Under shady trees, I pass close by a security gate. A deep-throated bark stirs my adrenal gland.
A dog in a Springbok jersey, number 14. Boerboel, muscular, cut. Ray Mordt, I thought without hesitation.
Overgrown sidewalk, man in sunglasses and lumber jacket walking towards me, his hands are in his pockets.
As he nears to within touching distance, I say “Eyta.”
He says ‘Howzit.’
