Tacking up a polo pony consisted of dozens of stops. There were a plethora of safety precautions for horses flying down a field at thirty miles per hour, running beside other horses, and turning on a dime. I started by wrapping all the horses’ legs with polo wraps, a fleece bandage that supported and protected their tendons. It was a monotonous job my dad always gave me when I groomed for him as a kid, but I had gotten incredibly good at wrapping and could now wrap a whole horse in less than a minute. Next, we braided the horses’ tails, bent the braid into thirds, and taped them, until they were only over a foot long, so no other player’s mallet could get stuck in a knot. We moved on to putting on the saddle pads and saddles, then the bridles and girths.
After I laid all of my mallets—the bamboo stick used to hit the ball, looking like an oversized croquet mallet—on the blanket next to my truck, I sat in my foldout chair to put on my boots, spurs, knee pads, and elbow pads. I was zipping up my left boot when I heard footsteps approaching. It didn’t take long to realize those legs looked all too familiar. My eyes met Maggie’s as I looked up at her, bright smile and all.
“Hey, can I get my helmet? I must have left it in your trailer when we stick-and-balled yesterday.” She spoke nonchalantly. A weird tension wrestled with anxiety in my chest about talking to her after what happened last night. But based on Maggie’s blank expression, I was clearly the only one feeling it.
Maggie wore tight, acid-wash jeans, an old blue t-shirt that still accentuated her distinct figure, and her hair tied in a messy bun. I reverted my thoughts back to her question instead of admiring the beautiful woman in front of me.
“Morning, Maggie. Yeah, I’ll grab it,” I answered, jumping up from my chair as quickly as possible. I didn’t dare show any discomfort.
“Thanks,” she leaned against the side of the truck. When I handed her the helmet, I took her in again. She looked fucking stunning today.
“How’re you doing?” I asked, genuinely.
“A little tired, but I’m good.”
“No, I mean…” I didn’t want to mention her dad, as I was sure last night wasn’t even the tenth time something like that had happened.
“Jack,” she rolled her eyes and looked at the sky. “I told you, everything’s handled. Everything’s fine.”
I didn’t believe her for a second, but nodded. “Let me know if you need me to hit him with a ball today accidentally.”
Maggie grinned as she walked backward toward her trailer. “I don’t need your help, Hennicke.” I chuckled and shook my head, and she turned around to walk away. This girl was something else.
The two teams gathered in front of the field's end line, each player keeping an eye on their man—the player on the opposing team that they were designated to guard. As I waited for the other team to hit the ball into play, adrenaline began pumping in my veins. This was one of my favorite feelings on the field. Theapprehension of when that single, defining moment would be, where my team was going, and where the other team was going. It was heaven. I felt high when playing polo. I put my all into it because it was the sport I loved more than anything. The sport that kept me alive.
There was no other feeling compared to running down the field, chasing your opposing player, or, better yet, chasing the ball toward your goal. The current horse I rode was going to burst out of her skin if the damn player didn’t hit the ball. She bounced everywhere underneath me, and it took a few hard kicks to the sides to make her steady.
The other team finally hit the ball, and my eyes traced the white sphere rolling between the eight players. I was playing the number four position, which meant I was guarding the guy who hit it into play. Marco, playing number three, took possession of it as the players started to clear out of the end and stick to their man. I was focused on my opposing man, trusting Marco would keep possession and hit it up to one of our players in the front. He had the choice of Maggie and Marie, our other two teammates.
“Maggie, go up for a pass!” he yelled as he took a full swing to hit the ball down the field toward her. Pressing the left side of her horse against a player on the other team, she turned her head around and watched the ball land in front of her, just to the right—a perfect shot. Maggie sped up her horse, losing her opponent, and took a full swing and passed the ball up to Marie with a shout, who was still focused on her opposing player, but not looking back to see the current play.
Maggie took notice and raced up to receive her own pass, getting closer to the goal. Marco sped up to get behind her on the off-chance that she missed, and I followed him. We were on a roll. Barely a minute into the practice, we were about to score our first goal. I watched as Maggie hit the ball a second and thirdtime, the excitement rising in my body at the thought of scoring. Richard, Maggie’s dad, yelled encouragement from the sidelines. Just as she was about to put the ball through the goal posts, our other teammate, Marie, cut Maggie off and attempted to score the goal herself. She missed it…by a lot. The players on the other team, along with Marco, let out a few shouts and told Marie she wasn’t allowed to do that, even if it was to her own teammate.
Maggie’s helmet tilted back as she looked up at the sky, something I remembered she used to do when she was upset or frustrated. I trotted my horse to meet hers, but was distracted by yelling behind me. Marco was giving Marie a piece of his mind.
“The hell do you think you’re doing? Maggie had that goal, and you cut her off! You can’t do that when you–”
Yeah, I wasn’t listening to that anymore.
“It’s alright, Maggie. You had that goal,” I reassured her as we walked past the thirty-yard line. Marie hitting the ball out of bounds meant the other team got to take it in from our end line. Maggie shrugged and leaned her mallet against her shoulder.
“Yeah, I know. I was excited to show off to my dad, though. He hasn’t seen me play since my intercollegiate team championship.”
“You played in the championship?” I asked with interest.
“Yeah,” she laughed modestly. “Got our final winning goal too.”
Her victory brought a smile to my face. “But you don’t like to brag or anything.”
“Not at all,” she laughed a little more.
Teammate morale was an important part of the game. That was the only reason I took the time to talk to her.
Only reason at all.
***
I paced my bedroom, running a hand through my hair as I held my phone to my ear, listening to it ring and ring. After the brief thought of my mother this morning, it occurred to me that we hadn’t talked on the phone in over a month, which was abnormal for us. She usually called at least every two weeks to update me on her adventures and saving-the-world endeavors. My mother could take care of herself, but there was always a possibility that one of her “living on the edge” moments could hurt her, or worse. My apprehension eased when I heard her voice.
