Gatsby Sunday

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Photo credits: Melissa Ciesla, MJ Candioto, yours truly

The Great Gatsby had somehow eluded me during my formal education. I felt guilty and a little cheated that I had never read such an iconic piece of American literature. In an attempt to correct that void in my life I picked up a copy of Fitzgerald's novel at the beginning of May and soon settled down to devour his words. Contrary to my normal course with books, I was finished within 10 days, eagerly racing through his eloquence towards a bitter-sweet conclusion. Through his complex and wildly worded sentences I became lost in his tale and found faint reflections of myself in the "great" title character. 

On Sunday I sat sipping morning cocktails atop the cobblestones of Stone Street, a scrawny block resting in the Financial District at the southern tip of Manhattan. It was a particularly fitting way to begin the day's festivities, adding to the feeling of old world charm. In the company of two fine ladies, I feasted on an outdoor brunch and began to digest the effects of the days heat. My pink contrast collar button down hugged me close in the absence of a breeze and I could feel the sweat begin to cling to my undershirt.

Image: AP Photo/Mark Lennihan via New York Outdoors

With satisfied stomachs and lighter wallets we set out for our final destination. Looking out over the harbor, the sea breeze brought with it a hint of elegance from the tiny adjacent island that lay just out of reach. Once upon a time Governor's Island was used as a military base to house Naval and Coast Guard officers. Much to our delight, the uniforms were long gone and the public was once again welcomed to its shores for the Veuve Clicquot Polo Classic. 

As we approached an intimidating line for ferry service, I found myself in a dreamlike setting - one of sartorial bliss. All around me were men brandishing linen, bow ties and straw fedoras. A steady stream of uniquely colorful frocks and bountifully brimmed hats paraded past on the bodies of various lithe ladies. My thoughts, for once, were full of unspoken compliments instead of pretentious judgement. This was the New York I had always dreamed of living in - even just for an afternoon.

As time progressed the sun's intensity bore a mighty wrath with the match set to begin. Looking across the massive field we, the proletariat, could see the towering tents that shaded the chosen people from harmful rays. Together with celebrities, moguls, politicians and artists we all settled in to watch a model battle a prince - Nacho Figueras's (of Ralph Lauren fame) Black Watch versus Prince Harry's Black Rock - with beauty eventually triumphing over nobility by a count of 6-5. 

Pre-match research taught me that polo is played on the largest field in organized sports, measuring 300 yards x 160 yards. Each team is comprised of 4 players and their mounts who compete against each other over 4, 6 (most common), or 8 chukkers, or 7 minute periods of play. Due to grueling activity during the match, players frequently switch to fresh ponies between chukkers. I was also interested to find out that the mallet must be held in the right hand and that the uniform numbers were more than just identifiers. Each numbered position, 1-4, has certain responsibilities to execute in the ultimate goal of putting the ball between the posts for a score (from Wikipedia):

•Number One is the most offense-oriented position on the field.

•Number Two has an important role in offense, either running through and scoring themselves, or passing to the Number One and getting in behind them. Defensively, they will cover the opposing team's Number Three, generally the other team's best player. Given the difficulty of this position, it is not uncommon for the best player on the team to play Number Two so long as another strong player is available to play Three.

•Number Three is the tactical leader and must be a long powerful hitter to feed balls to Number Two and Number One as well as maintaining a solid defense.

•Number Four is the primary defense player.

And, as in Pretty Woman, there is the ritual halftime "devoting" that takes place on field. Unfortunately for us only the wealth could participate in such a sacred event… I can only hope that a few of the hoity toity mistakenly stomped on a steaming divot, leaving their Louboutin reds caked in brown.

As our time came to a close on the fancied isle my mind wandered back to Gatsby. I had used the novel's grandeur as inspiration for my attire but never expected a deeper insight to form - was I a poor man's Gatsby? Just as Jay clumsily toiled around his manse, so do I at such chic events, wondering when I will be exposed as a fraud. As I have mentioned in a previous post, my appreciation and enjoyment of the finer things does not jive with my objective successes to date. Gatsby and I are not so unalike in our personas, hoping we can skate by on illusion, except from opposite frames of reference. Some men luck out and live a life of undeserved, ignorant enjoyment while others work hard to achieve a level that is well earned but limited. Either way, each is looking over their shoulder hoping to be free from a stigma that states what they are supposed to be, do or like.

Whether we like it or not there is a separation between classes - a giant polo field that divides the bourgeoisie from the elite. My existence lies in the former, my tastes in the latter. I am fascinated by tailored clothes, expensive scotches, prestigious sport and old world opulence, yet by societal standards, all is undeserving. I hate that such a divide exists, which is part of my thesis for this blog. By intertwining the tastes of the two worlds I feel it makes for more genuine, well-rounded and interesting people. Money, power, status, affiliation or the lack there-of should not dictate what can be enjoyed. I have just as much right to indulge in poor polo as one who might in rich rodeo. And on this Sunday in June it happened.

For more on the fashion front head over to GQ's slideshow.