Since I had no idea of what to expect, I didn’t know whether the “crowd” of just two or three hundred was considered a good turnout or not. Many of the spectators had parked their vehicles on the far side of the field and simply sat on the roofs to watch the action. A chorus of car horns rather than applause tended to greet each goal.
Fortunately, the day was fine, with even some watery sunshine helping to warm us as Caroline and I sat in the open, on green plastic seats, along with about a hundred or so others, most of whom appeared to either know or be related to the players, exchanging waves and shouts, as the teams milled around in front of us before the start.
Polo matches are divided into periods known as chukkas, each chukka lasting about seven minutes. Matches can be four, five or six chukkas long, with gaps in between. In this particular event, each match was four chukkas, with approximately a five-minute gap between each, and a little longer at halftime.
Caroline asked a middle-aged man who was sitting close to her what the score was. Now, this was not as stupid as it may have sounded, since the game can be very confusing. For a start, it was not always clear if a goal had been scored because, unlike soccer, there was no net for the ball to end up in. Second, the teams changed the direction of play after each goal, and, for a beginner’s eye, it was not always easy to decide which team was playing in which direction.
“That depends,” said the man. “Do you mean with or without handicap goals?”
“What are ‘handicap goals’?” Caroline asked him.
The man resisted the temptation to roll his eyes, not least because they were firmly fixed on the alluring crossover at the front of Caroline’s dress. “Each player is assigned a handicap at the beginning of the season,” he said. “In matches, you have to add the handicaps of each player in the team, and subtract one team’s handicap from the other’s. That gives you how many goals’ start the lower-handicapped team gets.” He smiled, but he wasn’t finished. “But, of course, in this match, which is only four chukkas, you only get two-thirds of those goals.”
“So what is the score?” asked Caroline again rather desperately.
“The Mad Dogs are beating Ocho Rios by three and a half goals to two.” He pointed to the scoreboard at the left-hand end of the field, where the score was clearly displayed in large white numbers on a blue background for all to see.
We wished we had never asked. We didn’t even know which team were the Mad Dogs and which weren’t, but it didn’t matter. We were having fun, and we giggled to prove it.
At halftime, many of those in the stands went forward to meet the players as they dismounted from and changed their ponies. There were about thirty animals tied to the pony lines alongside the field, and some players had all their spare mounts saddled and bridled, ready for quick changes during a chukka if a pony tired, the game not being stopped for such a substitution. They each appeared to have a groom or two to look after their mounts and to assist with the quick transfer of rider and equipment from one pony to another. Playing polo was clearly not a poor man’s sport.
During the halftime break, I asked our friend on the stands if he had ever come across Rolf Schumann or Gus Witney from a polo club in Wisconsin, in the United States. He thought for a bit but shook his head.
“Sorry,” he said. “But it’s unlikely. U.S. polo is somewhat different than this. They mostly play arena polo.” I must have looked somewhat quizzical as he went on. “It’s played indoors or on small board-bounded areas, like a ménage. You know, like they use for dressage.” I nodded. “They play just three players to a team, and…” He tailed off. “Well, let’s just say it’s different to what we enjoy.” He didn’t actually say that he thought it was inferior, but he meant it.
“How about someone called Pyotr Komarov?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” he said. “Everyone’s heard of Peter Komarov.”
“Peter?” I said.
“Peter, Pyotr, it’s the same thing. Pyotr is Peter in Russian.”
“How come everyone knows him?” I asked.
“I didn’t say everyone knows him. I said everyone’s heard of him,” he corrected. “He is the biggest importer of polo ponies in Britain. Probably in the world.”
“Where does he import them from?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Anywhere,” he said. “But mostly from South America. Flies them in by the jumbo jet full. I should think at least half the ponies here were bought from Peter Komarov.”
“Is he based in England?” I asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” he said. “I know he spends quite a lot of time here, but I think he lives in Russia. He runs a polo club over there, and apparently he’s done wonderful things for Russian polo. He’s often brought teams over to play here.”
“How do you know how much time he spends here?” I asked him.
“My son knows him,” he replied. “That’s my son over there. He’s number three for the Mad Dogs.” He pointed at some players, but I wasn’t sure which one he meant. “He buys his ponies from Mr. Komarov.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You’ve been most helpful.”
“How?” he said with a hint of annoyance. “How have I been helpful? You’re not a damn journalist, are you?”
“No.” I laughed. “I’m just someone who knows little or nothing about the game, but I want to learn. I’ve inherited pots of money from my grandmother, and I thought I might spend some of it having fun playing polo with the nobs.”
He quickly lost interest in us, no doubt believing that we were ignorant proles who should go spend our money elsewhere, just as I intended. I don’t exactly know why, but I didn’t really want either Peter or Pyotr Komarov to hear that I had been asking after him at the Guards Polo Club.
THERE WERE two matches played, each lasting a little over an hour total, and we stayed for them both. We watched the second from the tables and chairs placed in front of the clubhouse. The sun shone more strongly through the high cloud, and it became a delightful spring afternoon, ruined only slightly by the continuous stream of noisy jetliners overhead in their climb away from Heathrow airport. I didn’t want to think about the one that would take Caroline so far away from me the following day.
We chatted to half a dozen more people, and all of them had heard of Peter Komarov, although not all of them were as positive about him as our man in the grandstand.
“He’s not a good influence,” said one man. “I think he has too much power in the game.”
“How come?” I asked him.
“He not only sells horses, he leases them too, especially to the top players,” he said. “That means that some of the best international players are beholden to him. Doesn’t take an Einstein to work out the potential for corruption.”
“But surely there’s not a lot of prize money in polo?” I said.
“Maybe not, but it’s getting bigger all the time,” said the man. “And there’s been an increase in gambling on the matches. You can now wager on polo with some of the betting Web sites. And who knows how much is gambled overseas on our matches, especially in Russia. I think we would be much better off without his money.”
“Does he put money into the game, then?” I asked.
“Not half as much as he takes out,” he said.
No one had heard of either Rolf Schumann or Gus Witney, but I didn’t mind, I had reaped a wonderful amount of information about the elusive Mr. Komarov, including a gem from the clubhouse caterer, who also provided the food for the Royal Box. She was certain of it. Both Pyotr Komarov and his wife, Tatiana, were vegetarians.
“WHY ARE you so excited?” asked Caroline as we stood on the platform waiting for the train back to London. “Apart, of course, from the fact that you are with me again tonight.”