Confessions of a Polo Virgin - From Novice to Addict in 60 minutes

By Robin Esrock

Someone has to be paid to travel the world, so it might as well be me. I am a travel writer blessed with a TV show about being a travel writer, and one of my tasks on a recent assignment in Barbados was to figure out this “polo business”. Foolhardy, it might seem for a novice, as this is not a sport that takes prisoners or suffers fools lightly.
On a hot September morning, I make my way to the immac-ulately groomed Apes Hill Polo Centre on the West Coast of the Island. Before I go much further I should add my only experience with the sport of polo was playing a game of waterpolo in high school. I think it is safe to say, that this would make me like the chess player who thinks he can rock climb because he has seen a game of tennis. Prior to this I had never seen a polo match, much less set eyes on a mallet.
I was fortunate though that my job had previously introduced me to that other essential element of the game, the horse... in the deserts of Jordan’s Petra, on the plains of Mongolia and inside the Lipizzaner stables in Slovenia. Without any formal horse-riding lessons, I had already figured out that the secret to galloping was holding on, closing my eyes, and praying really quickly. Whacking a little white ball while doing so seemed awfully challenging, a bit like singing opera whilst chewing gum.
My instructors are the chipper, supremely patient Dickson brothers, Jamie and Neil, who apart from being professional polo players, (in polo tearms - certified addicts) manage the Apes Hill stables, with a talent, poise and sense of humour that make perfect fodder for television. They had picked out my horse, “Creole Spirit”, for her lack of speed and power, and potential to buck me whenever I kicked my legs and yelled “stop!” Looking the part was also essential, I was dressed in crisp white trousers, and borrowed leather boots and Apes Hill’s Linda Williams had honoured me with an actual Apes Hill shirt as worn by a team member at this year’s Queen’s Cup. My first thought: Jeez, I hope this shirt has been washed. My second: If I apply the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon to the garment; I think I just met the Queen. Honoured Ma’am.   
I mount my horse with the grace of an airborne chicken, and saunter off clutching the mallet, eager to take a swing. Like most virgins before me, I am a little shy and awkward, fumbling with the equipment at hand, not really sure how to use my stick at all. Jamie corrects me when I try to hit the ball using the front end of the mallet, a common first-timer mistake he assures me. Polo virgins think it is easier to strike a ball with the smallest surface possible, because that makes the least amount of sense possible. 
Sit up, lean in, rest my hand on the neck of my horse (my modification for obvious reasons), shoulder back, and give it a whack!  The first time I manage to connect, the mallet vibrates, the ball rolls a few feet, and I hear a sound not unlike “kapok”, which incidentally, is the sound decapitated heads once made as they rolled off Mayan pyramids in Guatemala (travel writers just know these things). I find it simple enough to connect mallet and ball, so long as my horse is not moving. The previous day I had taken my first kite surfing lesson with Bajan world champion windsurfer Brian Talma, which is sort of like having Tiger Woods teach you how to putt. Flying the power kite is all well and good, but seriously, you are supposed to do this while strapped onto a wooden board over big crashing waves? Similarly, striking the ball while galloping and warding off challengers at the same time seems a little preposterous. Like most sports, veterans and spectators quickly forget how difficult it all is, and just how much work is involved to make it look so damn easy.    
One hour in, I am drenched in sweat, but hitting the ball with some modicum of confidence. For our segment climax, the film crew sets up behind the goal posts. The plan is to have Jamie, Neil and my co-host Julia “mock” a challenge as I charge in and score the winning goal. We coordinate this with no heed for famous showbiz warnings about never working with animals, and never working with travel writers. I ride in (a mild trot, but thanks to special effects, it will look as though I am on Seabiscuit), steady the mallet, and give it my hardest swing yet. My mind pictures the cheer of the crowd, the clink of champagne glasses and the euphoria of victory.  It’s a pity my eyes were shut as I did so.  Not only did I cleanly miss the ball, but I almost trampled the crew.
Undeterred by my faux pas, I dismount and walk away like I just spent the night in prison. My white paints stained, my muscles tired and my innocence lost. Virgins of polo and otherwise can relate to their first thrilling experience, knowing that practice improves the fun dramatically. I was already wondering when I might get the chance to play polo again, and for some reason, felt the need to smoke a cigarette.