Bryan Habana has been keeping a journal of all that he has done and seen in France these past six weeks. The essential humility of the man will have ensured that last night’s entry glowed with the thrill of the ultimate collective achievement, but you would forgive him the odd slightly wistful personal footnote.

South Africa struck gold in the Stade de France without ever showing off the best of their family silver. Habana, comfortably the most memorable player at this tournament, was essentially circumvented in its glorious finale.

By England’s eternal graft, by the way the game chugged rather than motored along, and by his teammates, who never broke out of the arm wrestle long enough to send him into a foot race. Not once did he look like claiming the try that would have nudged him past Jonah Lomu’s record of eight tries in a single competition.

Unlike the All Black in 1999, however, Habana ended the World Cup a winner. And who more than him reeled off more submissions to the overall story of Springbok success?

It’s not like South African rugby to think Small in any aspect of their game, but this was precisely the cautious urge of all those in the rainbow nation who remember the detail, as well as the drama, of the last final their side was involved in.

That celebrated night in Johannesburg 12 short years ago has its own reel of snapshots, but it was the work going on off-cam-era that actually brought about the success. Think Os du Randt and Balie Swart slogging their guts out in the scrum. Think Kobus Wiese clearing rucks with almost inconceivable power and resolve. And think, most memorably and most tellingly, James Small hanging round, and off, Jonah Lomu’s sides like some overgrown Greyfriars Bobby.

The former Natal Sharks wing, who in tandem with centre Japie Mulder wrested the keys to World Cup glory from the All Black legend’s grasp that day, was in Paris last night to assess English attempts at putting together a sequel to that master-class in construction through obstruction.

Lomu and Habana are appreciably different players bound together tight by the uniqueness of their threat in their respective eras. Just as there was nobody in the early days of professionalism (or at any time before or since) with the same absurdly lavish amalgam of pace, strength and opportunism that was Lomu on a bad day, Habana’s speed of thought and deed finds no peers in the modern game. Both men’s talents could never be neutered, merely repressed.

As South Africa showed in 1995, however, containment can be enough for a side’s own dreams to break free in other ways and places. As a spry 15-year-old, Paul Sackey may have had better things to do than immerse himself in the Ellis Park final, but you trust some of his more august teammates passed on this warming observation all the same. It was the Londoner whom Brian Ashton stationed directly in the line of flyer, believing his fusion of guts and gas to be the closest available approximation of the Blue Bull’s gifts. Josh Lewsey was the man asked to swallow hard, then run even harder last time round, and, to the big man’s credit, Habana did not record a single point. Pity about the other 36, though.

If even the bare detail of that scoreline last month offered a reminder of how multi-faceted is South Africa’s game, the individual threat of Habana bore any amount of repetition. England tried to get their retaliation in first, loading pressure on to the 24-year-old with a raking early kick to his wing.

There was little to query in the quality of his take, but not so in the English numbers that sought to disrupt it, only Sackey giving chase with any real conviction. Nick Easter, that war-dog of Ashton’s back row, quickly cottoned on, sinking murderous teeth into Habana as he made harder work of a Jonny Wilkinson hoist up the middle.

Within 10 minutes, his impact was being detailed on the scoreboard – but on England’s side. Wilkinson’s first penalty was the result of the Springbok forwards piling in over the top of the breakdown after he clattered into Sackey. For much of the first half, it was that sort of night for Habana: a frustrating and frustrated one.

His back-row won none of the cleanly cut turnovers at ruck time that the midfield automatically ferry in his direction. Even when England voluntarily offered up position with a hail of up-and-unders, there were too many bodies arriving at too great a pace in pursuit for South Africa to attempt anything more honeyed than a simple return of aerial fire. There was no space, no freedom, no time.

Habana doesn’t always need any of those, but he does need the ball. South Africa couldn’t get it near him. The one time they worked the game fluently into his orbit, the swift cross-field move that wound up in a ruck in the left corner with Habana hovering to pounce, the ball was knocked forward. The chance, and the half, were gone.

You kept assuming that the greatness, the wizardry, was simply late in arriving, as opposed to absent altogether, but, if anything, Habana was even quieter, even more unseen as the third quarter rumbled on. When England weren’t igniting their midfield’s afterburners, they were keeping the game on the tightest of leashes in the loose. It was enough for South Africa to get their hands on possession, never mind ensuring it was of the serviceable, shippable kind. As ever, they lived off opposition error, but scoreboard progress came in limps, rather than bounds.

And yet while Habana wasn’t demanding the eye’s attention, his taking of the game’s temperature remained typically acute, his often overlooked defensive discipline keeping the Springbok line and thinking tight whenever England put air and pace on the ball.

But he wasn’t put in this world, or this sport, to be the sort of grubby, honest toiler with which both sides overflowed in Saint Denis last night. He’s the game-breaker, the deal maker, the man who comes up with big things in big games. For all South Africa knew, just one spot of silver service to him could have left them breathing a whole lot easier, but they were essentially forced to forget the idea.

England, stuffy, stodgy England, refused to let this game’s margins expand beyond the absolute bare minimum.

It wasn’t Habana’s night, but it was his World Cup. And that goes a long way to explaining just why it was South Africa’s.

The fastest men in rugby boots

1 Joeli Vidiri, right The Fijian-born All Black wing was only marginally smaller than Jonah Lomu. According to Lomu, who clocked a 10.8sec 100m himself as a schoolboy, Vidiri is the fastest player he has seen

2 Takudzwa Ngwenya The Zimbabwean-born USA wing gave us one of the moments of the World Cup when he left Bryan Habana for dead. Has a best time of 10.7sec as a schoolboy, but Lomu believes he is even quicker now

3 Bryan Habana The Springbok wing has a personal best of 10.4sec and has even run a cheetah close in a race to help raise awareness of endangered species. He was arguably the fastest player at France 2007 after Ngwenya

4 David Trick Never one of the great trainers, the England and Bath wing of 1980s vintage was one of the fastest men seen on a British rugby pitch, and had a 10.4sec 100m to his name

5 Paul Sampson Called into the England squad as a schoolboy, he won the England Schools 100m title in 10.48sec in 1996, beating the future British Olympic sprinter Dwain Chambers. Later played for England and Wasps before being forced to retire through injury

6 Andrew Harriman The Nigerian-born ‘Prince’ from Harlequins was greased lightning, and the star of the 1993 England World Cup-winning Sevens side. He clocked 20.9sec for 200m, which was Olympic qualifying standard

7 Lesley Vainikolo The Gloucester wing, who played rugby league for New Zealand, has a best 100m time of 10.6sec in qualifying for the world junior athletics championships when he was 17

8 Nigel Walker The Wales wing of the 1990s, who is now a mover-and-shaker in BBC Sport, was an Olympic semifi nalist in the 110m hurdles. He had a 10.38sec personal best for 100m