I never really thought about the muckety-mucks who play polo as being cowboys, but after riding a mile in their jodhpurs, I’m convinced they are.

THE POLO CLUB

“. . . The game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone / A spectator’s leg was broken just from merely looking on.” So wrote Banjo Paterson in his famous Australian poem, “The Geebung Polo Club.”

Sounds pretty rough, I thought as I drove up to the Denver Polo Club for my initiation. I’d played cowboy polo, which is like playing croquet with hand grenades. But real polo had to be different.

Pictures in the polo magazines showed aristocrats drinking champagne and charging San Juan Hill. Advertisers included Rolex, Mercedes Benz, and hotels in Switzerland. I glanced down at my chinks and Wranglers, suddenly conscious that my jodhpurs were in the laundry! I was thankful that I had worn my official R.M. Williams Australian stockman shoes.

My first concern was that I had never in my life sat in an English saddle. My second was that I was as left-handed as the AFL-CIO.

John, the owner of the club, assured me I had nothing to fear. He was raised in Iran, where polo originated, and was masterful and patient. I was mounted, a mallet strapped onto my right hand, and fed to the lions. The other players swallowed me up and kept me in play much like hockey players would treat a puck.

Although John shouted instructions and amended the by-laws continuously, I learned the most important rule: Keep moving! The crucial concept to understand in polo is the line of the ball. If you are driving the ball down the field, no one can cross that imaginary line between your mallet and the ball. They can, however, bump you off the line, or hook your mallet with theirs. Hooking is akin to swinging a bat at a baseball and hitting a brick wall instead.

My right-hand dexterity showed itself over and over as my setup shots careened at ninety-degree angles between my pony’s legs. Defenders merely waited behind me to steal the ball. I would ride into the fracas tilting drunkenly and circling like a man with one oar. I sustained one good blow to the cheek and managed to bloody the ear of one of my teammates.

But I didn’t quit. I was spurred on by the rule that read, “If a rider gets thrown, the play continues if he is not in the way.” Same for a broken mallet. In the case of a broken ball, the largest piece shall be played.

“. . . And the Cuff and Collar captain, when he tumbled off to die was the last surviving player so the game was called a tie.”

But let me tell ya, it’s a cowboy game! It’s fast, it’s a’horseback, and it’s thrilling. And I’m gonna try again when my shoulder joint heals and I can borrow some jodhpurs. Wonder what size Prince Charles wears? He’s bound to be in the phone book.