One of the great frustrations for most of us polo players is the lack of our own facility. Much like professional curlers or caber tossing – we are on the outs of public facilities. This helps explain why we are so overjoyed when we can find and successfully use a place to play our sport.
It also makes us very protective. Like, wolverine hissing over a carcass protective.
I’m telling you all of this to go into the story of tonight’s polo game, where we pretty much encountered the 2011 representation of teenage angst:
I don’t actually know who that fella is above, but it’s pretty much what we saw tonight.
So the story goes like this:We are nearing the 2 hour mark (I think) of polo and I look up to see some kid roller blading around on the far end of the court. At first I think: it has to be one of our guys, bored and possibly drunk. Why would anyone else interrupt a polo game?
Boy, I had too much faith in humanity right there from the get go.
A fellow polo player, obviously with a stronger sense of situational awareness, said in the calmest voice possible: Hey dickbag, get off the fucking court – we’re in the middle of a game.
And as far as I was concerned that was that. Nothing in my fellow polo players statement was incorrect.
But this kid, I’ll call him…Lt. Col. Pimpleneck, he didn’t like the suggestion that he wasn’t the center of the world. He decided to clarify his alpha-maleness by responding with a string of obscenities.
The thing I’ve noticed about seventeen year olds (and I’m not just pulling that number out of the air, later on he told us he was seventeen, and somehow we were to be scared of that) is that they really don’t know how to swear. I mean they know the words, but they are as gifted at swearing as a shit-house rat is at keeping itself clean (see what I did there? To illustrate my point? See it, God I’m clever). I think it’s this lack in verbal know how that is so very infuriating. But back to the story:
So we finish the game and get to ‘talking’ with the two (there was another, I’ll refer to him as Mr. Squeaky.) We discover, through a series of very short, heavy breathed statements, that he is more than willing to take on all of us ( around 10 I think) and that he’d most certainly win.
Being adults, we tried to sway him from this opinion. Not because we were worried about hitting Lt. Col. Pimpleneck and going to jail, but because we’d have to figure out where to put his body; and the body of Mr. Squeaky as well. He’d be a witness after all.
Then the good Lt. Col. decided the best action to intimidate a group of healthy, able-bodied men was to let us know he was going to serve in the military, and that we were probably too ladylike to do so (my words here, I don’t know how to spell what ever goobidy goop was coming out of his trap).
This was foolhardy, and I’ll tell you why: There are quite a few folks in our ranks who did serve, and one of them (I’ll call him Irish) is a rather frightening guy. Let me qualify the statement:
I used to be a boxer, and I squared off with fellas that were much bigger and much meaner than I was just to get an advantage (nothing like getting hit with a sledgehammer to make other punches seem trivial). I was never very scared – in fact I have never stepped out of a fight I meant to get into. But Irish – he scares me. any rational human can look at him and know that he’d not only take care of you, but probably drive out to your house and burn it down just to prove the point.
So Irish gets angry at being called out by Lt. Col. Pimpleneck, and it takes two guys stepping in (I use this loosely, they mostly just got closer or in between the two) to stop him from rending the youngling into smaller douche pieces.
Mr. Squeaky at this point has taken an accounting: he realized that he and his friend were out-numbered and out gunned. That not only would we be able to take them out pretty easily, but that we could probably do it and get away with it. He chirps up and tries to calm things down (in the most effective way possible, which involves saying ‘dude’ about 20 times while holding his hands up).
Around this time a few more of the hockey players show up. Fortunately one of them in the group knows the score – in that he knows it’s damned stupid to try to start a fight with a group of grown men. He tells Lt. Col. Pimpleneck to knock it off, tells us that his group will be happy to wait, and that’s that.
Despite a few chuckles and (I’m sure hilarious) shit talking from the good Lt. Col, we played our last game without incident and left.
I just thought everyone would like to know what can happen when polo day comes around.