The show is conditioned to three minutes into the game. The mellifluous chords of Mika, the vocalist who opened the session, still resonate, perhaps emulating the SuperBowl, when Shannon Frizell goes to the bench, reprimanded and suspended for eight minutes.
Great New Zealand finds itself one man less and South Africa reaches cruising speed.
Handre Pollard adds the first of the four penalty shots that he will sign in the first half (in this World Cup he has scored all of them, he has shown himself to be infallible: thirteen out of thirteen), and the Springboks take flight.
Having barely overcome the two previous rounds, the quarterfinals against the host France and the semifinal against England, the South Africans finally believe in their role.
They have earned it in their own right.
This time they are not trailing on the scoreboard, but are leading it.
And the All Blacks, bewildered, cannot find a way out of the mess.
The grand final of rugby, the duel between the two best teams in the world, is passion. And also, asymmetry.
With one man less, and disconcerted by the South African avalanche, New Zealand finds itself in deep water. Twelve minutes in, Pollard adds the second penalty blow. It’s 0-6 for the South Africans, and Frizell hasn’t returned to the scene yet.
There is a range of conditions in this duel, starting with the supremacy of discipline. Whoever wins will win the four world titles, breaking the tiebreaker that unites them all. There is also a duel of schools: New Zealand expansiveness versus the containment of the South Africans, who are also defending the 2019 title.
The event is so valued that Novak Djokovic and Roger Federer have requested a special pass. They both look out at the Stade de France box. The screens surprise them. Federer wears a South African scarf and t-shirt, a tribute to Lynette, his mother, whose ancestry dates back there.
Lovers of the discipline evoke past moments, distant depending on how you look at them. They go until 1995, until that magical journey that John Carlin had taken for literature and Clint Eastwood, for cinema: Invictus.
In that post-apartheid Johannesburg, leaning out of the box, the newly elected Nelson Mandela (released thanks to international pressure after 27 years in prison; president of the country since 1994) was going to witness the wonderful vindication of the Springboks, the legend that was going to provide a moment of glory and unity to an eroded nation. South Africa was going to beat the New Zealanders in added time, 15-12.
(…)
Now we are at the Stade de France and the match seems like a gift for the South Africans: New Zealand limps, and when they recover Frizell they suffer the loss of Sam Cane, sent off in the 28th minute. From then on they will play with one man less, and the first time closes with 6-12 for South Africa.
What happens then?
That Aaron Smith and Richie Mo’unga rehabilitate New Zealand: they create art. Ardie Savea joins the party. He cuts through the South African defense like a knife. Barrett finally signs a try and the score is equal: 11-12.
There are 25 minutes left, the All Blacks press and referee Wayne Barnes, who retires a few minutes later, sends Cheslin Kolbe, the cousin of Wayde van Niekerk, the four-centre player who broke his knee in a rugby exhibition, to the bench. The last ten minutes are a sensory adventure, with the All Blacks pushing and the Springboks fighting for the fourth title.
They are already the greatest in history.
