It’s the first day of September that really feels like fall. Cotton ball clouds are perched in a cerulean sky, and I am playing polo. Or, at least, trying to. I’m introduced to my teacher for the day, Malcolm Borwick, a world-class professional polo player and irresistibly charming Englishman; the kind of man that uses the word “smart” in lieu of "stylish" and could appear on a movie set in Notting Hill. His mission: to teach a small group of soft, spazzy-looking journalists (myself entirely included) how to play the sport. As in, actually make us suitable enough to get on a horse while also swinging a heavy mallet at a ball. It seems an impossible prospect, but I’m drawn to the challenge.
He explains the evolution of the game, pausing intermittently to ask questions, a rare, curious person who wants to connect rather than talk at you. Draining my day’s supply of self-control, I suppress the urge to ask about his hair product (he’s coifed like he has a small army of assistants devoted to his pomade needs), focusing on the mechanics of swinging a mallet instead. The heavier-than-it-looks club must not only avoid the horse’s face, but also, somehow, make contact with a softball-sized target nearly 4-feet below you—all while being chased by a fleet of men on horseback armed with sticks. Sun glinting in my eye, I cock the mallet above my head, feeling foolishly optimistic about my polo prowess. Knuckles facing outward, I whip it briskly forward and the mallet lands on the ball with a satisfying thud. It feels like a palpable accomplishment.
The Royal Salute Jubilee Cup is set in Greenwich, Connecticut. By early afternoon, what appears to be the entirety of the town has gathered in front of the field, each with an elaborate picnic in tow. Think: multiple buffed wine buckets stocked with Pellegrino and Rosé; actual plates set with shimmering silverware. A 40-minute drive from Manhattan, the sleepy suburb is cast with tanned, well-scrubbed citizens draped in white a week after Labor Day like the rules don’t apply to them. I ask one of the women if she recommends Greenwich for a long weekend. She sighs heavily at the thought. “Honestly, I find it dull. There’s a Hermés in town, though.” The remark comes so easy, so unapologetically, it makes me rethink my life choices. As the great, conflicted songstress once said, “It could all be so simple."
Mr. Darcy continues, revealing that polo was once played with human heads, a brutal sport that has evolved into something decidedly more elegant over the years. He touches the white number two stitched below my shoulder, explaining how the position serves as an attacker, while number three is more a manager, someone who assembles the team on the field, putting them in place to make the goal. "That sounds more like me," I quip. “I see—a boss!” he says, a gleam in his eye.
1.
We clobber countless balls in the grass with stubby starter mallets before swinging the real-deal mallet from atop a wooden horse. I collide with Malcolm’s leg at least once and narrowly avoid swiping his sharp cheekbone. I realize I’ll soon be sitting on a living, breathing horse with non-wooden legs, and panic rapidly sets in—what if my clumsy ass hurts this beautiful animal? I swing hesitantly, managing to hit the ball with enough precision to warrant Malcolm calling it impressive. Surely, he tells all of his students this, but I devour the vote of confidence, using it to quell my fear of hitting a horse directly in the teeth.
"Polo is the Sport of Kings, and I’m really more of a jester, it turns out."
Because I am an idiot and I have never played polo and want to look crazy fly at all times, I am dressed like a Ralph Lauren ad, and my trousers have exactly zero stretch. Malcolm, meanwhile, is forced to literally lift me onto the horse, and as he hoists my body I awkwardly slam my elbow into the horse’s neck. “Oh, sweet horse!” I exclaim, pressing my lips into its neck. Both Malcolm and the man tasked with leading my horse erupt into laughter and my cheeks turn skillet-warm. I soldier on with my guide, who is scolding my horse in Spanish as it violently shakes its hind leg and lunges towards my ankles with its teeth. My mallet is poised in the air all the while, wavering. I finally swoop down and make half-contact, like a kiss meant for a cheek that lands on the corner of the mouth. On my final swing, my focus on trying to impress my instructor supersedes my fear of injuring my horse. My mallet comes down as if each moment is a snapshot; I watch in horror as it happens frame by frame. I have just hit the horse on the side of the head! It isn’t hurt (I assume this because it doesn’t flinch) but it feels like a spectacular fail. PETA has likely added me to their hit list. And my polo dreams? Dashed. Polo is the Sport of Kings, and I’m really more of a jester, it turns out.
Whiskey tends to work in situations like these, and thankfully, there are vast reserves nearby. The Duke of Argyll leads a toast of Royal Salute 21 Year (Polo Edition, obvi) out of what appears to be a tiny silver dog bowl, hurrying a lovely whiskey you want to take your time with for the sake of tradition. Once emptied, we hold it out to out to the Duke—visible proof we’ve graciously accepted the host’s boozy offering—and then take it a step further, turning it over and hovering it above our heads. I consider incorporating this at parties for guests who appear far too sober.
We finally make it to the stands, sipping more whiskey, but slower and more purposefully this time, and watch as the Royal Salute and Casablanca teams take the field to do what I was not able to. The action on the field is paired with colorful commentary from two announcers who are comically at odds.
2.
Malcolm narrates the game as if it's a fable:
“You can’t fool me. I’m the old fox around here, not you.” (when a ball is swiftly stolen from an opponent)
“TOMFOOLERY!” (anytime Royal Salute loses possession)
“But the umpire said, ‘Not for you, sunshine. That’s a foul!” (when the ump makes a call)
The other announcer, an Argentinean man with boundless enthusiasm, yelped:
“AND THE BALL GOES WIDEEEEEE.” (where wide sounds like WILD. Said every time the ball misses the goal. EVERY. TIME.)
“MUSICA, MAESTRO!” (leading into the time between each chukka)
“TIKI TIKI, HE MOVES DOWN THE FIELD. SI, SENOR!” (anytime a player advance down the field)
Between the eccentric narrating and the warm whiskey, I spend the afternoon stupidly grinning. Maybe it’s the cool September air, or the athletic men on horses, but it’s the happiest day of the (still technically) summer. I realize this as I’m enthusiastically smearing my heeled shoe into the dirt during the halftime divot stomp. I take a greedy gulp of the amber liquid, feeling supremely satisfied, silent vowing to master polo. Or, at the very least, master the ability to swing a mallet without sending a horse to the orthodontist.
Shanté Cosme is a deputy editor at Complex. Mastering the Shmoney dance is her greatest achievement to date. She tweets here.
