Dead Heat - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,78

no net for the ball to end up in. Secondly, the teams changed the direction of play after each goal and, for a beginner’s eye, it was not always easy to decide which team was playing in which direction.

‘That depends,’ said the man. ‘Do you mean with or without handicap goals?’

‘What are “handicap goals”?’ Caroline asked him.

The man resisted the temptation to roll his eyes, not least because they were firmly fixed on the alluring cross-over at the front of Caroline’s dress. ‘Each player is assigned a handicap at the beginning of the season,’ he said. ‘In matches you have to add the handicaps of each player in the team and subtract one team’s handicap from the other’s. That gives you how many goals’ start the lower-handicapped team get.’ He smiled, but he wasn’t finished. ‘But, of course, in this match, which is only four chukkas, you only get two thirds of those goals.’

‘So what is the score?’ asked Caroline again, rather desperately.

‘The Mad Dogs are beating Orchio Rios by three and a half goals to two.’ He pointed to the scoreboard at the left-hand end of the field, where the score was clearly displayed in large white numbers on a blue background for all to see.

We wished we had never asked. We didn’t even know which team were the Mad Dogs and which weren’t, but it didn’t matter. We were having fun, and we giggled to prove it.

At half-time many of those in the stands went forward to meet the players as they dismounted and changed their ponies. There were about thirty animals tied to the pony lines alongside the field and some players had all their spare mounts saddled and bridled ready for quick changes during a chukka if a pony tired, the game not being stopped for such a substitution. They each appeared to have a groom or two to look after their mounts and to assist with the quick transfer of rider and equipment from one pony to another. Playing polo was clearly not a poor man’s sport.

During the half-time break I asked our friend on the stands if he had ever come across Rolf Schumann or Gus Witney from a polo club in Wisconsin, in the United States. He thought for a bit but shook his head.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But it’s unlikely. US polo is somewhat different from this. They mostly play arena polo.’ I must have looked somewhat quizzical as he went on. ‘It’s played indoors or on small board-bounded areas, like a ménage. You know, like they use for dressage.’ I nodded. ‘They play just three players to a team and…’ he tailed off. ‘Well, let’s just say it’s different from what we enjoy.’ He didn’t actually say that he thought it was inferior but he meant it.

‘How about someone called Pyotr Komarov?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s heard of Peter Komarov.’

‘Peter?’ I said.

‘Peter, Pyotr, it’s the same thing. Pyotr is Peter in Russian.’

‘How come everyone knows him?’ I asked.

‘I didn’t say everyone knows him, I said everyone’s heard of him,’ he corrected. ‘He is the biggest importer of polo ponies in Britain. Probably in the world.’

‘Where does he import them from?’ I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

‘Anywhere,’ he said. ‘But mostly from South America. Flies them in by the jumbo-jetful. I should think at least half the ponies here were bought from Peter Komarov.’

‘Is he based in England?’ I asked.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I know he spends quite a lot of time here but I think he lives in Russia. He runs a polo club over there and apparently he’s done wonderful things for Russian polo. He’s often brought teams over to play here.’

‘How do you know how much time he spends here?’ I asked him.

‘My son knows him,’ he replied. ‘That’s my son over there. He’s number three for the Mad Dogs.’ He pointed at some players but I wasn’t sure which one he meant. ‘He buys his ponies from Mr Komarov.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

‘How?’ he said with a hint of annoyance. ‘How have I been helpful? You’re not a damn journalist, are you?’

‘No.’ I laughed. ‘I’m just someone who knows little or nothing about the game but I want to learn. I’ve inherited pots of money from my grandmother and I thought I might spend some of it having fun playing polo with the nobs.’

He quickly lost interest in us, no doubt believing that we were ignorant proles who should go and spend