Proteas Break the Curse and Lift the World Test Championship Mace

I’ve been turning this over in my head for a few days now. Not because the result was unclear, but because the emotion of it wasn’t simple. Watching South Africa win the World Test Championship final at Lord’s was the kind of moment that didn’t need instant reaction. I needed some time to make sense of what we’ve just witnessed and everything it means to every single Protea fan who has spent years hoping, waiting, and hurting.

For once, South Africa didn’t collapse under pressure. We didn’t miscalculate. We didn’t fall just short. We did it. At Lord’s, in a final, against Australia. 

We won.

I watched those final hours at Pirates Sports Club in Johannesburg. The place was packed, and every eye was locked on the screen. 

TO WATCH TEST MATCH CRICKET. Can you imagine?

Every run was clapped. Every defensive shot got a murmur of approval. Every shout for a wicket or appeal was followed by held breath and a silence so thick it felt like it had weight.

The tension built slowly. Over by over. You could feel it rising, the nervous anticipation settling over the bar. No one trusted it completely. We’ve all been here before.

Because for South African cricket fans, this wasn’t just about one match. It was about 30 years of pain and near misses. I was nine years old in 1999 when Klusener and Donald had that mix-up in the World Cup semi-final. I barely remember the game itself, but that moment, Donald stranded mid-pitch, the run-out, the Australians celebrating, is etched into my memory.

I’ve seen it so many times since that the trauma has become a memory of its own. That’s the thing about memories, they don’t have to be exact to feel real.

In 2003, I was finishing primary school. Again, I don’t remember the specifics of the game, but I remember Shaun Pollock’s face when it dawned on him and the team that they’d misread the Duckworth–Lewis sheet. That tie against Sri Lanka knocked us out of a home tournament. Those images, Pollock, stunned fans, what-could-have-beens, became part of me, too.

Every loss since then, I’ve watched in full. I’ve felt them. I’ve agonised. And somehow, I’ve always believed this year will be different.

In 2007, with a strong side, we stumbled badly in the semi-final and were bowled out for 149 by a ruthless Australian attack. In 2011, it was a collapse against New Zealand in the quarter-final, despite dominating the group stage. And in 2015, maybe the one that cut the deepest, we lost in the semi-final at Eden Park. We posted 298, but the Grant Elliott six off Dale Steyn, the missed chances, the tears from AB de Villiers, it felt like we’d never be that close again.

By 2019, the energy was gone. We crashed out early. Injuries, inconsistency, and low morale defined the campaign. In 2023, we played some of our best cricket in years. But when the semi-final came, it was familiar heartbreak again as Australia bowled us out in another knockout collapse that felt all too routine. Then last year, in 2024, came the T20 final. We finally made it to the big stage. We fought hard. But India held their nerve.

These weren’t just defeats. They were national scars. They became reference points in the timeline of our sporting lives. Markers of hope followed by heartbreak.

So when we needed 282 to win at Lord’s, against Australia, there was belief, but there was also fear. A quiet fear that history might repeat itself again. That we’d come close only to collapse. That we’d get the headlines but not the trophy.

Instead, we got something else.

We got Aiden Markram, playing the innings of his life. 136 runs of control, class, and composure after a duck in the first innings. He soaked up the pressure and absorbed every short ball, every chirp, every moment. That hundred wasn’t just about runs, it was about timing, about presence, about maturity, and about living up to the potential that we’ve known about since he lifted the under-19 World Cup. How I would have loved for him to carry his bat to the end.

We got Temba Bavuma, who decided to bat despite a hamstring strain and advice to rest. He didn’t have to. But he chose to. Because leadership isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just choosing to walk out, face up to the challenge, and fight, something that Bavuma has had to do all throughout his career. His 66 was slow, deliberate, and careful. Every run that he hobbled through for mattered. And you could feel, watching him, that he wasn’t batting for numbers. He was batting for history.

And we got Kagiso Rabada, who once again rose when it mattered most. He came into the match with some controversy overshadowing his brilliance. But nine wickets in the match showed again just why he is the greatest ever fast bowler to play this game. Australia never looked settled with him steaming in. He set the tone. He gave us belief. And in a final, that’s everything.

The scenes after the final run was hit said more than any scorecard ever could.

Keshav Maharaj, barely able to keep his emotions in check, gave an interview to Graeme Smith that felt like a release. He spoke about how big this was, not just for the players on the field, but for those who had come before them, and for the ones still to come.

Temba Bavuma, quiet as always, stood with the pride of a man who knew exactly what it had taken to get here. Markram downed a beer on the sidelines with an old high school mate, his smile uncontainable. Coach Shukri Conrad never took his shades off, not because the sun was out, but because sometimes even the calmest head in the room needs a second to hide the tears and gather himself. 

David Bedingham spoke afterwards about how tense he felt walking in, but how watching Bavuma and Markram at the crease calmed him. Verreynne, on the other hand, embraced the nerves, and after a nervy attempt at a paddle shot, he finally smashed the winning runs through the covers. 

For once, we don’t have to talk about the Big Three. About revenue splits, protected series, or how the calendar is carved up to serve only a few. For once, we can leave the politics at the door.

Because no boardroom, no broadcast deal, no power structure could take this moment away from us. This was earned on the field. And for now, we get to celebrate as equals. Not as outsiders or underdogs, but as winners. As proof that greatness doesn’t need permission, and we don’t need permission to continue dreaming.

It’s done. For the current crop, those who came before them, and those who are still dreaming of making it to the biggest stage of all.