Originally published in August 2010, it seems appropriate to drag this column back to the surface. Ricky Januarie has announced his retirement from international rugby, with the intention of cashing in on a few Francs and frites by playing club rugby for french club, Lyon. Ricky Januarie is a classic example of why a lack of conditioning is unacceptable in the modern era.

26 August 1995 is a date that will stick in the craw of many old-school rugby union purists. At around about 2pm on that balmy Saturday afternoon, the International Rugby Board declared rugby union an “open game” – there was to be no legislated cap on player or club earnings in rugby union.

It was a strange time for rugby. The Springboks had been in possession of the Web Ellis trophy for just over two months after making a triumphant return to an international scene that had shunned them along with their country’s racist policies. After a riotously successful World Cup in South Africa that netted stunning television ratings and merchandise sales, players were becoming increasingly aware of the economic potential that lay spring-loaded in their muscles, and rugby administrators were wise of the mass realisation. The spectre of a streamlined, professional and highly attractive rugby league, where players and administrators cashed in on this potential, loomed large.

Was rugby union to remain an amateur game for gentlemen? Purists certainly believed it ought to. The old boys club subscribed to the notion of value in the spirit of the game, and not the spectacle. But with the spawning of the World Cup franchise, rugby union had created a monster, an unstoppable force of popularisation and economic growth. Rugby union could cash in wholesale, if only it wanted to.

As it turns out, those with the casting votes did. And on the breath of the IRB chairman, rugby union became a professional game on that Saturday afternoon, and it has been modernising, economising and incentivising ever since.

Ricky Januarie would have been 13 years old at the time, and  perhaps already plotting his path to the Weston High School first fifteen, where he would begin his secondary school career the following year.

Flash forward to 2010, and Ricky Januarie would be forgiven for believing that he had achieved every rugby goal his 13-year-old self had the audacity to dream up. He has painstakingly built a reputation as an absolute team man, with the kind of grit and big match temperament usually reserved for gnarled and knotted tight five captains. Notched on his career bedpost are IRB World Cup and Tri Nations winner’s medals, snagged in 2007 and 2009 respectively. But many pundits regard Januarie’s career zenith as his moment of magic against the All Blacks at Dunedin in 2008. The smartly- collected box kick, which teetered on the wire between insanity and brilliance, was enough to clinch the match on the stroke of full time, and break an 11-year Springbok duck on New Zealand soil.

Not long after that, Januarie’s form began to wane, just as his figure began to wax. What Januarie lacked in tactical prowess and kicking ability (a la Fourie Du Preez) he made up with psychological domination, bustling energy and snappy service. But with an expanding girth and correspondingly slow service to his backline, all of Januarie’s hustle and bustle simply lacked credibility, especially when trailing a good twenty metres behind the ruck. So after an indifferent 2009 Tri Nations, he was dropped from the End of Year squad, and as the decade wound up, Januarie found himself in an unusual situation: out of shape, and out of favour with the Springbok selectors.

But interestingly enough, Ricky Januarie will remember 2010 as the year that Peter de Villiers threw him a low-calorie bone. Notable by his absence in the Super 14, Januarie is back in the green and gold, having made starting appearances against Wales, France, and Italy in the two most recent tests. His return has been met with mixed reviews. He’s lost some of the midriff pudge that cost him his guaranteed place in the Bok jersey, but not all of it. It seems that his moderately improved performance is directly proportional to his diminished waist-line. But, as the saying goes, there’s room for improvement. He remains valuably tough and antagonistic, but his speed of service remains below the benchmark set by himself in 2008, and certainly below the standards required by a Springbok backline that seems aching to bolt at every opportunity, if only it was unleashed.

Putting aside for one moment the obvious reasons why Januarie’s continued affection for his own paunch is an affront to his team mates, team management and national public, the men and women who make money from rugby’s professionalism must be incensed.

In April this year, SANZAR signed a five-year mutual television broadcast deal for Test and Super rugby to the tune of US$437 million. What does this mean? Television is a visual medium, and whether the purists like it or not, the job description of a contracted rugby professional  is no longer limited to winning a reasonable degree of matches – they have to look good, too. So what is Ricky Januarie’s job? Over and above fulfilling his basic duties as a scrum half, he can reasonably be expected to pass faster, run harder, break more tackles, make more tackles, and ultimately win or lose more games in the most physically-spectacular fashion possible. And he can be expected to do that because some of that broadcast revenue ultimately trickles down into his bank account every month.

No one can fault  a player who gives of their absolute best, and emerges from the contest unsuccessful. The rigours of the modern game ensure that exhaustion will creep in, jading the most talented of individuals. But when a contracted rugby player knowingly compromises their ability to deliver on the non-negotiables through neglect, laziness or excess , well then that’s plain unprofessional.

Go easy on the foioe gras, Ricky.