Do you feel that invisible net that exists during a tournament? Like the Chart in The L Word, everybody is connected, but by love of polo, not lesbianism. You have the divine knowledge of where everyone is and what everyone is doing; days blend seamlessly into each other to form one overwhelming super day? You feel it until your rig is disassembled and you’ve stumbled back into a reality, most often signified by a sleazy airport. That’s my tourno experience, at least.

“Oi, Virginia!!!” She swung her head around vigorously, though already 200m in the distance on her bike. Sweet polo faith implored her and her smiley red-headed companion to immediately head back along Boundary road in search of where the voice had sprung. We found each other (sounds emo, but it felt pretty great) and the weekend had begun.

‘Aftermath’ was the theme of the tournament, being after Worlds and for the fun of dressing like zombies. And blood, right Kiki? HOT. The zombies that Will Smith defeats in ‘I Am Legend’ are babes, super dudes. An apt theme for us kids on bikes: fearsome and fearless, no stranger to feeling deathly after a night of intense living, often moving in packs, hungry, and violent.

Some of us took a literal approach to the theme and decided to be zombies. Wednesday at The End, where ‘casual beers’ turned into litres of unidentifiable liquid at Down Under bar. Thursday at Archive and Ric’s where indie beats were drenched in overpriced cider. Friday at Dan’s where an electric dancing orgy could be compared with an inextinguishable fire. By 9am Saturday we were the real deal.

We played a bit of polo on Friday in amongst the set-up. “We” meaning everyone but Morgan who was pre-occupied shot-gunning his way to organ-failure. Morgan got the party started and Dan hosted its continuation in his East Brisbane backyard, complete with projections, grunge couches, a DJ stall and under-house nooks. The only thing that was missing was a classy goon-in-the-bath-with-a-hose-through-the-floor-boards system. The shenanigans were of a high-school party standard, the dance moves were of no standard at all; Ollie’s striptease was characterised by whipping innocent bystanders with items recently removed from his bod, Scottie rocked the boy-band pelvic thrust and my own personal style involved laughing so hard that I spat beer on people. Kiki’s attempts to extricate the Heal Street family (Scottie, myself and Seeber) for several hours were fruitless. Soz. Crazy, uncontrollable strangers from across the country united in flagrant disregard for government alcohol consumption recommendations and a love for our golden sport – it was enough to make this beer-filled gal cry.

On Saturday, the sun rose far earlier than desired and enthusiasm was slightly muted.  From all corners and altitudes of Brisbane galloped possies of bike poloists towards Musgrave park for a 9am start. It was a sight to behold: the familiar maze of wheels/frames/mallets/bottles, bodies of a polo ilk roosting on the hill around the courts, cupcakes with skilfully crafted decorations by Kat and Jenna (don’t step on a penis!) and sturdy, serious-looking barriers, in part funded by the amazing support of local Councillor Helen Abrahams. Again, it was enough to make this beer-filled gal cry.

For me, the hardest thing was standing on the side feigning nonchalance, I was as fearful of the court as Bruce Bogtrotter of the Trunchbull.  With a moments notice you’d be summoned to hurl your body, bike and mallet over the sleepers, slot easily into play and make your team proud and if you bombed you were called off. As a less experienced polo player (but a skilled playa) I had a chance to soak up some goal-guarding advice from the sides and every back-pat was dearly appreciated. The subbing was interesting with a tight hole down one end of court one and a gaping hole down the other end. Court two had one hole to share, which made for nice inter-team high fives and sharing of fluids.

The BBQ on day one was amazing – veggie burgers made by Kiki’s mum and meat thangs for the meat-men and women. Saturday night we resumed hangs at the Boundary Hotel (well, some of us did, others were far too tired and stinky), and after many glasses of beer and a glass of Ollie’s blood later, we decided to head home (read: were kicked out) in order to recharge for Sunday.

The second day of the tournament brought detached fingers, ears and open wounds, both real and silicon. There were also skewers with tofu and unidentifiable meat for eating. There was a lot of hugging and smooshing of fake blood. Tipene won best costume; though he looked more like Justin Bieber than a zombie, we all decided he needed a prize for being so desirable.

The Musgrave Diggers won – my team, suck it! We defeated Tipene’s team. The final was incredibly enjoyable; the crowd was loud, the reffing top notch and Morgan was a part of some amazing crashes, but always got back on the horse. I heard someone say that Dom’s playing was world-class and that some of the passing between the Brisbane lads was particularly smooth, I remember having some really lovely conversations about people improving and specific strengths of players, but in all honesty that chunky and nourishing weekend (like Heinz soup) is a little blurry now.

Other ale-hazed memories:

• I saw heaps of nipple.
• Coloured team shirts plus tourney shirts were amazing and Kiki is a wizard for pulling it off.
• Kiki looked even more babin’ as she walked around partaking in serious organisey stuff.
• Ollie’s astute observations of players ‘bringing sexy back’ is one that I’d like to see continue.
• Mace made a RIDICK trophy, probably the best polo trophy in existence.
• Ali looked real fine on the reffing seat.
• Morgan’s bike has a speakerphone attachment. WTF. Best idea maybe ever?
• Skid comps on Sunday (non-poo variety).
• Erin’s impassioned sideline commentary resembling a father at their son’s soccer game (who might get banned from coming back).
• The bottlo was REALLY close.
• Erin’s similarly vibrant play, causing a few of us to crush on her (namely me).

A small crew of us were delayed scouring the grass for rubbish pre-Pear chillouts Sunday night (I was searching for free hats, lights, underwear), though once settled, we had a rashlike presence on the area. Tipene was a hellman on the decks, we even manipulated the furniture into a layout more conducive to booty popping (can’t remember exact tune when this occurred but it was probs Miley, or Azaelia Banks).

Please invite us back again Brisbane. We love you.

By Gemma Baxter

Photographs by Erica Jean, Rob Moss and Kristine Kenins

More Aftermath photos can be found here and here.

Have you ever given blood? Or plasma for that matter? It’s thrilling, isn’t it. Sitting in a chair while intelligent and caring blood bank workers busy themselves around you with tubes and bags of funny coloured liquid. I often imagine these bags as they are dispatched around Australia in a special box marked ‘FRAGILE  – en route to save someone’s life’. It’s quite possibly the most appreciated gift you’ve given in your life.

Oh, you haven’t? Why? I know, you’re busy? It takes merely a lunch break. I understand, some of you have fresh ink, or lived somewhere for a period of time that disqualifies you from giving fresh red nourishment. Cool. I get it, but maybe then you can pass on the question to your mates? Do they understand that only 1 in 30 Australians give blood, whereas 1 in 3 will, at some point in their lives, need blood. Don’t be such a wuss.

This month, make a booking to donate blood with the Australian Red Cross Blood Bank by calling 13 14 95. Then, once completed, let me know and I can then pass on to the wonderful team at the Red Cross Blood Service how many of the brave and selfless Australian bike polo community have donated this month. Goalhole will then interview those who donated for a special report at the end of October.

Did you know you get free snacks. YES. No, not a slice of bread, but fancy eats such as milkshakes and sauso rolls. BOOM. And I’ll give you a highfive. I know it’s scary, but we’ll do it together.

By Gemma Baxter

If you have any questions or want more information, contact us at goalholepolo@gmail.com and we will pass your email on to Gemma.  

The Australian Red Cross website is here.

If you live in New Zealand and want to donate, go here.

If you live in the United States and want to donate, go here.

If you live in Canada and want to donate, go here.

If you live in the United Kingdom and want to donate, go here.

A car full of car-haters driving to a bike polo tournament and the bonding that ensued.

Benee, James and I left Melbourne several hours later than planned, not surprisingly. We stopped three times in the first hour, not surprisingly.  Surprisingly, a series of corny word games were enjoyed by all and passed the time quite well.  Though, I wasted a half an hour of the boys apparently precious time guiding them as they guessed my ‘O’ animal; made difficult because it’s apparently not even an animal. ‘EVERYBODY knows it, it’s common!’ I professed, and when they gave up and I triumphantly squawked ‘Ornithorhynchus’ (which in James’ version I say ‘ornithorhynchidinky’) the look in Benee’s eyes was one of murderous intent (or so I imagined, as I was driving). This gave me great pleasure.  I suppose they could’ve made better use of those moments by gazing out into our surrounds (which by then were pitch black), picking their noses or snoozing. My bad.

The novelty slowly wore off. Thankfully, I was in the company of two optimists, and thus, reminded that ahead lay a magical land. A land so special that no one would confuse the sport for bipolar, polo-tongue was spoken, and meals consisted of colourful, vegetable laden spreads finely balanced with home brews, coffees and home-baked sweets.  Whack THAT in a pyramid.

There was Benee and all his bikey bits in the back and James beside me as designated dj, exposing us to his enthusiastic deathcore. The three of us were compact yet comfortable in the two door Hyundai (shut-up, Hyundais are rad) and a bike rack strapped to the back held James and my polo bikes with Benee’s eat-a-dick beast in the trunk. While wheel covers may prove immensely useful on court, strapped to the rear of the car they act more like wind-breaks, or those parachutey things used to slow down planes, so we stopped soon after starting for some more strapping and caffeinating. We encountered a koala with glowing red eyes, a town with prison-like toilet blocks and several closed bakeries (painful, for the recommendations we were given to vanilla-slice ourselves). There were seedy men in servos who James was kind enough to befriend, and large chunks of road between towns with interesting names; Nhill, Ararat, Keith, and Bordertown which LIED and wasn’t even on the border.

When we finally arrived on the fringe of Adelaide around 11pm Friday night we were catapulted down an immense and windy highway like Alice into Wonderland. We drove to meet Jack (our host for the weekend at the Animal House) at an Adelaide Bike Kitchen event in a large warehouse artistically decorated in Mexican-themed graffiti; there were menus featuring ‘dick-tacos’ and rad skulls with various animals protruding from where eye-balls once were. James made friends by shooting hoops with some fellow flannel-clad men. It speaks of their character that when a fancy shot went awry (read: he tried to bounce the ball off the wall and into the hoop and instead it knocked over several bottles and a few free-standing doors…) he was commended and not permanently shunned. Bodies in indefinite chunks throughout the room were pulsing to the beats provided by a vinyl-jockey in the corner. The interpretive dance moves by this strange and wonderful breed of people could be best appreciated from the couches nearby, obviously previously owned. I was occupied by screen-printing one of my beloved turtlenecks with their logo helped by some friendly strangers. Benee was being skilful on bikes with similarly skilful babes, whilst an array of bikes circled them hazardously; bikes with buckets, trolleys and bikes seemingly injected with growth hormones, bikes with flowers, streamers, cloaked in colourful lights and ridden by equally colourful people.  It was a hell of a welcome to Adelaide.

Animal house is a magical place. It feels as if 112 people live there (I think it’s closer to 12) and the bedrooms are strewn around the main communal space; a large warehouse with a beauteous bike-riding skeleton motif dressing the wall of a stage, for gigs such as Sunday’s, that hosted San Fran’s Ceremony (coincidentally one of James’ favourite bands).  It was a warm and open place to return to each night after our tournament games. Saturday we joined the housemates in the kitchen preparing soup to feed 150 pierced hardcore music fans by chopping many, MANY onions and roasting trays of garlic to flavour what turned out to be very satiating nourishment for moshers the night after. I chatted with Louis (who’s mates insisted we call him Bluis to fuel hype over his recently sculpted blue mohawke) and realised we’d met previously through bandmates in Brisbane (but then again, who hasn’t previously met in Brisbane? Am I right?). The room where we slept swiftly transformed from soundproofed practise room into boudoir of champions by moving mattresses from the walls to the floor.

Sunday night after the tournament, James dashed off to catch the gig while Benee and I joined some of Benee’s courier mates, Dan, and ginger Dan and their lovely lady-friends for some vegan tucker at a new restaurant called Heaven Field on Gouger Street.

The drive back on Monday began after a hearty breakfast at ETC on East Terrace, apparently avocado on toast is a pathetic effort in the eyes of manly bike polo men but filled me just nicely.  Though there were occasions of rain and dark stretches of road with few lights, there was a sufficient concentration of classic songs and chickpea chips to sustain the buzz we’d gained from the weekend. Key moments of bliss – when I (apparently a bit skitzy from all the driving) mentioned our bikes on the rear of my car resembled swans gazing lovingly at each other, only to be shut down by Benee (as his bike/swan); “stop looking at me swan.” I laughed, probably too hard. James’ commentary of the lady in the Chinese restaurant subtly flirting with him (so subtle you couldn’t tell…) was also pure comedy.

And here I’ll leave you with a few bits of advice; if you want to know what an aerodrome is, don’t ask Benee and then google it to check, unless prepared to feel the wrath of a strained friendship and his impressive lungs. But, if you want to drive to Adelaide with people who will chose music that makes your heart sing, periodically offer you Tim Tams, and let you stop to pee whenever your bladder desires, pick James and Benee. Top lads.

By Gemma Baxter

Gemma also writes for herbandlace.  You can see her stuff here

Adelaide: Getting wet in the name of Polo.

If you were standing in the drizzling rain, witnessing water pooling in one corner of the Adelaide courts on Wakefield road, you might think there’d be a lot of slippage and skiddage during the 3,2,1 Killers tournament, June 28-29th. You’d be correct, sir.

Teams trickled in, three Melbourne carloads had got in the previous night and some of us needed a little bit of encouragement in the form of caffeine/vegan choc chip slice/cider before we were coerced onto the court.

The Adelaide boys are lovely. In fact, they could be likened to decent older brothers in their provision of home-brew (Andrew), advice and information even when they’d already told you a thousand times (thankyou Colin), coffee for everyone (Jack and Adele) and even glasses fixing services (Neil) when someone who shall not be named (me) tried to head butt an opponent (for the record, totally worth it for looking like Harry Potter for a week).

I have to be honest. While the tournament exhibited some truly beautiful polo manoeuvring, I was often distracted by a) some new gals to talk to, one of which was moulding plasticine animals (such as mascot Pubey McMerk, pictured squished) with accompanying polo bikes (Joy), and another who had designed the smokin’ hot polo babe t-shirt (Zoe), b) a really cute little chica on a pink tricycle in floral knee-pads and helmet playing her own version of polo c) birds (there were all these little swoopy things that I thought might suddenly stop, assemble their mates and make me a polo dress for the polo ball) and d) beats! I don’t think I’m alone in feeling that good music acts like a blanket of goodness, and various lads (namely Sammy P and Collin) were playing exceptional music. I walked away from Adelaide with a list of killer local artists. The Rules stickers were another source of entertainment; a fair bit of noggin scratching over unique and witty entries could be noticed.

Oh, polo!! That’s right. The reason I get out of bed on a Sunday. It was good. Big Spoon Polo exhibited a childlike speed and enthusiasm, making it impossible/stupid to try to get in front of them during play. Heckling was at it’s best; ‘ooh that was cute’. ‘You’re cute’.  By some miracle, Liam avoided collisions despite dodgy brakes and an aerospoke yelling ‘stick your mallet in me!’ Cracks in the court near the top goal (top because it was higher and drier) meant there were unpredictable trajectories for goal-ward balls. We also spent a ridiculous amount of time cooing over the flash net-like fence Neil had manufactured out of some poles, cable ties, timber, high-tensioned cable and well, net. Sasha, Chris and I danced on the (probably fragile) supports for a good long while because they were fun to balance on. Soz Neil.

Someone furiously yelled ‘the goal’s open!’ so I dashed for it with unbridled excitement for my first stint as goalieperson. I’m taking this opportunity to express that I meant to be backwards in the net and it was a game strategy to distract and confuse (one of my only strengths). Needless to say, a goal was scored in the massive gaps. So then Damon insisted on giving me a two-part lesson on how to goal like a boss (two-part because I tried to escape to get a beer half way through). But thanks Damon, I actually retained most of the wisdom you imparted. We all witnessed Anja as she gracefully slid out of bike entanglements on several occasions.  If I was that good at polo I probably wouldn’t be as cool as she is.

There was a final at the end (because apparently different teams won or something while I was busy dancing/eating carrots and peanut butter and chatting). Melbourne Anchor took on Snowtown Bankers (was that intentional?! Or is it a lovely coincidence that they rhyme!?) Melbourne Anchor decided to experiment and play three-up and so left their goalhole open and beckoning. Snowtown Bankers identified this strategy and took advantage, with some impressive long-distance sniper shots from Neil. They scored lots. Despite Anchor’s beautiful offensive moves the Bankers took out the final with a score of 5-2. There was no MVP awarded, but if it were up to me, Mr Waterhouse would’ve been a clear choice.

Sunday was so much wetter. Jack, Benee, James and I slept in and so pre-ordered some incredible breakfast wraps and coffee from ETC on East Terrace. However when we swept in to collect them, spied some other polo kids lounging in the corner of the restaurant and so indulgently sat to devour our order whilst critiquing the local fashion (or prevalence of riding boots which were not to Benee’s taste. James wasn’t so picky, whilst Jack was more romanced by a bare-footed lass).

Colin had assembled us into 3 teams for the bench minor by the time we rocked up to the courts. The strapping Ladds (in honour of our captain Jack) pretty much dominated. Lightning fast changes and frisky youthfulness exhibited by the likes of Chris and Damon, combined with the leany swoopiness of Jack and Colin, and James and Benee’s epic passing created a fearsome cavalry. Oh and I strategically totalled Iordan’s bike and t-boned Anja on her way to score (apparently there’s rules against this?) and so volunteered to be cheer-squad instead.

Stuff I learned; when someone yells ‘down the line’ it means DOWN the LINE, as opposed to furiously hit the ball away from you, if you call for the opposing team to pass you the ball, they probably won’t, and that one probably shouldn’t wear $30 American Apparel socks playing polo, because they are just asking to be ruined.

Results of the tournament were:

1. Snowtown Bankers – Colin, Neil and Stephen

2. Melbourne Anchor – Damon, Danny and Anja

3. Team America – James, Will and Chris

4. Big Spoon Polo – Jack, Liam and Andrew

5. Gears for Tears – Daisuke, Benee and Iordan

6. Two out of Three ain’t Bad – Sasha, Gemma and Anja/Sammy P

Road-trip report to follow…

By Gemma Baxter

Gemma also writes for herbandlace.  You can see her stuff here

By Gemma Baxter

If you missed our last One Sunday in.. Sydney you can check it out here

28^th-29^th April 2012: Flagstaff Gardens, Melbourne 

Our special guest reporter, Gemma Baxter, tells us what went down at Australia’s longest running annual tournament.

I should have been warned that during a tournament, everything seems more intense than usual. The rate at which you inhale and exhale when perched upon the precarious combination of two wheels and a mallet before the call to charge. The anxiety when faced with three equally eager players, wheeled weapons at the ready, at the other end of an unforgivably hard court. The speed at which some fly guy appears in your peripheral vision, just when you thought the perfect shot had opened up. This is no, Sunday tap, no Boxing Day eat-some-cake, have-a-chat, fuck around match. This is REAL guys. SERIOUS. The Autumn Tournament in Melbourne for 2012 began in a haze of Friday night regrets, caffeine induced buzzing and, for myself, a fair bit of nervous peeing. In a toilet of course.

I should have assumed that the rate of bikes darting around me would also escalate, along with the number of times I’d hear myself say ‘Gemma you bloody idiot’.  Even stumbling late into Rob’s welcome speech I could tell the competition was fierce, every smiled seemed to be laced with ‘you’re going DOWN bitch’.

Look at this line-up. The Samurai Polo Cats, Sam and Rob (the epic organisers) teamed with Daniel from Sydney wore shirts in battlefield red. Chris, Bart (Melbourne lads) and Tsz from Sydney (you crazy dancing legend) were the Polo Beers in suspect grey tones. Seagull Archy composed of Vive, Ray and AJ, gentlemen of the court, while James, Robbie and Gav shamelessly exhibited their bogan edge as Knifey Spooney in flannel. Badass Benee, Brook and Morgan wrought polo pain as Dog Particle, while Danny, Damon and Anja as Melbourne Anchor distracted us with their dapper 70s-esque tennis tees.  Sasha, Andrew and Dhruva were the devious Narwals and myself, Will and Leigh played as the Elusive Nautical Vegans, mostly concerned with tofu and getting soyed.

The weekend wasn’t without drama; Vive disappeared to allegedly retrieve a bike part for quite some time, Ray’s finger was crushed between a stem and handlebars and now bears a pretty impressive bruise, Sam’s bike was….shit….I’m not good at remembering technical stuff…well it was tipped over and men were gathered around with furrowed brows for a period of time, and the poor little man proudly marking the tap-out board had been smashed to smithereens by the end of Saturday.

The two days could be described as a comforting mix of cheering, veering, beering, a bit of friendly sneering and a fair chunk of leering (polo ass is good). Belle chopped a craptonne of tomatoes too. Wadda babe.

The image of Benee leapfrogging over Anja after they dramatically collided during a semi-final will stay with us for a while. As will Will’s attempt to devour his excessively large vegan burger during Sunday lunch (to no avail, with marinated grilled eggplant and mushroom shooting out in every direction). Sam’s seemingly effortless swerving, paired with Danny’s bike dancing made for a fine spectacle, drawing Sunday park-goers to the edges of the fence. Many hipsters got pretty excited to relay to their respective social networks how alt. their Sunday was.  Oh and we hogged the BBQ for a good long time, but it was worth it. Andy’s vegan patties deserved MVP.

The final took place Sunday afternoon between Melbourne Anchor and Dog Particle, and it was juicy. Melbourne Anchor’s moves were graceful and calculated, while Dog Particle exuded more of a vibrant aggression. Though the teams appeared to be well matched, Anchor eventually defeated the canines 5-3.

The boys had organised a really distracting mass of cool prizes, and when the night had ended, we played pickup sporting new gloves/hats/bags/pins until we’d run out of beer and retreated to the Union for a feed. It was a bloody good weekend.

The final placings were:

1st) Melbourne Anchor
2nd) The Dog Particle
3rd) Seagull Archy
4th) Polo Beers

5th) Knifey spoony
6th) Samurai Polo Cats
7th) Elusive Nautical Vegans
8th) The Narwhals

By Gemma Baxter

Gemma also writes for herbandlace.  You can see her stuff here

Photographs:  Tess Wrigley, Damon Rao and Gemma Baxter