Page 33 of Polo Fever
‘Thanks, Lady M.’
I rush back to the pony lines as the players mount for the first chukka, pretending as though my heart isn’t pounding with dread against my chest. I knew I wouldn’t be able to escape this story, but it’s been nice not to have been living in its shadow the last few weeks. Surrounded by new people, distracted by my busy daily routine and with the online onslaught lessening over time, I could almost pretend it hadn’t happened at all. But as I glance nervously around at the photographers setting up in their positions at either end of the field, I start to feel the overbearing weight of it descending upon me once again.
*
The match against Momentum, a team in neon-pink shirts, starts off by heavily leaning in favour of Maycourt.Mateo scoops up the ball from the throw-in and speeds off with it, knocking it through the goal posts with a smooth offside strike and putting us in the lead in the first minute. Momentum seem stunned by the early goal and it takes them a while to shake off the pressure it creates. Whenever I look up, it seems that it’s a pink shirt chasing down a purple, with Maycourt dominating the first half mostly thanks to Mateo’s ability to break away with ease. At one point, it feels like Momentum player Delfina Moreno has managed to get her team back into the match, charging towards their goal confidently, but she mishits with the pressure of Malcolm alongside her and Eric is there, ready and waiting. He taps the ball to Mateo, who takes it back the length of the ground before slotting it in between the posts, bringing the score to five-one by the end of the second chukka.
During the third, I notice the lens of the photographer set up at our end of the pitch directed at me as I hold a spare mallet should one of the players lose theirs during a particularly enthusiastic hit or if an opponent hooks their stick in defence. I immediately tense, glancing back at him to make sure I’m not mistaken, but I know I’m not being paranoid when the action of the match comes our end and he ignores it. The ball sails through the posts and I fix a smile, clapping the players as they canter past.
‘Hey, Geoff,’ Mateo calls out to the photographer, circling his horse back our way, ‘in case you didn’t notice, the polo field is over here.’
Geoff lifts his head and winks at him. ‘Not all the action is, though.’
Mateo’s expression hardens. ‘You’re paid to capture the sport on film, not our grooms.’
‘Come on, Mateo, we’re all freelancers in this line of work and we need to get paid. I get the shots that are going to pay the highest; that’s how it goes.’
I swallow the lump in my throat. Mateo’s jaw sets.
‘Mateo, get over here!’ Malcolm yells urgently.
Turning his pony round, Mateo gallops off to rejoin the match.
Moments later, as the ponies charge up this way again, Mateo steals the ball, lofting it up through the air directly at Geoff. He yelps, jumping out the way as it sails at him, crashing into his tripod and toppling it over. His hands on his head, Geoff straightens shakily, looking at Mateo, aghast. Mateo shrugs.
‘Mishit,’ he says simply, tearing away back up the field.
Grumbling expletives, Geoff gets to work checking his camera and setting it up again. He doesn’t point it my way the rest of the match.
In the final chukka, Momentum are down ten-three and desperately trying to step up their game, but the player marking Mateo, clearly exhausted and frustrated, fouls him, handing Mateo a forty-yard penalty to the goal near our pony lines. Steering Violet into position, Mateo sends it through the posts and canters past me as I lead a pony nearby. He pulls up Violet a little so that we have time to smile at each other before he goes galloping off, leaving behind a flutter in my stomach.
The final score is twelve-three to Maycourt.
That afternoon, while the players celebrate their win in the VIP area of the clubhouse, I join the Maycourt grooms at the sidelines of another pitch to watch DQ play their first match of the tournament. The DQ team is strong andBasilio is particularly good. He produces two goals in the first chukka, beautifully balanced, charging courageously down the field and whacking them between the posts with ease. When he scores his third goal, he rides towards the DQ lines to change ponies, effortlessly jumping from one saddle to another without touching the ground. Trotting back into the field on his new pony, he glances my way, lifting his fingers to his helmet as though tipping his cap at me, before cantering off.
‘Ash, you know Basilio?’ Jules asks, her eyebrows lifting in surprise.
‘Not really. We met before the Maycourt match.’
‘You’ve caught his eye.’ She glances over at Clara Fennel, who looks appalled, before muttering with a notable hint of pleasure, ‘The High Fives will be furious. Basilio is a nine.’
At half-time, the spectators are invited to honour the tradition of treading in divots, everyone pouring onto the field with their glasses of champagne in hand to repair the uneven turf. I haven’t actually had a chance to take part in this age-old polo tradition before. I throw myself into it eagerly, scanning the ground for opportunities and flattening the loose wads of grass beneath my shoe. The stomping and squishing of turf is amazingly therapeutic, a great stress outlet.
When I’m content there’s no divots left in my vicinity, I lift my head and put my hands on my hips, blowing a loose tendril away from my face with a satisfied exhale at a job well done. I notice Mateo, now changed into a smart shirt, pale trousers and sunglasses, standing in the exclusive part of the outside area of the clubhouse with a beautiful and recognisable blonde actress and Lady M. While they talk, heseems distracted, looking out in my direction. He pointedly lifts his glass to my divot-stomping efforts, a playful smile on his lips. I give a bow in response and his smile widens, before the blonde actress brushes his arm with her hand and he’s pulled back into her orbit.
Eleven
Later in the week, Maycourt have a good start in their semi-finals match against The Buzzards, a team in orange and yellow, with a two-one lead in the first chukka.
Malcolm does a spectacular ride-off, galloping down the field and pushing an opponent off course before stealing the ball and passing it to Mateo, who takes it upfield and knocks it between the goal posts to make it three-one. Eric cheers along with the Maycourt grooms and fans in the stands while Fitz circles his pony, slumped in the saddle, his head wobbling like those bobblehead toys you sometimes see on dashboards.
‘What’s wrong with Fitz?’ I ask Jules after the second chukka which has seen The Buzzards close the gap to four-three. ‘He’s playing badly.’
‘Because he went out last night, like a fucking idiot,’ Jules seethes, handing me two of the ponies who need cooling down, their coats drenched with sweat, their nostrils flaring with fast, heavy breaths, eyes alert and bright with exercise. ‘Mum told him not to, but he got goaded by the High Fiveswho were on the prowl. Did he score then? No, course not. Is he going to help us score today? No, doesn’t look like it. So it’s a lose-lose situation.’
In the third chukka, The Buzzards slip into the lead and in the fourth, Eric manages to get the ball out in the throw-in, hitting it on and watching in horror as Fitz attempts to make up for his performance so far by tearing after it. An opposing player seizes the opportunity, chasing after him and swiftly hooking his stick. Without much encouragement, Fitz’s stick falls from his grip and he’s left floundering on the field as the ball is blasted the other way by his opponent. I hold up the spare mallet, wielding it like a sword, as Fitz comes over.
‘Here,’ I say, passing it to him. ‘Come on, you can do this!’
