Racing: Horsefeed fee for polo's heroes

Greg Wood finds that for all the glamour on show at Smith's Lawns the real stars wear little more than a bridle

THEY ARE clearly big on irony in the band of the Scots Guards. Before the final of the Queen's Cup at Smith's Lawns in Windsor yesterday, the bandsmen tramped up and down the enormous length of the playing field, before stopping right in front of the Royal Box. It was at that point that they launched into "Fanfare for the Common Man".

It was a droll choice, because Mr and Mrs Joseph Public were conspicuous only by their absence. On the other hand, if you stood in the middle of the Members' Lawn of the Guards' Polo Club and shouted "Arabella", you would probably be killed in the rush. It is the sort of place where the toddlers wear designer shades, the creche is staffed by Norland Nannies and, to paraphrase Henry T Ford, you can drive any car you like so long as it is T-reg and convertible.

Quite simply, they have got it and they come to Smith's Lawns to flaunt it, but also to watch as a flurry of hooves and clicking sticks manages to trump whatever most of them can muster. Because this is polo, and the financial niceties are such that, if you are not in the upper reaches of the Rich List, it would be wise to sit down before reading any further.

A polo pony is expensive, a good one being worth many thousands of pounds. To run a top-class team, you will need at least 20, along with the grooms to look after them and feed them the very finest oats. And then there are the players. Good ones are not cheap. In fact, they are the exact opposite of cheap, and the very best are millionaires who are unlikely to accept a pay cut.

To reach the final of a tournament like the Queen's Cup, one of the season's main events, you need to play three round-robin matches, and then a quarter and semi-final. The ponies need to be transported from stable to playing ground in a horsebox the size of barn, with a thirst to match. But even if your team wins, you do not receive anything so vulgar as prize-money. You get a cup. It is not even a big cup.

The mathematics are mad, no matter how much money you have. Polo, though, has one great redeeming feature which will always endear it to billionaires: a cunning system of handicapping which allows the patron to take to the field along with his highly-paid superstars. All players have a rating, expressed in "goals", between minus two and 10. Since handicapping was introduced more than a century ago, fewer than 90 players have achieved 10-goal status, and no Englishman has done so since the War. The best players, like most of the horses, are almost exclusively Argentinian.

The sum of the ratings of the four players in a team must come to no more than 22. This means that a side often comprises two 10-rated polo geniuses, one up-and-coming youngster, and the tubby old man who pays the bills. Imagine Martin Edwards deciding to play himself instead of Dwight Yorke in Barcelona, or Sheikh Mohammed riding his own horses at Royal Ascot this week, and you are halfway there.

In the case of Ellerston White, who beat Jerudong Park 12-8 in yesterday's final, the cheques are signed by Kerry Packer. These days, he is almost as wide as he is tall, but he still plays regularly, although sadly he not did not take to the field yesterday (this sentiment, incidentally, was not echoed by his ponies).

In his place, Ellerston were led magnificently by Adolfo Cambiaso, who made it to 10-goal status as a 17-year-old, the youngest player ever to do so. Alongside him was Gonzalo Pieres, now 43 and rated 10 for the past 18 years. The heart of the Jerudong team, meanwhile, were the Heguy brothers, Bautista and Nachi, 10-players both. To a large extent, these four men played the game amongst themselves.

The real stars of polo, though, are the ones who wear nothing more ostentatious than a bridle and are paid for their labour in horsefeed. The ponies are fearless, astonishingly nimble, and able to go from flat-out gallop to standing still to flat-out gallop in the opposite direction in no more than half a dozen strides.

It is little wonder that the players need to change ponies after each of the six seven-minute chukkas which make up the match, and perhaps more frequently still as the game gallops from one end of the 300-yard pitch to the other. It must be difficult enough for the humans to keep up with the mad dash of it all, and from the sidelines, you need the eyesight of a falcon to stand any chance. The ponies, though, respond instantly and willingly to every demand.

Whether the spectators give their endeavours the recognition they deserve seems doubtful. They are too busy seeing and being seen, discussing what Liz was wearing to the champagne luncheon and whether or not Hugh was with her (he was). The guest list is the thing, not the team sheet, and if your badge does not get you into the right tent, you might as well not exist.

Perhaps the most appropriate way to imagine a day at Smith's Lawn is to think of it as being like a glass of Pimms'. It is a perfectly pleasant thing to get involved with on a summer's afternoon, but the polo itself is nothing more than the slice of cucumber on top. Which is, of course, just the way everyone likes it.