It feels almost like there’s been a death in the family.
Jean de Villiers has left the building, no longer prepared to rage against the fickle mistress of fate. One minute he was in action, the next he was off injured and, just as suddenly, he had decided to pack it all in.
Heyneke Meyer, the coach, had spoken of the need for a fighter, but De Villiers had no more fight to give.
The miracle of South Africa’s great captain is that he made it this far. He endured one catastrophic injury after the other, wearing his scars like badges of honour. His body is going to ache for years.
I recall reading about De Villiers for the first time in a magazine feature many years ago. What stayed with me was his view that he always felt ahead of the action, and he believed he could anticipate what was going to happen next. I thought it was a windgat thing to say. Except he was right.
He has always been deadly honest and his sense of anticipation was remarkable. How often did we see him zoom into frame and latch onto an attacking ball for an intercept try? He did it again and again, flirting with offsides but inevitably showing his prowess as the ultimate scavenger.
His past year was spent mostly in rehabilitation and glad-handing. De Villiers’ diary was packed from day to day, his remarkable narrative appealing to guests at golf days and corporate breakfasts and other such shindigs. Who could not be swept up by his resolve?
He always spoke bravely and warmly, displaying the driest humour this side of the Kalahari. For all his gifts as a player, De Villiers sure can work a room.
You can measure a player by what his rivals say about him. Social media went into overdrive when news of his retirement filtered through. From John Smit down, the messages from his rugby-playing peers were effusive. The buggers hated playing against him, but they were in awe of his skills.
Richie McCaw, the most decorated player in the game, played warm tribute when honouring De Villiers on occasion of his 100th cap in Wellington a year ago. McCaw isn’t in the habit of spreading his marmalade on other people’s toast, so his gesture was especially powerful.
De Villiers was beyond compare as a statesman of the game. Anyone who can handle the political furnace that the Bok captain is expected to endure has much going for him.
His defence of Oupa Mahoje last year demonstrated his sense of justice and brotherhood. He treated criticism of Mahoje’s selection as a personal affront and defended the loose forward with vigour. De Villiers was never short of class.
In a long career that concluded with 109 Test caps, it is impossible to think of a moment when he so much as suggested himself to be a lesser man. He was free of scandal and controversy, adored as much for his supreme skills as his dignity.
There was, perhaps, an inevitability about De Villiers’ ending at the top level. He was never less than totally committed. A flying Samoan, Tim Nanai-Williams, finally saw to his World Cup ambitions.
He’ll play on overseas for a few more months – the agonising rate of exchange makes it a no-brainer – but his time in the Green and Gold is done.
The De Villiers legacy is secure. He always understood that being a Springbok was more than an 80-minute gig. It was about being a good, decent and just man. Always.