Scotty Stevenson: Rebooted South Africans well placed to capitalise on ABs' selection anxieties

The Springbok's Handre Pollard is to Morne Steyn what Megadeth is to Muzak. Photo / Getty Images.

We all need a bit of certainty in our lives, but if you're looking for any this weekend in Johannesburg may I suggest you stop now and go back to fretting over Chinese house buyers, Chrystal's knickers and the Hawaiian holiday videos of the Prime Minister's child.

There will be more questions than answers from Saturday's match as the All Blacks selectors continue their attempts to squeeze 40-odd bods into 31 business class seats. Things would be much simpler if you could, say, just take parts of players. Who wouldn't want to see Israel Dagg's right foot with Cory Jane's left fend?

Problem is we're still on rotation. Surely by now we could have moved on to dissection and rearrangement. I can just imagine Steve Hansen in a selection meeting. "Isn't there some way we can just have Conrad's eyes and Sonny's biceps?"

I can't help but feel we've all become a little obsessed by the All Blacks selection experiments, instead of being, how do I put this, utterly terrified that the Springboks have suddenly found some freedom.

Watching the Springboks on Saturday (for the first half at least) one couldn't shake the impression that someone had rebooted them or, more to the point, they'd stopped re: booting. Handre Pollard is to Morne Steyn what Megadeth is to Muzak. Pollard is instinctive, imaginative, willing to run the ball from anywhere. He is also fearless, which helps when everyone on the other side is trying to maim you.

In Pollard the Springboks have found a key to unlock their cobwebbed chest of tricks. He's the Petshop Boys paraphrased: he's got the brains, they've got the brawn. And he's found some friends too: Jesse Kriel was unfazed on the big stage in a solid debut that hinted at his potential, Willie Le Roux was every ounce as nimble as we know he can be, and was shaded by only a couple of yards by Israel Folau in terms of his on-field mileage. Even Damian de Allende looks like he forgot to read the Springbok standard operating manual and made it up on the spot.

Then you have this back row to consider, which even without the indefatigable Marcell Coetzee will still tackle anything that moves. If there is a more tenacious defender in world rugby than Schalk Burger I would love to meet him, or her.

Schalk enjoys the collision so much he once walked off Waikato Stadium with a rib all but sticking out of his test jersey. And he was laughing. Call me old fashioned, but only the sickest kind of masochist would find that funny. Imagine the scene in Alien if Schalk was playing Kane. "Hey you okes, don't worry about it, it's just a small alien, now do me a favour and bandage me up so I can go back to work, dankie."

Understandably, the Springboks will be fired up after blowing it in Brisbane. There will be some traditionalists who feel the style of Pollard and friends may be at odds with the great strength of the South African game, which for so long has been to drive 15 tractors up and down the field while the ball stays largely in the air.

Not me. The loss in Brisbane was a failure of nerve. This is a team that suddenly lost its will when faced with the notion that they are actually exciting. They looked like they suddenly realised they must be tripping and were desperate to come down. I say don't fight it, it's easier that way. Which brings us to the biggest question of all: will the Springboks look to turn that first 40 into the full 80 this weekend against an All Blacks side that has been harbouring its own fears and inhibitions this month? Or will they kick and stick in front of the faithful?

If ever there was a time to test the New Zealanders' confidence it is now, when each player knows little mistakes could cost them a big ticket.

If I were Heyneke Meyer I'd be pondering that very question right now. But I'm not. So what's the fuss about those knickers and does anyone want to buy a house?