A Pocketful of Holes and Dreams (24 page)

Steven held the door open for me and suggested I sit in the middle. More fool me. I found myself sitting on the hardest seat, more like a wooden plank really, wedged between a large Argentinean ‘bandit’ and my snoring Chinese travelling companion. The gear stick was between my legs, which made changing gears an embarrassing operation for both José and me. The handbrake was also limiting my leg room, and in the end I found myself sitting with my legs cramped up against my chest.

Stormclouds were gathering and it was beginning to rain. As we headed inland, the tarmac turned to dirt track and the road became bumpy, nothing but mounds of hardened dirt dotted with small rocks and large potholes. The rain was lashing down now. The headlights gave off only a faint beam, and the windscreen wiper was hopeless. However, José seemed to know the road well, clinging to the edges of the track and avoiding the danger zones. Suddenly, the truck swerved, heading into the darkness. Alarmed, I looked over to see what our driver was doing. Lulled like a baby by the swaying of the truck, José, like my Chinese friend, was asleep! I thumped him in the ribs and shouted his name. Grunting, he opened his eyes and straightened the truck and we continued on.

The rest of the journey continued as a white-knuckle ride. Steven, oblivious to it all, lolled against me, his weight bearing down on my shoulder, his snores rumbling in my ear. José lit cigarette after cigarette, filling the cab with foul-smelling smoke. Each time his head fell forward, I’d thump him awake. I was not prepared to die in the middle of nowhere, squashed between an overweight Chinese man and a chainsmoking Argentinean with a gear stick rammed up against my bollocks.

Waking up the next morning, I was disoriented, and still in the clothes I had been wearing since leaving England. I wandered out of my room, to find Steve sitting enjoying breakfast as if he had lived there all his life. I joined him, and while we were eating, Manuel arrived and told us what our schedule for our two-week visit was going to be. Each morning we’d ride over to the main house, then we’d spend two hours learning how to stick and ball, standing on chairs following Manuel’s instructions on how best to hit the ball. After a break for lunch, we’d head back out to the polo field to learn the correct way to ride a polo pony. This would involve taking a horse from a standing start into a full canter within seconds, stopping and turning the horse on a sixpence and, most importantly, ‘riding off’ an opponent. This is one of the most important aspects of polo. If an opponent has the ball and is heading towards your goal, you either ‘ride him off’ (come up alongside him and lean your horse into his horse, steering him away from the ball), or you ‘stick him’ (use your stick to stop his stick from hitting the ball). After that, there was time for a dip in the outdoor pool, before the big polo game at four o’clock.

I couldn’t wait to get started. For the first time, I would be playing polo as it should be played. I had a quick shower and changed into my gear, then we were mounted and heading over to the big house. We weren’t the only pupils, there were people there from all over the world, and once introductions were made, we got down to the serious part of the day. We all got on well, sharing jokes and stories of our mistakes over lunch, swimming mid-afternoon and entering into the competitive spirit of the four o’clock game.

That wasn’t the end of the day though. There’d always be at least ten of us for dinner, gathered around a large table formally set with gleaming silverwear, crystal glasses and crisp white linen, and after we’d eaten, the table was cleared and covered with green fabric so it looked like a miniature polo field. Manuel would then talk us through the rules of the game, moving small models of horses about to show us what he meant.

A few days before I left, Manuel took me shopping for equipment. I had a pair of boots specially made for myself and Gina, both with our initials engraved on the sides. Then I bought two sets of six polo sticks, and two small sticks for Katie and Faye. I also snapped up four complete saddle sets with matching bridles. The quality was so good and the prices so low, I couldn’t resist. Essentially, I bought anything to do with polo, completely forgetting that I was going to have to get it all home! Steven had left to visit his family in Hong Kong.

Manuel drove me to the airport himself. We talked about me buying a couple of young horses and discussed prices and transportation. He said that if I came back he would take me all over Argentina looking for good ponies and would help organize their transportation back to England. Shaking his hand, my last words to him were, ‘I’ll be back.’

When I arrived at Heathrow, I went straight to the luggage carousel. I only had an hour to get over to another terminal for my shuttle to Manchester. I was soon surrounded by everything I had bought, fifteen packages in total, in every shape and size. I stacked them on the trolley, trying to get them to balance and stay on, but as everyone who has pushed a luggage trolley will know, they have a mind of their own, and this trolley was no exception. I was trying to head towards the Green Channel, while my trolley wanted to go to the Red!

In the event, sheer determination won the day, and I managed to get down the ‘Nothing to Declare’ route without any further mishap. Walking past those customs officers is an uncomfortable feeling at the best of times, but I knew I was pushing it with this load. I had nearly reached the end of the corridor, when a voice called me back. Reluctantly turning around, I headed over. One thing I knew, it wasn’t my appearance that had caught his attention. I’d wanted to look my best for Gina, so I was dressed smartly, in a pair of chinos, a white shirt with blue and red striped tie and a very smart navy blazer with brass buttons on the cuffs and front and an embroidered badge on the breast pocket.

The customs officer started to open up my luggage, revealing saddles and bridles, and everything else I had bought. The smell of new leather, and the contents of the bags, plus the fact that I was returning from South America were grounds enough for suspicion.

‘Well,’ he asked, intrigued by the contents, ‘where have you been, sir?’

‘Argentina,’ I replied, trying to look as calm as possible. Someone had once told me that nervous people blink a lot, so I most probably stood there looking like a glazed idiot, trying hard not to blink at all.

‘What were you doing there, sir?’ he asked.

‘Playing polo,’ I answered.

Stopping what he was doing, he looked at me more closely. ‘Hmmmm, playing polo,’ he mused. He paused for a moment before adding, ‘With Prince Charles, I suppose?’

‘No, not this time,’ I said, desperately hoping to gain a bit of respectability.

Throughout our conversation, he had been staring at the badge on my blazer, and his next question threw me a little. ‘Playing for England, were you?’

The penny dropped, and wanting to make the best of the situation, I crossed my fingers and replied with a simple ‘Yes.’

‘Did we win?’ he asked.

By now it was obvious what he thought – he thought I was a player with the English polo team!

‘Of course,’ I muttered, pretending to be modest.

The officer turned to a colleague on a nearby desk, and called out, ‘Hey, Billy, we beat those Argies again.’

I was so embarrassed, I just wanted to get away. If only I could just say, ‘Beam me up, Scotty,’ and find myself being transported to another planet. Glancing down at my watch, I must have let out a quiet groan of despair.

‘What’s the matter, sir?’ he asked.

‘I’ve missed my shuttle,’ I replied, my disappointment clearly written all over my face. ‘It was the last to Manchester tonight.’

He looked at me for a split second then turned away, picking up the phone and talking to someone on the other end. I was in for it. Certain he was going to arrest me, I had visions of spending a night in a cell. Why oh why hadn’t I been a little more honest and gone through the Red channel? ‘You stupid Scouser,’ I thought to myself. ‘You stupid git.’

I must have been standing there in a daze, because the next thing I was aware of was a small buggy pulling up alongside me. Moving out from behind the desk, the customs officer started to load my luggage on to it. ‘Give me a hand, sir, would you please? They’re holding the plane for you. This man will take you there.’

He shook my hand and apologized for the delay. ‘Anyone who plays for our country is all right by me,’ he said. ‘Good luck, sir.’ I thanked him for all his help, while at the same time feeling a little remorseful. I’d been so lucky. I hadn’t been completely honest, and had got away with it.

Gina and the girls were waiting for me in Manchester when I arrived. Seeing their faces was the most wonderful feeling in the world; I was overwhelmed by my love for them all.

I was so excited about Argentina and talked so much about it that my enthusiasm rubbed off on Gina. Her parents offered to look after Katie and Faye, and within four weeks, we were both on our way there. It was a big thing, as it was the first time we’d ever left the girls, but they were more than happy to stay with their grandparents. We stayed as Manuel’s guests in the main house, and we were the only ones there, which meant we had more intense, one-to-one lessons in the morning, then played polo in the afternoon. It was lovely having Gina there, riding along by my side every day and having her there to share it all with me.

Manuel kept his word and drove us all over the place looking for ponies. He advised us about bloodlines and training, and we finally chose six youngsters, paying £1,000 each for them. It was £3,000 per pony to fly them back to England, but similar ones here would have set us back at least £8,000 each, so they were still a bargain. When I arrived home, my time was taken up with building six new stables and overseeing the creation of a polo ground so we could practise everything we had learnt and ready ourselves and our ponies for the coming season without having to leave our home. And that winter I bought a brand-new horsebox and had it converted to accommodate our new ponies.

As usual, however, I was starting to think about business opportunities: it would be great to share the cost of the coming polo season with someone. I needed a sponsor, and after giving it careful thought, I decided to approach Jaguar. It seemed like an obvious choice, as I had bought four of their cars over the years. I arranged a meeting with their sales director and presented him with a proposal outlining my ideas. The horsebox, the ponies’ saddle cloths, horse rugs, leg and tail bandages, and the players’ polo shirts would all be in racing green and, where possible, would have the Jaguar logo and name emblazoned across them. In addition, Jaguar would sponsor an annual silver-cup competition, providing a marquee, and laying on a champagne lunch for VIP guests. At the same time, they could display their latest cars around the polo ground.

The meeting went well and the sales manager was enthusiastic. We went through the figures and he told me he’d get back to me in a few days. Sure enough, he called me back and gave me the good news. I was now the official captain of the Jaguar House Polo Team. It was up to me to bring it all together.

On a sunny Saturday afternoon in May 1988, almost a year to the day after I had first turned into the polo ground to watch that very first time, Gina and I were back. We’d made a major financial investment (something in the region of £100,000) but, although we were a bit nervous, we were looking forward to a good season. We’d certainly come a long way in the past twelve months. Arriving at the polo ground, the painted horsebox looked magnificent, and made quite a few heads turn. However, it was nothing compared to the commotion caused when our six ponies trotted down the ramp. A crowd gathered on the terrace of the club house to watch, and some of the comments carried over to us on the afternoon breeze.

‘Who the hell is that?’ asked one man.

‘It’s that Jeff Pearce fellow,’ commented another.

‘The long-haired Scouser,’ said a third. ‘Last year, he had two knackered ponies and he couldn’t even play!’

There were a lot more comments along these lines, but we didn’t care, we were here to play polo. And it wasn’t surprising, all the fuss that was made: sponsorship was unheard of in those days. And the horsebox did stand out!

That first afternoon, the club manager put me in a decent match. The first three chukkas, I played reasonably well, and in the fourth, our team was awarded a penalty. The rule in polo is that the better player always takes the penalties, and in this case it was Dingo, who was a three-goal player.

In polo, there are five different types of penalty hits, and for each one the players have to be in certain positions. I didn’t know where to position myself for this particular shot, so I decided the best thing to do was to ask Dingo. Riding over to him, I said, ‘Where would you like me to be positioned for this penalty?’

‘Off the f***ing ground. I hate it when people like you don’t know the rules.’

Again, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I rode over to where one of our other players was standing, reining up alongside him, but although the game continued, I couldn’t stop thinking about Dingo’s comments. I was furious.

At the end of the game, I rode up to the horsebox, handed over the reins and ran, raging, towards Dingo’s dark-green horsebox a hundred yards away. It was difficult running in boots and knee pads, and by the time I got there I was red-faced, puffing and panting, I looked up to see Dingo standing at the top of the ramp of his wagon. I felt dwarfed in comparison, but there was no turning back.

I ran up the ramp like a charging bull, my head hitting him straight in the groin. The force pushed him backwards, and the two of us were carried towards the rear of the wagon, ending up on the floor, fists flying, covered in manure and hay. We scrapped like a couple of raging terriers and, in between punches, I told him exactly what I thought of him. Someone must have called for help, as two male grooms arrived on the scene and pulled us apart. We were still snarling at each other and punching the air with our fists.

The club manager had been attracted by all the noise and commotion and came over demanding, ‘What the hell is going on?’