A flood of emotions washes over you as you approach Lord’s Cricket Ground in London’s leafy north-west. Awe, wonder, giddy excitement – any cricket romantic can’t help but lose themself to history as they walk through the hallowed gates, as they gawp at the red-brick pavilion, as they cast their third eye through the ages and connect themselves to the game’s ancient past and protagonists like WG Grace, Jack Hobbs and Donald Bradman.

I’ve been to Lord’s many times since I moved to the UK in 2018. I’ve sat in every stand. I’ve filed hundreds of thousands of words from the spaceship-like press box. I’ve even peered behind the velvet curtain and walked through restricted areas, sipping drinks in rooms that could be older than my home city of Johannesburg.

But undercutting the awe, the wonder and giddy excitement, and despite the prevailing sense that I am living out a childhood fantasy, I can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy whenever I find myself at the self-anointed ‘Home of Cricket’.

Perhaps that is the perpetual angst of the South African expat living in the former colonial nerve centre. Whether we ran away from something or towards something – as I did when I followed my British wife – we’re all lost lambs to a degree, making our way in a land that isn’t ours.

Most of the time that is easily kept beneath the surface, but not at Lord’s. Not at a place that screams English conservatism and the glory of empire. Here a bottle of champagne costs as much as many South Africans earn in a month and the bottles don’t stop popping as suited bankers, lawyers and crypto bros drink enough liquid to cover the pristine outfield in a layer of bubbles.

What’s more, they’ll have plenty of opportunities to do so again. Lord’s had already staged a Test this year when it welcomed New Zealand back in June. There will be another two next year, the same as there was last year. Thanks to England’s privileged status in world cricket there is a guarantee that there will be two Tests a year at Lord’s until the red ball format truly croaks its last and dies the death that has long been prophesied.

If you’re on this website you don’t need reminding that the Future Tours Programme has essentially consigned South Africa to second-class status. Blame should be shared across the board, from the ICC to CSA to the dwindling rand to the pitfalls of the pandemic.

It was a challenge not to think of this every time Kagiso Rabada snared another English wicket, or Sarel Erwee ticked off another single through the on-side. It was difficult not to lament the wasted potential of a generational talent such as Marco Jansen in the knowledge that he’d only play another 28 Tests over the next four years.

But hold on. Forget that. Jansen is steaming in, loping towards the crease like a giraffe that’s suddenly realised it’s an apex predator. He’s coiling his body and unravelling his limbs, unfurling a thunderbolt from the heavens and trapping Joe Root, the world’s best batter, on the front pad. The appeal goes up and the umpire’s finger follows. Rapture. Even the pregnant pause of a review can’t douse this moment. Root’s on his way. Jansen has his man.

Sport has taken over. South Africans are doing things at the Home of Cricket and… Where was I?

Oh yes. Empire and colonialism and capitalism and the disparities in the world. I almost forgot. And that’s the beauty of it.

That’s why when Dean Elgar said that he’d like to see England’s batters Bazball against his bowling attack it was not met with caution and a call for temperance by South Africans. We responded with a Spartan call. “What is your profession?” “HARUUH! HARUUH!”

It means something to be a South African fan but context is key. To be a South African fan at Lord’s, to watch a group of rag-tags with no business climbing to the top of the World Test Championship, to sit in awe as they crushed England’s newfound spirits at their spiritual home, was laced with meaning.

I might have felt the odd pang of jealousy but I also felt a great sense of pride. That was a performance for the ages and no South African in attendance will forget it. I certainly won’t.

Photo: Adam Davy/PA Wire/BackpagePix