Last year, my wife bought me a Lacoste polo shirt for my birthday. Standard design, with the little green crocodile on the chest. On any pleasant day – I live in Lisbon where they’re frequent, but the same could be said in the UK summer – I’ll see at least one other man wearing one. It was then I realised I could be wearing these suckers until I die.
“Polo shirts are the cornerstone of a warm-weather wardrobe, a classic that stands next to the tee and the oxford in the Shirt Hall of Fame,” the Strategist style expert Chris Black wrote reassuringly when asked whether they were “dork territory”, adding that the Lacoste is “the OG of polo shirts”.
In the summer, I’m loyal to a plain white tee (the Cos triple pack is a trusted servant). A few years ago, though, I moved to Portugal, which forced me to expand my hot-weather wardrobe. For one, constant sunscreen use is terror on the white tee. There are also times when a T-shirt is too casual. You can wear a shirt, of course, but they can be heavy or a bit fussy in the heat.
Which is where the polo comes in.
As well as the blue-chip companies such as Lacoste and Ralph Lauren, most brands make a polo. Uniqlo has a reliable offering. You’ll find them at reasonable prices in Arket, H&M and Muji. M&S has an extensive array. At the mid to higher end, the likes of A Day’s March, CP Company, Universal Works and Sunspel have polo ranges.
However, there is no escaping its bad associations. Polos can all get a bit country club or the jerk archetype from each season of The White Lotus: Jake Lacy, Theo James, Patrick Schwarzenegger – a cursed blend of entitled preppy and quiet luxury.
In Lisbon, there is an aspirational type known as Beto: to locals they are recognisable by their names (Salvador, Afonso Maria, Tomás) and by their dress: boat shoes, slim-fitting slacks, Vichy plaid shirts, puffer gilets, polo shirts. It’s essentially a Euro-variant on a style that lands between Sloane Ranger and US preppy.
Similarly in Ireland, where I grew up in the 1990s, there was an adjacent mode of dressing associated with the rugby jock world of Dublin private schools – “D4” per its dominant postcode. Things may have moved on, but in Sally Rooney’s latest Dublin-set novel Intermezzo, a character – while he doesn’t fit this exact type – is described unflatteringly as “wearing a polo shirt with an embroidered brand logo on the front, and a pair of plastic flip-flops for some reason”.
The brand Fred Perry, meanwhile – despite its storied connection to interesting aspects of British pop culture – has struggled with periodically getting co-opted by fascists. Which is a heavy load for any cotton T-shirt with a stitched logo to bear. For a period in 2020, the brand withdrew sales of its signature black and yellow polo in North America after it was embraced by the far-right Proud Boys movement.
And if it doesn’t make you look like a fascist, then maybe a cop. The indie film Reality, in which Sydney Sweeney plays a US intelligence worker who falls foul of the security-industrial complex, features quietly menacing FBI agents in beige slacks and tucked-in polo shirts. Perhaps I’m deluding myself: I don’t present like a carefree Euro-man, I just look like a cop.
Among the things to discourage the wearing of a polo shirt is the risk of an unflattering display of one’s man-boobs – although this is a problem whatever the shirt type once you reach a certain age. As it happens, the piqué fabric often used in polos, particularly by Lacoste, is a touch more forgiving (one reason, among others, to avoid knitted and soft-cotton variants).
As I tip further into my 40s, I like the in-betweenness of the polo: it is semi-casual, as opposed to smart casual. On some people, it looks cool; on others, it appears entirely normie. You don’t have to try too hard.
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With the two-button polo, you can do up both and seem more stern, or open the buttons for a more relaxed look. (I steer clear of polos with V-necks or zippers, which are too Kendall Roy-ish.) And as the summer evening cools, the polo sits easily under a sweater and goes with any sort of coat, be it a light canvas or a windbreaker, the ever-present chore coat, or a sports jacket – as displayed by Robert De Niro at a recent Cannes photocall.
There are also extensive inspirations to be found. Al Pacino delivers his big Any Given Sunday speech wearing an excellent rumpled jacket and rumpled polo. My hypothetical moodboard features the sight of Jeremy Corbyn as he rocks a croc, as does Paul Thomas Anderson on set. The French new wave band Marie et Les Garçons, specifically with their compilation 1977–1979, complete with Lacoste artwork. And don’t forget Harrison Ford in a timeless polo and jacket – not Lacoste, but as aspirational a sight as it gets.
Then there’s the Netflix hit Adolescence (perhaps you have heard of it). Before the tension comes to a boil in episode four, Stephen Graham’s Eddie Miller, barely keeping things together in the aftermath of his son’s terrible crime, is given a Lacoste polo for his 50th birthday by his wife. A crisp, blue number, little green crocodile on the chest. This wasn’t the drama’s most vital moment but I felt a pang of recognition. Truly a shirt for all men.
There is a rush to identify and declare trends and moments. Your hot girl summer; your brat summer; your tomato girl summer; your barefoot boy summer. But the polo shirt is impervious to the waxing and waning of fads. It’s maligned and loved. Well, perhaps not loved but tolerated and accepted – sometimes with fondness. I say, let’s just embrace the thing: it’s always polo shirt summer.
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