Polo: Polo introduction hairy scary lesson

Queenstown reporter Tracey Roxburgh, second from left, was part of a group taught the fine art of polo in Buenos Aires last year. Photo by Puesto Viejo Estancia & Polo Club.
Queenstown reporter Tracey Roxburgh, second from left, was part of a group taught the fine art of polo in Buenos Aires last year. Photo by Puesto Viejo Estancia & Polo Club.
I've just been hoisted on to the back of a horse, the name of which I don't know.

In my left hand are the reins, in my right I'm wielding a mallet and have the sudden urge to yell "Tally-ho!'' in a British accent.

Some fellow journalists and I are at Puesto Viejo Estancia and Polo Club in Argentina, about an hour from Buenos Aires, where we'll spend the day learning to play polo.

The idea was fantastic ... but now I'm on the back of my steed I'm shaking like a leaf.

It's hard enough to control a horse when you've got both hands on the reins, let alone when you've got the strap of a mallet looped around one hand and the giant stick hoisted over your shoulder all the while trying to prevent being walloped with other mallets wielded by exuberant would-be polo pros.

But, as I'm about to learn, my horse isn't at all like Sleiko, the pony I grew up riding, who once threw me then dragged me the length of a paddock before jumping a barbed wire fence just after I managed to untangle myself from the saddle and reins.

This horse is actually on the professional polo circuit and, as such, extraordinarily well behaved.

The tiniest movement from me is enough to make him move forward or stop (which I'm making him do every 30 seconds so as not to get too close to the other horses).

This horse is so good I really only have to think about turning and he does it.

It's almost enough to make me feel relaxed.

Almost.

Shortly after we arrived at one of the most idyllic places I've ever seen our instructor, Julio Casares, a semi-retired professional polo player took us through the basic skills.

It started with straddling the "horse'' (a stool), how to hold the mallet (always in the right hand), and how to control the horse with your other hand and knees.

Easy enough.

From there we had to stand on the stool and practise swinging the mallet forwards and (perhaps optimistically, for me at least) a backhand.

The ball was added in to the mix and, miraculously, I hit it, giving me a false sense of security about what was coming next.

We're led to a group of horses, manes trimmed back to resemble short mohawks, tails strapped up and, one by one, we mount.

I wanted to bond with mine: learn its name, feed it a carrot, give it a cuddle, have a quiet word about not hurting me.

There was none of that.

Before there was even time to say "Giddy-up'' I found myself completely out of my depth.

After doing figure of eights between road cones while being encouraged to trot (no, thank you) it was time to try hitting the ball from atop the horse.

Epic fail.

It transpires the horse was higher than the stool I had practised on, meaning I could get nowhere near the ball.

Normally, a game is played at breakneck speed, by people who have no fear and horses who have tunnel vision on the ball.

To watch it is jaw-dropping.

They play between four and eight chukkas, each lasting seven minutes and every time a goal is scored, teams swap ends.

Players, who make it all look ridiculously easy, will use at least two horses, often more, in one game because they're working them so hard.

Our game could not have been further from that.

It was polo in slow-mo; a comedy of errors that meant the next day our stomach muscles were just as sore from laughing as our arms were from trying to swing the mallet.

The others had their steeds trotting towards the ball, even without encouragement the horses just naturally gravitated to it.

All but mine.

I've always known horses are intuitive and, sensing he had a scaredy-cat on his back, my guy decided to make it easy for me.

He took up a stationary position waiting for the ball to come to us, heaving sighs loudly and often.

Even when I decided it was time to get in the thick of it, he steadfastly refused.

He didn't even respond when I yelled "Tally-ho!'', but maybe that got lost in translation.

Finally, just when I thought all hope was lost, we managed to score a goal.

Not just any goal, the match-winning one.

And by "we'', I mean after I managed to connect the very tip of the mallet to the ball, my lovely horse kicked it through for me. Told you he was good.

- Tracey Roxburgh was flown to Buenos Aires courtesy of Air New Zealand, which launched direct flights to the city from Auckland in December.

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