Page 53 of Polo Fever
Not to be dramatic, but it’s magical here. The grounds are vast and immaculate, the sun has been shining all week, and the atmosphere is electric. I like the bit in the mornings, though before the spectators arrive – the calm before the storm – when there are pockets of activity around the tranquil grounds. Grooms are busy preparing the ponies and stewards are being briefed, making their way to their checkpoints and chatting with each other about the teams and their chances. Dog walkers strolling through Windsor Great Park will stop at the side of the field and watch thewarm-ups before the first match of the day, some of them polo fans who strike up conversation with any grooms and trainers lurking around, others simply entranced by the ponies. The waiters in the clubhouse are double-checking the place settings and the shine of the glasses; the staff at the main bar and the pop-up bars behind the grandstand are stocking up the fridges with bottles; and a bright-red tractor with a roller mower attached behind it is methodically trundling up and down the Queen’s Ground.
The café is busy first thing, providing coffee and traditional Argentine breakfasts to fuel the hard-working grooms keeping everything together and aid the patrons’ hangovers.
‘We really might win this tournament, you know,’ Jules declares, putting away her phone and tapping her fingers on the wooden table whilst watching someone’s scruffy terrier yap at a striking-looking and startled rough-coated vizsla on his lead.
‘Don’t jinx it.’
‘If we win the Queen’s Cup, we’ll be going to Paris on such a high.’
I smile as the barista calls out our order and we get up to retrieve it. ‘I’m so excited about Paris.’
‘Surely you travelled to Paris when you worked in fashion.’
‘It was always flying visits. I never saw any of the city. Apparently, we get time off when we’re there, right?’
‘Yeah, a little,’ she confirms. ‘Paris is amazing; you’ll love it. I’ll make sure you get enough time to do some exploring.’
‘Thanks,’ I say warmly as she shrugs like it’s no big deal.
She may not be the most open of people, but I’ve learnt that beneath the guarded exterior, Jules is thoughtful and kind.I like working with her and we’ve grown closer over the past few weeks, especially now I don’t hinder her work so much.
‘Do you get to travel a lot with polo?’ I ask as we both carry a tray of coffees each past The Prince’s Ground on the way back to the pony lines.
‘Paris, Florida, Dubai, Sotogrande, Aspen, Argentina,’ she lists. ‘You go all over the world. It’s pretty exciting.’
I sigh, getting my sunglasses out my back pocket and sliding them on. ‘One day, you’re shovelling horse shit; the next, you’re flying private jet to Paris. Fucking hell. The polo world is straight up bonkers.’
‘I know, right?’ she says as Alvin rattles by on his golf buggy, giving us a salute, his dog up front next to him wearing goggles and a neckerchief. ‘You can’t beat it.’
*
In the final chukka of the semi-finals, the entire Maycourt team is on edge. In a spectacular shake up, DQ crashed out of the tournament earlier in the midday match, losing thirteen-twelve to the Breakwater team. I couldn’t hear Ambrose from where I was standing but from his thunderous expression and his wild gesticulation, it was safe to say he wasn’t happy about the result. Basilio dismounted, snapped at the groom ready to take his pony, and stormed off the pitch, punching the side of the DQ tent as he passed. I glanced over at the spectator stand of The Prince’s Ground and Lady M happened to catch my eye.
She smiled serenely.
The result gave our team a boost of confidence, but has also served as a stark reminder ahead of the late-afternoon match that, in polo, no matter how well you’ve beenplaying up until go-time, nothing is guaranteed. Anything can happen.
We’re leading the match against Ember Crest eleven-eight, largely thanks to Mateo, who is playing so aggressively that I’m worried it’s going to lead him to foul at any moment. He’s dominated the match start to finish and the Embers have picked up on it, leaving other Maycourt players open to mark him together, but despite their harassment, he’s managing to slip through any gaps they leave him. When he whips the ball away from a scuffle and sweeps upfield with it, Fitz gallops to the goal posts waiting for the pass that soon comes his way only to hit it at the post, swearing loudly as it bounces back into play. But Mateo is somehow there, like he predicted it all, like it’s played out exactly as he meant it to, and as he sails past the posts, he knocks the ball in between them with an unhurried nearside backhand.
He doesn’t need to look over his shoulder to see if it’s a goal.
He notes the reaction of the spectators, satisfied.
‘Mateo is unbeatable this week!’ Jules exclaims, as we pass each other on different ponies, cooling them down.
The whistle blows for the end of the match and the Maycourt team erupts into cheers, the players holding up their mallets in victory as they canter back towards us, grooms running to each other to high-five and embrace, jumping round and round in celebration, and Lady Maycourt behind the white picket fence raises her glass of bubbles to the players and takes a long, triumphant sip. Elated, I reach to pat the warm, sweaty neck of Wickham who I’m cooling down.We’re through to the final!
Seventeen
It’s a beautiful day for the finals match between Maycourt Polo and The Redwoods for the Cartier Queen’s Cup. Clear blue skies, bright sunshine, and a crowd dressed to the nines, jittery with excitement and anticipation. The grandstand is packed with spectators, and the garden of the bar that lines the Queen’s Ground is bustling with people, an ice bucket of champagne or pale rosé on every table.
It’s much busier today than it has been earlier in the week, but this is a weekend match and the grand final of one of the most prestigious tournaments in the polo circuit. Not to mention, royalty is here: HRH The Prince and Princess of Wales are watching and will be presenting the trophy to the winner.
I feel sick with nerves. There’s as much pressure on the grooms as there is on the players. The operation behind the scenes has to be slick and rapid with no room for error. My hands are trembling as I plait tails and wrap bandages, asking Eduardo and Federico to check everything I do, refusing to leave anything to chance.
Just before the match begins, the atmosphere in the pony lines is tense and serious. I’m so nervous, I actively seek out Mateo, finding him on his own behind the tent, drinking from a bottle of water. He lowers it slowly on seeing me approach.
‘Hi,’ I begin.
