Polo: A day in playground of the rich

There is a frenzy of high heels trotting to watch Prince Harry. It seems oddly redolent of the clip-clopping of horses' hooves as the polo ponies trot about this manicured piece of English green.

We are at the Guards Polo Club at the quaintly named Smith's Lawn, part of Windsor Park, set aside by Charles II in the 17th century. It is the setting for the Coronation Cup - the trophy for international polo matches between England and New Zealand.

The posh European cars and the wah-wah-wah of upper class "Hooray Henry" English vowels give it away.

Many of the 28,000 crowd at Smith's Lawn know little of polo's subtleties. It seems the day is more about immersing yourself in the fabric of English high society at its polished, scrubbed-up best.

Ladies and gentlemen emerge en masse from Range Rovers, Jaguars and Aston Martins, leaving the picnic (some would say the real business of the day) until later. Prince Harry is playing in the curtain-raiser. This creates a lot of fuss and neck-craning.

Regardless of the identity of the combatants, some patrons will observe little more than a couple of chukkas, preferring to hobnob instead.

New Zealand team manager Roddy Wood, who ran the Guards Club for 10 years and has played in England since 1984, says the day takes some beating.

"Socially, you can't do it better than the English for pomp and ceremony," he said.

Chele Clarkin, mother of New Zealand captain John-Paul Clarkin, puts it more simply: "The players will be more nervous than us because we've just enjoyed a champagne lunch."

That pre-match anxiety is probably best summed up by New Zealand coach Glen Gilmore who said he felt like "a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs".

It is just the fourth time New Zealand has contested the Coronation Cup since its 1951 inception and the Kiwis have won it only once - in 1991. This time they lose 9-7 after the hosts insisted on employing the sport's weird handicap system where players are rated from -2 to 10 "goals" each. The team aggregates meant England started the match 2-0 up.

For Clevedon's Cody Forsyth, who retired from international play after the match following 20 years in the Kiwi saddle, it was tough to take.

"They need to look at the system - the All Blacks don't have to give away tries before they start - as it lingers in your mind the whole time.

"Internationally, this is me - I'm done. I would've liked to have gone out with a win but it's been a superb day. We have got some good guys coming on who will more than fill the boots, so now it's their turn."

This is a professional sport and there is a good living to be made. Clarkin, for example, is 28 this year and in his ninth season of travelling professionally. Leading professionals can earn up to $600,000 a year and can make a profitable sideline by buying, training and selling horses to team bosses. Clarkin, of the Mystery Creek Polo Club near Hamilton, hopes for another eight to 10 years at top level.

Hindering the expansion of international polo are the resources required to administer top class events. Each player uses up to 12 ponies a match, meaning there are about 40 a team.

Many are originally bred for racing, so teams can fork out as much as $225,000 a horse. Ponies are generally sourced from studs in the region to cut costs - the Kiwi team estimates it borrows 60 per cent of their horses because of the additional $15,000 quarantine bill to transport horses from New Zealand.

"Professionals are now buying horses from wherever they can find them in the world," says Forsyth. "It takes a few years and is getting harder. They are worth a fortune each, let alone 40 in each team."

The day has some other quaint traditions. Patrons are asked to assist with the "treading in" - where they turn over divots of turf ruptured during play.

Perhaps not so quaint are the legendary after-parties where the likes of exclusive London club China White host a night of hedonistic revelry at £150 ($450) a head.

Getting in is a big deal, especially if you do not hold an invite. Penelope Grimshaw of Berkshire sums it up: "We'll be getting in somehow, us gorgeous fillies."

Many seem to drink their money's worth. As you tread over and around dozens of bodies on the way to your taxi, you reflect that the lustre that began the day seems to have dulled. Just a bit.