SPECTATOR SPORT
The spirit of polo
Simon Barnes
THIS is the week in which I shall lay bare the secret of polo. It is, in fact, the best- kept secret in sport. You probably thought that polo was all about money, privilege, swaggering about in boots and cutting a swathe through the daughters of the English aristocracy. Of course that is all true, especially the bit about boots, but it is not a secret at all.
Now, as the ten-goal polo professionals of Argentina prepare to converge on the fat-cat patrons for the English polo season which begins next month, and the ponies begin to relearn the meaning of hard work, my mind goes back to a summer's afternoon when the secret of polo was revealed to me: polo is the dirtiest game in the world.
I was invited to learn the game and I took up the invitation with alacrity. A won- derful horseman called Nicky Williams taught me to ride polo-style, all spinning and stopping on a dime, and it was bliss. Then I was invited to play a practice game. I was helped by one of my team-mates, Williams's son, Roddy, who was then in his early teens and a young lad of quiet confi- dence and exquisite manners. What a nice boy.
Alas, once the game began he turned into a ravening beast. With one bound, the air filled with 'fucks' and 'bastards'. I had thought this was a game for gentlemen: I learned that it was a game whose sole pur- pose was to bring out the cornered wolver- ire that lurks beneath the surface of every public-school man.
Miles out of my depth in the first chuk- ka, I tried in vain to hit the ball. On the few occasions I got within easy commuting distance of the damn thing, I swung mightily and missed. It was hateful and I was in a fury. I changed ponies for the second chukka in a mood of uncontrolled embarrassment.
And thus I released the wolverine inside. With its help, I learned that polo is a mixture of dressage and Graeco-Roman wrestling. I rode in a frenzy. I rode with murder in my heart. I had, in short, joined the club. I ignored the petty distraction of the ball. I rode off opponents in a whirl- wind of shoving shoulders, digging elbows and wounding words. I gave whacks and I received them, but I was too insane with competitiveness to feel them. And once — oh rapture! — I tipped some genius of a Latin off his pony. I can still recall the glorious sight of his headlong dive to the ground and the altogether unexpected knowledge of English he revealed in extremis.
That was the joy of it: the intoxication of combat, the voluptuous peril of duelling at the gallop. I resolved then and there to become a full-time polo player the instant I became a millionaire. I have played much football and I know about whacks. But football is a game for gentlemen. If you want to play dirty, play polo — especially with a polite young English lad.
Now I learn that Roddy Williams is a major talent in the game. He is part of the Young England team, a team of English- born five-goalers, none older than 21. They are a breath of fresh air. The tradi- tional polo team requires two one-goal professionals, normally from Argentina, one one-goal patron, who needs to stay on his pony and pay the bills, plus A.N. Other English one-goaler. Young Eng- land has four five-goal lads. They need a sponsor, so if you have £25,000 they would love to meet you.
Polo is a frequently used marketing device. Marketing men see sunlit lawns, elegance, lots of nice drinks, young chaps in lovely boots and a pleasing atmosphere of getting quietly smashed in the midst of unending jeunes filks en fleur. But they haven't got a clue. The most suitable prod- uct to represent the true spirit of polo is a custom-made sawn-off pump-action shot- gun. A great game. I really must be a mil- lionaire in my next incarnation.
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