They were favored to win the whole thing when they got here, and people cheered when they strutted through the lobby. Then disaster struck: they lost three straight games, eliminating themselves and causing Packer to flee the country in a cloud of grief and shame. People were shocked, but it was not that unusual. “Patrons always flee and abandon their teams when they lose,” explained our host, Al Bianco. “It costs about a million dollars just to enter this tournament, and they go all to pieces when they get humiliated.”
“Why shouldn’t they?” said tournament director Peter Rizzo. “They’re full of false pride, and they got whipped. It’s a terrible fate for a warrior.”
Polo is not as complex as it looks, but it is every bit as dangerous. Anything that involves people riding horses at top speed and charging into each other while swinging mallets is going to be a problem for a certain percentage of participants. Broken arms and legs are common, along with dead backs and shattered eyeballs. This is not like golf or Churchill Downs or the Tennessee Walking Horse championship. Polo is a very loud, very fast contact sport, and the people who play it well are blue-chip athletes.
There are about 150 of these, however, and therein lies the problem.
The Aspen vs. Redlegs game was on Sunday, and it sucked: slow polo on a messy field, made worse by rain, heat, and a disappointing spectator turnout. The crowd of two hundred or so was a mix of horse traders, hunchbacks, and marginal types looking for Ralph Lauren. Shelby Sadler was there with two acid-crazed assistants from Polo Magazine. She introduced them as the Helpless Girls. They both laughed and showed me their tits . . . Just then, Joey Buttafuoco walked by, wearing a cheap imitation-linen suit that began falling apart when the rain started. My homeboys won 9–7, but nobody seemed to care. The Gracida brothers carried the attack, scoring eight of the team’s nine goals. Polo is not a spectator sport, because nobody likes to watch it.
After the game I drove over to the stabling area, hoping to find some action. I was giddy from my string of gambling victories, and I wanted to buy something. People were friendly to me, but I could see that I made them uncomfortable. The whole concept of journalism is foreign to the polo world, but I went out of my way to act charming.
I was looking for my old friend Memo Gracida Sr., who once gave me refuge in Mexico. In the polo world he is a ranking legend; he sits on the right hand of God—the lewd and lovely Belinda. But nobody in the stables had ever heard of him. They knew nothing. Omertà. The code of silence. That is the way of polo.
It was long after dark when I finally got back to the hotel, where a huge party was under way. The lobby was full of teenage girls in low-cut formal dresses. “Who are these people?” I asked the manager.
“We have Jews and Koreans tonight,” he said proudly. “It’s a bar mitzvah on the mezzanine and a Korean wedding in the ballroom.” Then he pulled me closer and whispered, “The little girls will be getting drunk pretty soon, so watch yourself.”
“What?” I said. “What do you mean by that?”
“You know what I mean,” he said. “When they get juiced up, they start wandering all over the hotel and knockin’ on doors.” He stared wistfully at a group of bare-shouldered young beauties across the lobby. “It worries me. Terrible things have happened in this hotel.”
“I know,” I said. “And they’ll happen again. You can’t stop it.”
He hung his head, then smacked his fists together. “I know,” he said quietly. “Thank God I don’t have any daughters.”
“You’re right,” I said. “They’re out of control. They’re evil.” Then I gave him a $50 bill and hurried away to the elevator.
Tobias was already in the room, sorting through a pile of messages. “George Stephanopoulos called,” he said. “He’s not going to the ball. He says he’s too nervous.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “He has nothing to worry about—except maybe Deborah Couples.” Of course, I was speaking about the most famous woman in polo, and the only female patron.
Just then the phone rang. Tobias picked it up, then cursed and slammed it down. “Stephanopoulos again,” he muttered. “What the hell’s wrong with him?”
“He is drunk,” I said. “He’s been making an ass of himself.”
Tobias laughed. “Well, get ready,” he said. “He’s down in the lobby, fooling around with those girls. He’ll be here in a minute.”
“Oh, God!” I moaned. “Don’t answer the door.”