A tribute to the underdog

Despite his humble beginnings, Jimmy Bachman came to excel at polo – the sport he loved with a passion and played entirely by his own rules, writes Marcus Rinehart

Though popularly regarded as ‘the sport of kings’, polo also has a strong tradition of success among underdogs. As in the case of boxing champion James J Braddock or baseball legend Hank Aaron, many professional polo players hail from working-class backgrounds and build their careers seemingly against all socio-economic odds. Most famously, Cecil Smith – perhaps the greatest American player in history – transformed himself from Texas cowboy into 10-goal international pro without any of the resources that benefited his contemporaries, such as Tommy Hitchcock.

Nonetheless, Smith’s widespread reputation is something of a novelty among the majority of polo’s outliers, and not every story fits the fairy-tale stereotype – had Jimmy Bachman achieved a level of fame proportional to his achievements in the sport, then an article such this might have appeared in Sports Illustrated or The New York Times long ago. Regardless, any player worth his or her salt should recognise Bachman as a paragon of natural ability and work ethic in polo. If Braddock had an iron jaw and Aaron had home-run batting, then Bachman had innate horsemanship. Born in Hackettstown, New Jersey in 1947 and raised in Charlottesville, Virginia – where his father, Augustus, worked for the family of Hurlingham’s own Roderick Vere Nicoll – Bachman spent his childhood around horse farms and accordingly began riding at an early age.

In his late teens, he pursued his growing interest in polo by way of a grooming job at the Farmington Hunt Club, where members would play chukkas in the newly renovated outdoor arena every Friday night. Bachman and his fellow grooms – among them, rising players Clarence Mundy and Danny Shifflett – sought compensation beyond the monetary, of course; their seemingly insatiable eagerness to play eventually gave rise to a tradition of clandestine ‘midnight polo’. On any given Friday, when the game and its after-party had ended, Jimmy and co would patiently wait for the players and their guests to depart and that last set of headlights to vanish from the end of the driveway. The grooms would then re-tack the very horses they had just untacked, remove the mallets they had pre-emptively hidden in the stalls, and take to the arena. Such enthusiasm, determination and willingness to bend the ‘rules’ foreshadowed the professional careers some of these young men, especially Bachman, would go on to lead.

After a year of service with the US 9th Infantry Division in Vietnam – for which he

earned a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart – Bachman began to pursue polo full-time, both as a player and as a buyer and seller of horses. His professional career gathered considerable momentum at the start of the Eighties, when he found success on both low- and high-goal American circuits. Though his victory in the 1983 Monty Waterbury Cup (a 20-goal tournament) is certainly a career highlight, he also became known as the ‘King of Low-Goal Polo’ during that time – a fact which deserves equal attention. Even while handicapped at 5 and 6 goals, respectively, he continued to play in 8-goal, 6-goal, and 4-goal tournaments – often within a single season – by filling out his team with -1 ringers. As Rodger Rinehart III, one of Bachman’s many protégés, fondly recalls, ‘We snuck his brother Georgie in one year at Potomac. Georgie was a racehorse trainer and could ride anything with hair on it. Sticking a mallet in his hand meant nothing and going fast was slow compared to breezing thoroughbreds. Needless to say, we won every game.’

This remarkably unorthodox, ‘come-hellor-high-water’ strategy may have helped the ‘King’ earn his reputation, but it also provoked his frustrated opponents to take bureaucratic action. In 1989, the USPA amended the Blue Book to include the following section: ‘In any USPA event with an upper-handicap limit of 4 goals or above, the handicap of any player may not exceed ¾ of the upper-handicap limit.’ This stipulation was and will forever be known as the ‘Bachman Rule’.

Bachman’s legacy extends beyond mere protocol, however – many career professionals, such as former 8-goaler Alan Kent, still recognise him for his highly progressive style. ‘He was, in fact, a Cambiaso-style player, controlling the game, working on possession, with the vision to know when to keep the ball, turn it, get a foul or release it. He was also very canny about when to change ponies, which is, of course, a key part of the modern game,’ says Kent.

Despite earning salaries from his sponsors in those tournaments, Bachman would often sell parts of his string mid-season, somehow balancing his concerns as a player and a businessman. And, likewise, the term ‘by-the-book’ applied neither on the field nor in business affairs. A client from Virginia once commissioned Bachman to sell a shaggy, overweight gelding in Florida; according to legend, he just clipped the horse and sold him back to the original owner in Virginia.

Such stories – some more embellished than others – have proliferated throughout the polo world in recognition of Bachman’s cunning sales methods. Most often, however, he would trade one of his horses for three of ‘lesser value’ – at least in someone else’s hands. He could not only ‘ride anything with hair on it’, to borrow my uncle’s phrase, but could also transform the most unlikely candidates into best-playing pony material. ‘Jimmy spent more hours in the

Opposite Jimmy riding Shoemaker without knee guards This page The 1988 Bronze Trophy at Polo Farm. From left, Bobby Lindgren, Jimmy, Rodger Rinehart III, Skey Johnston and Rodger Rinehart Jr

saddle a day than anyone I know. And, while he had the ability to play a difficult horse, he could also recognise a good horse and play it as well,’ says former 6-goaler Eugene ‘Tiger’ Kneece, who worked for him from 1985 to 1991.

Of all the horses Bachman played in his career, however, none could match the legendary Shoemaker, who came from Billy Wayman by way of Alan Kent. ‘Jimmy could turn the ball on the nearside while Shoemaker was leaping,’ says Rodger Rinehart, identifying the technique Bachman favoured over backing the ball. The opposing players would therefore ride straight into fouls as they attempted to follow him on his beloved leaper.

Nancy Schlichting, a friend of Bachman, recalls, ‘When the grooms pulled Shoemaker out onto the sideline in the last chukka – naturally, he’d have already played at least one chukka before – the anticipation was almost palpable from those who knew what Jimmy and that horse could do together. They were a pair.’ After Bachman’s death, Schlichting inherited Shoemaker and another horse from his string named Does She. ‘Those were the only two horses I knew of that Jimmy wouldn’t sell. Of course, no one else would’ve been able to play them,’ she says.

Bachman maintained a staggering work rate throughout the Eighties, reaching the finals of both the Sunshine League in 1985 and the East Coast Open in 1989. In that time frame, his handicap deservingly rose to a career peak of 7 goals. He matched these high-goal outings, as always, with an even greater quantity of low- to medium-goal polo. Though the ‘Bachman Rule’ would eventually force him out of the 8-goal leagues, he easily transferred his skills into 12-, 14-, and 16-goal tournaments. The Palm Beach National team – helmed by Bachman and sponsor Bob Rich – achieved an impressive 27-1 record in 1988 alone. Rich says of him, ‘Jimmy seemed to have been born on horses. Not only was he a master of the game, but a tremendous rider. And he knew how to put great teams together.’

Bachman would continue to play for Rich’s teams and others during his winters in Gulf Stream, Florida, whereas the summers offered similar opportunities in Gilbertsville, New York and South Hamilton, Massachusetts. In fact, his only respite from competitive polo came during the spring and autumn seasons, which he would spend at his farm in Kents Store, Virginia – although, even then, he would still dedicate considerable time and energy to

From top Bob Rich, Jimmy Bachman, Dave Ofen and Roger, with young Jackie Bibbo in the middle; Jimmy and his daughter Patti with Best Playing Pony Does She, 1988

both the training and trading of horses.

The true nature and source of Bachman’s success lies beyond any historical record, however. Mere cataloguing of a professional career will not yield any insight into a great athlete; the quality that truly defined him as a player – more so than his riding ability and unorthodox strategies – was his mentality. In a 1990 interview with The Sun Sentinel, he said, ‘I ride from morning until night, 7:30 to 7:30. People always ask me if I don`t get tired of it. My response is that not too many of us get to do what we want and I just happen to very much enjoy being on a horse`s back.’

Such simple wisdom speaks volumes about the ‘winner’s mentality’. What others perceived as an unflinching determination to win was, for Bachman, just a natural manifestation of his love for the sport. As Michael Jordan once put it, ‘Love is playing every game as if it’s your last.’ Never has a figurative sentiment applied so literally as it does to Jimmy Bachman, who died during a 12-goal game in Greenwich, Connecticut, on 17 September, 1991. Despite feeling ill at half-time, which prompted medics to advise he sit out the rest of the game, he continued to play, at which point he suffered a fatal heart attack. In a way, his death represented a tragic testament to his life. ‘I didn’t always appreciate it when my dad was alive, but he was one of the hardest-working men I’ve known,’ says Bachman’s eldest daughter, Candace Gaines. ‘He was born to play polo and it’s only fitting he died doing what he loved. Playing his sport. Playing polo.”