On-screen, Ellis Park Stadium was packed to capacity and it was heartening to see all the new South African flags waving in the stands. Spectators had painted their faces in the black, yellow, green, red, blue, and white of the flag and the energy looked electric. The crowd was being entertained by singing and dancing, when a deafening noise suddenly ripped through the stadium.

The screen filled with a Boeing 747 passenger jet flying low over the field. Good Luck Bokke was painted onto the bottom of the plane and wings. Sixty-five thousand heads tilted backward to take in the spectacle playing out above them. And then Nelson Mandela was walking onto the field next to Louis Luyt, the president of the South African Rugby Union.

“Now, there are the strangest of bedfellows I’ve ever seen,” I commented. Luyt was a staunch Afrikaner who was widely rumored to be racist.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Riaan commented dryly. “Look at that! He’s wearing a Springbok jersey.”

Indeed, Mandela was wearing not only the South African Springbok jersey and cap, but he was wearing the number six, which belonged to François Pienaar, the Afrikaner Bok captain. It was unusual to see the president looking so casual; he was normally photographed in suits or the iconic African shirts that had been nicknamed “Madiba shirts.”

As Mandela shook hands with the players, saying a few words to each of them, a chant built up in the stadium and gathered momentum until it became a roar.

“Nelson! Nelson! Nelson!”

My tears rose up on the same wave as the goose bumps on my arms. “To think that he was considered such a threat to white South Africans a year ago. Look at them now. Look how much they love him.”

On-screen, Nelson Mandela, looking delighted, took off his cap and waved it at the predominantly white crowd.

The first half of the game was nail-biting, and by the time the whistle blew at full-time, the score was tied 9–9.

“Extra-time is going to be interesting,” Riaan said. “The guys all look buggered.” He excused himself to pop outside and turn off the gas so the potjie wouldn’t burn.

When the whistle blew again, the struggle began anew. Things were looking good until the All Blacks’ fly-half scored a long-range penalty, making the score 12–9 to the New Zealanders.

“Damn it!” Ruth yelled.

I was convinced that that was it for us, and that we’d lost, when Joel Stransky leveled for the Boks. “We’re back to a tie!”

“How much time is left in the game?”

“Eight minutes.”

“Come on, boys! You can do it!” The words were barely out of Ruth’s mouth when suddenly, from thirty meters out, Joel Stransky drop-kicked the ball. We all watched as time seemed to slow down. The ball somersaulted through the air, reaching its zenith before dropping through the poles. The crowd went ballistic.