South Africa is all about sport. People are forever running marathons and playing volleyball or starting up a casual game of cricket in the garden. How anyone plays hockey without getting the stick tangled in their legs, and how they manage to run towards the ball instead of away from it (like any right-minded person would, because it’s very hard and it moves very fast) is beyond me. A rugby win gets more media coverage than a cabinet reshuffle. Our national trauma isn’t load shedding. It’s missing the conversion in the 79th minute. (Yes, I had to look that up).

South Africans always have a bloody ball lying about somewhere and some fool inevitably suggests that every braai is the perfect opportunity for a game of cricket or touch rugby. And then there is the trauma of rugby season that I must navigate annually, when matches become the cornerstone of all social activity. But fear not, fellow fumblers! I have devised some fool proof ways to derail those deadly boring days.

Several years ago, my brother-in-law banned me from watching rugby. While others saw this as a punishment for poor behaviour, it was, in fact, part of my cunning plan. Now, every time there is a match on, I’m told to bring a book. Such a horrendous sanction. I engineered this victory through a sly strategy. I started by asking stupid questions. Repeatedly. Conversations went something like this:

“Why do they throw the ball backwards if they’re trying to move it forwards?”
“Because that’s the rule.”
Short, thoughtful pause. A look of confusion creeps across my face.
“That seems like a silly rule. Why don’t they just pass it forward?”

Initially, this will only encourage die-hard fans to explain the rules with rabid enthusiasm. But fear not! If you continue with the tenacity of a two-year-old, you will notice that frustration creeps into their voices as they strain to stop themselves from exploding into a string of expletives. Then, at this point, if you start to subtly insult the players (Why don’t they have necks? What’s wrong with his ear? Could that one be the missing link?) you will quickly be handed a permanent red card and be allowed to read in another room for the duration of the match.

But this doesn’t help when every social conversation centres on rugby until we’ve beaten the Kiwis and taken the trophy. But I have a solution for this, too. Develop a fanatical interest in an obscure or ridiculous sport. Think cheese rolling or hobbyhorse dressage. Learn some obscure facts and interject them into rugby conversations as often as possible. This is a quick and effective way to ensure that your friends steer clear of sport and allow you the opportunity to discuss your favourite author or what you would do if you were president.

This is progress, but when spontaneous games of soccer break out in the backyard, you will need to engage your wiles even further to ensure exemption.

My least deliberate but most effective method was developing a physical disability. Now I can say sorry, “Oh, I’d love to be goalie, but my body won’t survive it.” Then people feel distressed by their selfishness and quickly arrange that we do something more interesting.

Of course, this will only work if your body stages a rebellion of sorts and refuses to do what other bodies do. If you don’t have this benefit, consider this:

Weaponize your enthusiasm, for absolutely anything else. Become wildly passionate about a completely non-athletic hobby. Offer watercolour portraits of everyone’s athletic aura. If you can look convincingly crazy, you’ll be excused from all activities. They’re also likely to stop playing if you if you commentate loudly, continuously and poetically: And now the man-mountain charges into the fray like a disgruntled wildebeest at a PTA meeting…

Look meaningfully at an uneven patch of grass and say, “I read an article about injuries from playing sports at home. Terrifying. Could happen to anyone,” and shake your head solemnly.

Until the day comes when clumsy inherit the Earth and we replace sports tournaments with poetry festivals, I will continue to discuss cheese-rolling with gusto and ask why the rugby ball isn’t round. It’s the least I can do for my country.