2007
1:08 PM CDT

“Play up, and play the game!” was not just an expression for us at St. John’s College. Sport was compulsory for every boy, regardless of ability and athletic ability, but (as in the classrooms), we were “streamed” into teams according to our ability (as well as by age). Rugby teams, for example, went from the first team (First XV) all the way down to the Seventh XV, before the younger boys’ teams kicked in (Under-15 A/B/C, Under-14 A/B/C and Under-13 A/B/C). Every team played against other schools’ teams, at their respective level—and as if that wasn’t enough, we played against each other in inter-House tournaments as well.

Summers saw all boys playing cricket, squash, tennis, athletics, swimming and golf; winters saw rugby (mostly), or field hockey.

Why was sport so important?

The answer is quite simple: to engender the concept of sportsmanship, and manners. While all competitions were fierce, they were always played in a spirit of the utmost cordiality—and if another school’s team did not display good sportsmanship and manners, they were not included in the following year’s fixtures.

We were taught, at all levels, that to win by cheating was not winning at all—and if someone was discovered to have won by cheating, at anything, the consequences were dire: banning from the sport, or (in extreme cases), expulsion from the school altogether. In the seven years I was at St. John’s (College and Prep), not one boy was ever caught cheating.

Let me give you an example. In playing cricket, if one hits the ball and is caught by a fielder from the opposing side, the fielder appeals to the umpire for a decision. Mostly, it’s a formality, but it gets a little tricky if the batsman barely touches the ball, and is caught “behind” by the fielders. Many times, contact is so slight as to be almost inaudible, and the flight of the ball may yield no clue as to whether the batsman actually made contact.

No matter how certain the fielder might be, the umpire’s decision is final—and there is no appeal (or there wasn’t when I played the game).

I was never better than competent as a cricketer, although I was easily one of the keenest players in the school, but I never rose above the 3rd XI. On one occasion, we were playing another school, when I playe at a ball, and missed, almost. The touch of the ball on the bat was so slight, I barely felt it. The ball was caught behind me, and only the catcher appealed. I didn’t wait for the umpire to raise his forefinger in the air (the signal for “out"), but turned immediately and began to trudge back to the pavilion.

After the match, the umpire (one of our teachers) asked me why I’d turned and walked—he hadn’t seen or heard the ball’s contact with the bat, and was not going to declare me out.

“But I did touch it” was my response. “I knew I was out.” He stared at me for a moment, then patted me on the shoulder and walked away.

Here was the essence of what we were taught: every game has its rules, and one plays within them. But if there’s an ambiguity, one should always err on the side of the honorable decision. Had I not been given out, and stayed in, I might have scored enough runs to have given our team victory. But at what price? Was it worth compromising one’s integrity for the sake of a meaningless game?

The lesson stuck with me, and has always been one of my steadfast, guiding principles. Outside sport, of course, this is called conscience, and I am appalled by the number of people who either ignore that small voice, or who never had one to begin with. The former are immoral, the latter amoral, and I try to have as little to do with either group as I possibly can.

Cricket, at least when I played it, was generally regarded as one of the most gentlemanly of sports—where one played more according to the spirit of fair play than by having the outcome determined by rules alone. When one complains, ”That’s just not cricket!”, it means that someone else has played hard and fast with the rules, or has unilaterally broken them.

When one plays by those rules of fairness and sportsmanship, of course, the expressions “technically legal”, “not provable” and the like are completely irrelevant.

Where some people make the mistake, I think, is that they believe that somehow the principles of fair play and sportsmanship only apply to sport. They don’t.

That’s why St. John’s College was so insistent on its teaching of the principles and their enforcement.

It’s also why I was completely unsurprised when Pete Rose, finally, admitted that he had not only bet on sports matches while he was managing the Cincinnati Reds, but that he’d also bet on his own team. Here was a man who had already broken an actual rule of sport: no gambling on the sport while you’re in a position to affect the outcome (ie. playing or managing). He’d also lied about the whole business, consistently and repeatedly, over a period of years.

Which means that he probably bet on baseball, and on his own team, while he was playing as well. It doesn’t matter if he tries to deny it—for him, the game is over, in every respect—and to those people who are trying to get Pete Rose inducted into the Hall of Fame despite all this, shame on them, because they’re little better than he is.

I’ve tried to play the Game of Life with the utmost degree of sportsmanship, and where I’ve failed, not only have I known it, but my conscience is going to trouble me for the rest of my days because of it.