Tinus Horn is a Johannesburg artist and sportswriter. His first novel, Droster appeared in 1996, and a graphic novel, Hemel op Aarde (with Alastair Findlay) followed in 1997. With a little luck, Horn’s second novel — a murder mystery set in the offices of Vryheidspos, a cowboy weekly from the early nineties — will be completed before the next millennium.

Cliffie Human and the code of honour

In Cliffie Human’s glory days, only namby-pambies whined about the ump.
     And don’t come with the bull that umpiring standards have dropped; Cliffie got his share of rough calls — and then some. True, there were no TV cameras to highlight his plight, but as an off-spinner with a deceptive arm-ball, he often shook his head in disbelief as the umpire stood, unmoved, after a particularly lively lbw appeal.
     But afterwards Cliffie would never complain. Those were the days when cricketers still had a code of honour, see, and shutting up was the cornerstone of the code. Also, Cliffie firmly believed that things evened out bye and bye.
     While Cliffie bowled a more than useful off-break, his exploits as a big-hitting lower-order batsman outshone anything he ever achieved with the ball. When Cliffie’s extra-heavy Slazenger Five Star connected, the opposition played fetch.
     Cliffie entered cricketing folklore, or believed he did, at net practice one Thursday afternoon.
     Annoyed at having had his stumps rattled by a snot-nosed youngster, Cliffie double-stepped the next delivery and took a lusty swing.
     His timing was perfect. The ball was still climbing when it cleared the clubhouse. It carried the length of the field — all of 120 metres, according to Cliffie — and landed in the carpark.
     The fact that, through an astonishing coincidence, it came down on to Cliffie’s own GTi, leaving a sizeable dent in the bonnet, did little to take the shine off the moment. Cliffie later had the ball framed, with an inscription.
     Some of his teammates from way-back-when still remember Cliffie’s last match.
     It was a big occasion. As big as they come. Cliffie’s club, Sturrock Park, playing Azaadville away. At stake, the Sixth League title of the Transvaal Cricket Board.
     The scenario, a classic nailbiter: Four balls to go, Sturrock nine down, needing five to win.
     Now, the thing about Azaadville’s ground on the day was this: the outfield hadn’t seen a mower for weeks. As a result, fours were ridiculously hard to come by. You’d be wasting your time trying. Heroic measures were called for. And that’s where Cliffie Human came in.
     In trundled the Azaadville seamer. Down came the bat.
     It seemed as if the loud “thock!” of wood on leather could be heard for miles around. It would surely have echoed through the stand, had there been a stand.
     A perfect yorker had shattered the stumps. The 25-strong home crowd was ecstatic. Until the horrid truth hit home: A second sound had followed the first. The umpire — Cliffie Human — had called a no-ball.
     In the lower leagues the team batting supplies the umpires. Cliffie, having made a first-ball duck, had been sent back out to the middle to do his duty. Which he did.
     Sturrock scrambled the winning runs off the last ball to clinch the match — and the title.
     Azaadville lodged a complaint. Cliffie and his captain, and the Azaadville bowler and his captain, were called to testify at the subsequent hearing. Not suprisingly, the two camps couldn’t agree on the sequence of events. The Sturrock boys were adamant the call came before the ball hit the stumps. Azaadville begged to differ. And so the complaint was dismissed for lack of objective evidence.
     Sturrock were champs and Cliffie was king. But he wasn’t happy. In fact, he was quite taken aback by the fuss. So he packed it in.
     At first, he wouldn’t talk about it. He even stopped watching cricket on TV.
     Months later, Cliffie Human finally bared his soul to a stranger in a bar. His tale must have come as a nice change from the sad pub stories of lost love and tough luck, although the general tone was much the same.
     “… So,” he concluded, “after 15 years of selfless duty to the game I loved, I put my bat away for the last time. That, my friend, was that.”
     The stranger was a bit perplexed by Cliffie’s deep resentment, especially after Cliffie admitted that the fateful ball had, in act, been perfectly legit.
     “Look, man, you don’t understand. There’s this code of honour. And then those okes go and cry to the Board.”
     “Code of honour?”
     “Ja. Code of honour. They rob you blind. You rob them blind. May the best man win.”

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