Mimi said thoughtfully, “When you get eight players, each weighing about one hundred and seventy-five pounds, and their nine-hundred-pound ponies racing at each other over three hundred yards at forty miles an hour—yes, accidents can happen.”
Peggy shuddered. “I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to Woody again. I really couldn’t. I go crazy worrying about him.”
Mimi Carson said gently, “Don’t worry. He’s one of the best. He studied under Hector Barrantas, you know.”
Peggy was looking at her blankly. “Who?”
“He’s a ten-goal player. One of the legends of polo.”
“Oh.”
There was a murmur from the crowd as the ponies moved across the field.
“What’s happening?” Peggy asked.
“They just finished a practice session before the game. They’re ready to begin now.”
On the field, the two teams were starting to line up under the hot Florida sun, getting ready for the umpire’s throw-in.
Woody looked wonderful, tan and fit and lithe—ready to do battle. Peggy waved and blew him a kiss.
Both teams were lined up now, side by side. The players held their mallets down for the throw-in.
“There are usually six periods of play, called chukkers,” Mimi Carson explained to Peggy. “Each chukker lasts seven minutes. The chukker ends when the bell rings. Then there’s a short rest. They change ponies every period. The team that scores the most goals wins.”
“Right.”
Mimi wondered just how much Peggy understood.
On the field, the players’ eyes were fixed on the umpire, anticipating when the ball would be tossed. The umpire looked around at the crowd, then suddenly bowled the white plastic ball between the two rows of players. The game had begun.
The action was swift. Woody made the first play, getting possession of the ball and hitting an offside forehand. The ball sped toward a player on the opposing team. The player galloped down the field after it. Woody rode up to him and hooked his mallet to spoil his shot.
“Why did Woody do that?” Peggy asked.
Mimi Carson explained. “When your opponent gets the ball, it’s legal to hook his mallet so he can’t score or pass. Woody will use an offside stroke next to control the ball.”
The action was happening so fast that it was almost impossible to follow.
There were cries of “Center…”
“Boards…”
“Leave it…”
And the players were racing down the field at full speed. The ponies—usually pure or three-quarter Thoroughbreds—were responsible for 75 percent of their riders’ successes. The ponies had to be fast, and have what players call polo sense, being able to anticipate their rider’s every move.
Woody was brilliant during the first three chukkers, scoring two goals in each one and being cheered on by the roaring crowd. His mallet seemed to be everywhere. It was the old Woody Stanford, riding like the wind, fearless. By the end of the fifth chukker, Woody’s team was well ahead. The players went off the field for the break.
As Woody passed Peggy and Mimi, sitting in the front row, he smiled at both of them.
Peggy turned to Mimi Carson, excitedly. “Isn’t he wonderful?”
She looked over at Peggy. “Yes. In every way.”
Woody’s teammates were congratulating him.
“Right on the mark, old boy! You were fabulous!”
“Great plays!”
“Thanks.”
“We’re going out there and rub their noses in it some more. They haven’t got a chance!”
Woody grinned. “No problem.”
He watched his teammates move out to the field, and he suddenly felt exhausted. I pushed myself too hard, he thought. I wasn’t really ready to go back to the game yet. I’m not going to be able to keep this up. If I go out there, I’ll make a fool of myself. He began to panic, and his heart started to pound. What I need is a little pick-me-up. No! I won’t do that. I can’t. I promised. But the team is waiting for me. I’ll do it just this once, and never again. I swear to God, this is the last time. He went to his car and reached into the glove compartment.
When Woody returned to the field, he was humming to himself, and his eyes were unnaturally bright. He waved to the crowd, and joined his waiting team. I don’t even need a team, he thought. I could beat those bastards single-handedly. I’m the best damned player in the world. He was giggling to himself.