marco! POLO!

Last night, I attended my first ever polo match in veddy veddy fancy Middleburg, Virginia. It was a twilight game, beginning at 7 PM, when "Heart In Hand" played "Rock Hill Farm." And here's the thing. When we got there, I was expecting the place to look like Churchill Downs, all manicured lawns, food pavilions, and, naturally, real bathrooms. Come on, we were in horse country for Nellie's sake.

But, Great Meadow, is, as the name suggests, a great meadow. And the playing field was more suitable for a rodeo. In fact, in between the second and third quarters, a tractor, like a Zamboni, rolled in to smooth out the dirt. And, help me baby Jesus, there were Porta-Johns everywhere.
And not a Julia Roberts/Pretty Woman hat in sight. The crowd looked mostly like tailgaters at a minor league baseball game.

Our friends, Ray and Miguel, had lobbied hard for a viewing box. I had recently watched a Nationals game from a sky box, so I was prepared for air conditioning and a private bathroom. No such luck. The box was just a picnic bench on the other side of a low wall made out of wood, the only structure separating our heads from the swinging polo mallets. (Actually, I almost got hit in the head by a polo ball, which grazed, instead, the head of one of our box mates. It was okay, he was completely trashed.)

Did you know that there are 3 players on a team? Neither did I. I thought each team would consist of at least a dozen. Like a giant soccer game, but on horses.



This is what goes down on the playing field. I believe this photo is from the main event, 1st Chukker versus Golden Zebra (I am not making this up.) I was personally rooting for Golden Zebra, whose players had better, more impressive-sounding names. Names like Gonzalo Fucci. I think they're all from Argentina. But quite frankly, I did more socializing than horse watching and don't know who won either game.

Here is a photo of Karl and our friend Miguel, who is a talented artist and laughs exactly like Ricky Ricardo.



Can you tell them apart? White shirts are important polo attire (although, Karl was informed by the guy in the background with the white collar, who is originally from Saudi Arabia and ships oil for a living, that he should tuck in his shirt.)

Here is a photo of me and Miguel. I am not in a white shirt. However, my pants are white. Which was a lucky coincidence.



Other than white shirts, cigars are ubiquitous in the world of polo spectating.

To wit:



And:



This is Ray. The thing hanging from his waist is not, as you might think, a black dildo. It is a miniature lantern, which came in handy when they shut off the lights on the field and started up the disco music. People who like polo also like strobe lights.

Needless to say, I had the time of my life.