Polo’s not for faint of heart
Invented by the Chinese, named by the Indians and sexed-up by Jilly Cooper, polo is steeped in history, passion and glamour, writes
Amanda Saxton.
The throb of rotor blades became a thudding of hooves as we touch down on the leafy polo grounds. We – the freeloading media – winged our way across the eastern bays by helicopter before landing next to Clevedon’s Fisher Field, where ponies (they’re horses, but shh) belt after balls and stripe-shirted umpires blow whistles with force.
We’re here because polo enthusiasts are gearing up for the 40th anniversary of the Land Rover Polo Open, the glitziest thing on the equestrian calendar.
I think Jilly Cooper would approve of our entrance. Her 1991 novel Polo still sums up that world, with a lot of sex thrown in for good measure – some of it within helicopters. Both the book and the Polo Open celebrate a sport steeped in history, passion and glamour.
Half a millennia before Jesus, a Persian penchant for whacking balls with sticks on horseback was catching on with the neighbours. Levantine Sultans took part, and Chinese emperors claimed to have invented it.
In India – where the sport is still popular and sometimes played on top of elephants – it became known as polo. That’s where the Brits picked it up, perhaps in exchange for cricket.
They’ve run with the royal vibe, the only thing my fellow journalists knew about polo when we hopped out of the chopper.
‘‘Have you met Prince Harry?’’ they trilled at anyone in jodhpurs.
A fair few of the jodhpur-clad actually had. Ridden against and partied with him, even. Auckland Polo Club manager Hannah Marshall said it was common knowledge within the community that England’s future king’s little brother had wanted to be a professional player. But the ‘‘flashiness’’ of such a career wasn’t deemed proper for someone living courtesy of the British taxpayer, so he makes do with a lot of charity matches instead.
Parts of the scene are pretty swanky; Land Rover and Veuve Cliquot pay to be associated with it. Also, polo players are by necessity a toned and dashing breed who gallop into battle on horseback – adding a certain frisson to any big match.
New Zealand’s biggest, The Open, is a high goal competition, where each four-aside team’s handicaps must add to 18.
Handicaps are doled out according to ability and 10-goalers, rarer than hen’s teeth and mainly Argentinian, are the best. Our top player is sevengoaler John Paul Clarkin. Beginners are classed as minus-twos. Handicaps within a match can vary hugely; a pair of 10s with a minus-two and a zero could play two fives with two fours in an 18-goal match.
If a team has one player with an incongruously low handicap, it might suggest he (or she) has a hefty fortune. Known as the team’s patron, the rich and addicted but not very skilled often fund better yet poorer players’ polo habits in exchange for the thrill of riding alongside them.
The game itself is divided into six seven-minute chukkas. Every seven minutes the riders swap their knackered ponies for fresh mounts, testament to polo’s intensity.
Then at half time, spectators swarm the field to ‘‘stomp divots’’: not only a useful piece of audience participation, but a chance for judges to glean fashion-in-the field’s best dressed. The most glamorous ladies in their silks, linens, and sunhats (not fascinators – save them for the more contrived race meets) carry champagne flutes on to the field to stamp on manky clods. Experienced polo-goers forgo stilettos: impractical for stomping.
A polo match has three main human genres. The heroic competitors, the glammed-up spectators (with subgenres), and an army behind the scenes: matching mallet length to pony wither, bandaging legs and buckling up leather.
As Sharon, the cockney barmaid who’s new to polo, observes in Cooper’s book: ‘‘Why’s Victor’s ‘orse wearing so many straps? It looks like a bondage victim.’’
That extra strapping holds saddles in place as riders precariously strain to whack a ball the size of a grapefruit with a lengthy mallet while galloping full steam up the field. While being barged by ponies of the opposition.
You’ll hear four accents around the horse trucks: Kiwi, Aussie, British and Argentinian. They belong to a gang of young, lean, dedicated horsemen and women who chase the polo season around the globe. Working as grooms and on their handicap, playing the game whenever possible. They’re no strangers to the sweat and poo that’s as much a part of polo as princes.
Twenty two-year-old Indi Bennetto is one of the Australians, ‘‘born and bred into a polo family’’. She loves polo for the adrenaline rush, and because no concessions are made for the fairer sex.
‘‘It’s an amazing sport because females and males play against each other and all together,’’ she says, eyes gleaming. ’’It’s also a serious contact sport, so especially for a lady you have to be really gung-ho to get out there, and just slam against all the guys.’’
Polo players are tough. Snapped bones, smashed noses, and stretched muscles are par for the course when you careen around on a half-tonne of rippling horse flesh, after a rock-hard ball going 160kmh, for a crust.
‘‘There are at least five guys running around with broken arms today,’’ Bennetto confirms cheerfully.
As with her family, polo runs in the genes of many Kiwis. Young Clarkins, Keytes and Hunts would struggle to not be involved. Generations of Parrots, Seavills, and Duncans make up a bulk of their respective clubs.
This might be because only polomad parents can really accept the fanaticism of a polo life.
If you’re going to get into it, you need not one, not two, but a whole string of ponies. Fickle beasts demanding space and exercise, food and vets. Not to mention gear and transport. Hence the allure of a patron.
For those intrigued by the scene, it’s cheaper and less sweaty to watch from the shady gum trees; you can still mingle with stars after the match.
Begging a groom for a ride on a pony can be effective if polo for you is – as it should be – about brave and beautiful equines. I saddled up for a blat and it was just as exhilarating as the helicopter ride home.
The writer travelled courtesy of Heletranz.