I went to a polo match for the first time and it was truly miserable

I recently attended a polo match. Some strange spirit possessed me, and before I could think twice about the decision, I asked my more cultured older sister if she would like to pretend to be “preppy” with me by going to watch people riding small horses hit balls.

“Oh, silly Louise!” she exclaimed. “A polo isn’t preppy. It’s classy.”

Was the polo classy? Sure. People were dressed nicely. Pastel shorts, collared shirts, sundresses, fabulous hats. But it was gosh darn hot.

We were standing in a flat, grassy field. It was nearly 95 degrees. Every now and then it was windy enough so I didn’t completely melt, but the sun was still beating down. I expected to leave this experience either looking like surf or turf: red like a lobster or tanned like a piece of meat.

Being a novice polo spectator, my party was not adequately prepared. Most people had those easy up tent thingys to provide shade. We did not. We sat in chairs, sweating more than dogs drool, determinedly watching a sport we did not understand.

The game started at some point. The beginning was a touch nebulous. Apparently there was a horn, but few people heard it. One second there were no horses, then there were horses. Horses ran back and forth. Balls were hit. Sometimes the scoreboard changed.

Then the horses stopped. And people started running on the field? Apparently halfway through the event, there is something called “stomping divots.” Spectators go on the field and push the grass back in place since the horses ripped it up.

So we stomped around in the field, because that’s what everyone else was doing. Stomping around was too much exercise in the heat. My mouth dried. I was thirsty.

Everyone else was prepared for the thirst. People brought lemonade and water. The match was hosted on a winery, so copious amounts of wine was bought and consumed. I counted one party consumed five bottles over the course of the match. They were discussing going to a new rooftop bar that night as well. The family that drinks together, stays together.

Everyone had food, too. Crackers and cheese and spreads and watermelon. One family even had a grill on which they were a-cookin’ bacon.

It seemed that no one actually understood the rules of polo. As I walked around, observing what there was to see, eavesdropping on what there was to hear, I noticed that most people had no idea how the game is played, who was playing, or what the score was. One gentleman didn’t even know which end of the stick the ball was hit with.

Everyone was bluffing their way through, trying to convince everyone else they understood what was happening and were enjoying it. There were people who worked at the winery who were giving away pamphlets describing the rules of polo, and even they didn’t know who was playing or the detailed rules.

However, some people knew what was happening and how to have a grand polo experience. One group had a British flag and a lifesized cut out of Queen Elizabeth. They wore the fanciest of hats, had multiple bouquets of flowers and had many tasty looking cakes.

They were having intelligent polo-themed conversation. This group is what everyone else strives to be. As everyone else chewed their humidity-infested crackers and sip their lukewarm wine, watching the field pretending to know what was occurring, this family got to take selfies with a cardboard copy of Queen Elizabeth. #winning

When the match finally finished, I smiled, knowing I wouldn’t have to do it again. I was still vaguely confused about why I agreed to do this in the first place. But then I discovered my sister actually enjoyed it and wants to come back.

The polo match was a hot, thirst-inducing, classy, confusing affair. I am now tan, like turf. This is much more preferable to being the sun-burnt surf. I accredit this accomplishment to the liberal application of sunscreen. Sunscreen is the real MVP.