The afternoon goes on and the clouds come in. The teams begin to make quick calculations, and after 4 lost matches, some of them know they have already been eliminated. But the atmosphere is excellent, everyone is happy to be present, to reunite with friends, and the quote from Baron de Coubertin, “the important thing is not to triumph...”, perfectly illustrates this event. In the distance, a thunderclap. One large drop falls on my arm, then another, and in no time, it’s a downpour. Everyone gets together in the tents, the matches underway stop, and the rain gets heavier. And now lightning! “In summer, this is a frequent occurrence in this region of Germany. But it’s a shame: these last 8 weeks, we’ve had nothing but good weather!”. After a few minutes, hundreds of litres of water escape when the door of Court 2 is opened. There are only a few more matches to play, and the verdict is passed: it must go on, because of the delay. The teams then get onto the court, he with a bare chest, she with a waterproof jackets...The conditions are appalling, the spectators shoes are soaked, the ball is slowed by large puddles and the game has to go slower, but there is a wonderful show, almost surreal: after the final whistle blows, the referee comes down from his chair immediately to take shelter, but the players congratulate and embrace each other, wearing large euphoric smiles. We wait for a few minutes more, but a decision is finally made to postpone the final matches
until tomorrow morning: you must be somewhat insane to play Bike Polo, but the conditions have become too extreme. I go to warm up beside the barbeque, chatting for a while with the Australians. My teammates come and find me: guys, tonight, no camping for me, I’m spending the night in the gymnasium. I find the room, and I’m surprised that there are so few people in it. The French have already set things out to dry, I take a hot shower and join them at the bar, to get a bite, have a few drinks and discuss such team matters as... “Freewheel or fixed gear?”, “did you see the bikes in English?”, “at the last tournament, there was a guy streaking”. Shortly after 11 p.m., we get ready for bed, and quickly, everything is silent: this first day has even worn out the biggest partiers. Lights out... Friday. Today is the day that the tournament of the best teams in the world begins. It rained all night, and it continues this morning. Court 4 is flooded under several centimetres of water, a pump is installed and 4 guys armed with brooms get rid of hundreds of litres. Our feet are already wet, we have our first coffee/croissants while watching the match that should have been played the day before. The results are quickly posted, but a little mix up in the calculation of points – the difference between goals conceded and scored – dampens the morale of a team that thought it had qualified and boosts that of another.
We see familiar faces pass, we greet each other, we talk, naturally, about polo, we look at the bikes: “that one, with the disc brakes, will be less screwed by the rain than the other one with traditional brakes”. The average age of the participants is 30, but we are already seeing a younger generation arrive. There are a few ladies’ teams, the best known being Poloholica, from Munich. There is a mix of all types of bikes - racing, mountain bike - there are a few fixed gears, but the game has evolved a lot over the last few years, and freewheel (with a front or back brake), has become ubiquitous, as it allows you to concentrate more on the game than on riding. The gears are very light, allowing for fast acceleration. A table with vegetarian food is set up near the Asian noodle seller, not in competition with him, because the plates of salad-feta-noodles are free! We thank the organization, and, as Jack said : “the Germans are good at a lot of things, except for jokes”. The spectators begin to arrive en masse, and we sense that the level of play has been stepped up in terms of speed, good moves and well-oiled techniques... The sun reappears, the pavement dries, and the players who go out on the courts are sweaty and out of breath. The tyres begin to pop again, mallets are bent, some ruin their forks or a wheel, but with the brotherhood among players ever-present, a means of repair is found in a matter of minutes, on the court. The most unlucky one takes a high ball to the clavicle...
issue #12 - 45 /92