Let me tell you the story of Black Mozart. It started with a rock.

The new girl is fast. She has blonde dreadlocks and skin as white as a shining dinner plate. She comes in at half time as centre and runs like the wind. Over and over she gets a foot to the ball and tap taps it to her wing, setting up the Tigers women’s team to pass it down the line.

She is useless at long passes. They fall short or fly too far, like her legs are too long to be accurate. The legs that are so skinny it looks like you could fold them at the joints and pack them in your bag, like a guitar stand.

I’ve finished playing and am watching the women’s team. Seven minutes to go and they have three goals each. The Hawks are on their own turf, their supporters yelling from the side.

“Take it, take it!”


The white girl tries a long pass to her striker, Kholeka, but it lands neatly at the feet of the enemy.

“Aagh,” Kholeka groans in frustration.

“Shit!” the white girl swears, then she’s off like a streak of lightning, blonde dreads whipping, to get the ball back.

The Hawks’ and the Tigers’ women’s teams have been rivals for the top of the log three years running.

This girl is the only white person on the field, her face red with effort now. She is wet with sweat, not fit enough, but she forces herself into a full sprint. She lunges for the ball, but as her boot touches it she jerks like she has hit a bomb planted in the grass. She crashes to the ground. The game goes on as she rolls, clutching at her hip.

“Who did that?” she groans.

“Lisa, are you okay?” Kholeka shouts.

The girl points at the yelling spectators.

“Someone threw a rock at me!”

Haai,” someone growls. “Voetsek!


Tell us: Is it likely a spectator would have thrown a rock at Lisa?