Polo Part 3

Will Berkeley
Sep 4, 2018 · 5 min read

In the last article I wrote about Polo, the person, and polo, the game in Argentina. Which brings me to my horse: Charrúa. “The Charrúa were an Amerindian, Indigenous People or Indigenous Nation of the Southern Cone in present-day Uruguay and the adjacent areas in Argentina (Entre Ríos) and Brazil (Rio Grande do Sul). It is thought that the Charrúa were driven south into present-day Uruguay by the Guaraní people around 4,000 years ago. They were a semi-nomadic people who sustained themselves mainly through hunting and gathering. Since resources were not permanent in every region, they would constantly be on the move. Rain, drought, and other environmental factors determined their movement. For this reason they are often called “nomadas estacionales”; which means seasonal nomads.”-Wikipedia. Charrúa in present day lexicon also means The Spirit of Uruguay. So that was the name of my horse. He was my horse even before he was my horse. All the vaqueros and Santiago, the owner, declared Charrúa mine long before I owned him. That’s Memo’s caballo. What made him mine? He was never fully broken. He bucked when you first climbed aboard. He had itchy back. He had played in The Argentine Open in Palermo. The nickname for that is The Cathedral of Polo. The best polo in the world. Whatever you think you know about polo is probably incorrect. It’s the National Past Time of Argentina. And like most sports. Very few people can make a living at it. You don’t want to be reincarnated as a polo pony in the pampas of Argentina. Unless you are Charrúa. He was astonishingly fast. He could gallop like nobody’s business. But he found himself in a bit of a spot out in the pampas on Santiago’s spot. Very few vaqueros wanted to venture onto his back. Pro players weren’t chomping on the bit either. They like a good rocket ship. But they do not invite injury. Pro players periodically get killed in crashes. Polo is point of fact a very dangerous sport at the highest levels. The Spirit of Uruguay? They were all set on that. Pro players were Punta del Este customers which is a resort town in Uruguay. They like girls over eating goal post. The Patrons, fat guys with coin, funding the whole operation, were terrified of him. There was seemingly no solution for Charrúa until I showed up. Nobody wanted at The Spirit of Uruguay. Then I come along. I actually dumped Polo, the person, for Charrúa. I was the anti-polo player. No glamorous girl for this guy. I have a horse to ride. Polo lost her shit over that one. I loved my horse more than her! She was bullshit. She was glamorous, French and a former model/part-time model these days in Buenos Aires. I jokingly called her the Coco Chanel of Belgrano which was one of 47 neighborhoods in BA. She was actually a person of note in our neighborhood. But she wouldn’t come out to the pampas and patch things up. She dug her stilettos in in BA. polo lower case wins. Polo can pound sand. I chose Charrúa over Coco. All day long. I liked high performance horses. The more death defying. The happier I was. I ran across some race horses in Florida. They were interesting but I didn’t like the whole race horse position. It was too high. I was too heavy. We were not simpatico. My whole plan for Argentina was to ride. That was a higher goal than polo. If you told me that I could ride high performance horses with no polo. Or ride low performance horses and play polo. It wouldn’t even be a choice. I had plenty of low performance polo ponies to ride in the United States. I had actually quit that job. I worked for a company that leased polo ponies to rich guys that could not ride. I wanted at the beasts. Horses that could ride in The Cathedral of Polo. Charrúa could provide that service. He was actually a low cost service provider. Santiago practically gave him to me when I brought him back to the United States. I had found the ideal horse for me. He was a ten goal polo player’s horse as evidenced by his playing in The Argentine Open. He was bargain basement because he was difficult to ride. It’s hard to entirely describe but, simply put, he played the rider. You have to keep up. Or be tossed. He knew the game better than you. The way he changed up his gait was really jarring. He could get you to the ball first but hang onto your hat. He would take some instruction but if he sensed any weakness in your position. You would be tossed. In Argentina I would just put a blanket on his back and ride him Indio which is what we called it. Riding him at night in the dark on the way back from a few cervezas was utterly insane. This photo is the final ride. I am in Upstate New York on some private farm. I have delegated Charrúa to an Argentine pro player, Raul. He’s like the Eric of horses. He feeds his horses what he calls Vit-A-Mins. He takes the Vit-A-Mins himself. He talks to his horses like they are humans. He has a menagerie of happy animals that he travels with from horses to cats and dogs as he plays polo up and down the East Coast. His animals are his family. Raul got Charrúa. He domesticated him to a level that an American pro purchased him. I recoup all my money. I split the meager profit with Raul. My work is done. I have done right by my caballo: The Spirit of Uruguay. I don’t ever ride again. What’s the point? You can’t give me Charrúa in the pampas. I only rode him in Upstate New York to say goodbye to him. Polo, the person, turns up in LA about a year later. She is pregnant. Her boss is the father. I am happy for her as I have noted. Except that her boss is married. Polo is unperturbed. She is decades younger and gorgeous. What does she care about some vieja? We are long since romantically detached. It was nice to see her though that one last time because Polo upper and polo lower case is concluded. There is no going back. Charrúa has a new life too. However there is a connection between the three of us that can’t entirely be broken. Polo insisted on driving me out to the airport in Buenos Aires when I left. She wouldn’t go to the pampas but she will go to the aeropuerto for some telenovela drama. She borrowed her boss’s BMW. Loaded up all my tack. Barged through Security in a pre-9/11 world and proceeded to do her telenovela out at the Gate. Mi Amor! You loved that estupido caballo more than me! You are taking him home with you! You are not taking me! Polo, stop it with the telenovela. You are Porteno which means person of the port. In Buenos Aires it means you are the city itself. And you are Charrúa, Memo. That estupido caballo. Just kiss me and go, already. #Charrúa

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