Ten years ago, a young man turned up at a Pretoria athletic field and trotted around the track a few times with casual ease. This must be the man I was waiting for.
His name was Oscar Pistorius, and he was running on carbon fiber blades.
I had an appointment for an interview about his efforts to gain the right to compete in the 2008 Beijing Olympics. When he stopped running, I ambled over, but he barely muttered a greeting. He kept chatting to his friends, avoiding eye contact, a flat start in what seemed an inspiring story.
Obviously it wasn’t a good time. I offered to reschedule, but Pistorius never answered a call or text message after...