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“Honestly,
people not only play this for fun, they can make a living at it.”
Scott Lancer’s voice quickened with excitement as the spoke about the
sport he only saw one time.
Johnny
hefted the broom in his hand and eyed it skeptically, trying to see in
his mind what his brother was trying to explain. Four other cowboys,
also holding brooms, just looked perplexed.
“That’s
the best I can explain it without actually showing you. Trust me, it’s
exciting to watch.”
“Don’t
these New Yorker people have real jobs?” Grumbled
Jose, the youngest of the assembled hands.
"Yes,”
Scott said patiently, “They do. This is what some of them do to have
fun. To relax.”
Frank stroked his mustache as he held his broom at arm’s length like a
live snake. “Brooms is women’s work,”
he said slowly. “’Taint fun as far as I kin see.”
Scott
sighed and rolled his eyes. “We aren’t sweeping, Frank, that’s
what I’m trying to tell ya. It’s a game.”
“We use the broom to
hit a ball . . . through a .
. . goal? On horseback?” Johnny repeated,
his face brightening as the idea formed in his mind.
"Yes!” Scott said happily. “It’s called polo!”
Frank
considered his broom again. “Sounds sorta
. . . prissy.”
“No, no, it’s not,” Scott said excitedly. “It takes a lot of
concentration to hit the ball and control the horse at the same time.
Only the best horsemen can play.”
“Well,
Frank,” Johnny quipped as he strode over to Barranca and grabbed the
reins. “I guess that lets you out!” He mounted easily and swung the
broom experimentally. Barranca’s ear
cocked toward the stick but the horse didn’t flinch.
“Put yer money where yer
mouth is, Johnny,” Frank barked in response as he grabbed his
pinto’s reins. “I kin out-polo you anyday.”
“You’re on!” Johnny grinned wildly and his eyes sparkled. “Jose,
Cip, you’re with me. That OK with you,
Boston
?”
Scott’s
smile equaled that of his brother’s. “Sounds
fair, brother! Come on, boys!”
Teresa
had been watching with amusement from the front of the hacienda. She’d
heard Scott mention polo before, but never imagined he could talk these
rough men into trying it. The way Scott had described the New York Polo
Club players was a far cry from this . . . mob.
“Teresa!
Bring the ball over here to the open space!” Scott waved at the five
men as they milled and swung and made their way to the playing field.
“Our goal is those trees over there.” Scott pointed to his left.
“Johnny, your team’s goal is that bunch of rocks.” He pointed in
the opposite direction. “We have to hit the ball past those goals to
make points.”
“How many points wins the game?” Miguel
asked as his horse spooked sideways from the unfamiliar broom.
“Five?” Scott asked.
“How
‘bout seven?”
Johnny replied. “Lucky seven!”
Scott nodded. “Seven it is!”
“Seven won’t be your lucky number today, Johnny,”
Frank whooped as he kicked his horse into a lope. The
pinto had a sideways crick in his body away from the swinging broom as
he loped off with Scott and Miguel right behind. Johnny’s team
followed to the other end of the open field.
Teresa followed on foot and tossed the oddly fashioned ball into the
center of the field. They had taken an old blanket, rolled in into a
ball form and then tightly wrapped it with rope; she was not entirely
sure how long it would last being beaten with brooms. Then Teresa made
for the closest fence and perched on the top rail to watch the show -
and she knew there would be a
show. Grinning, the girl was glad Murdoch wasn’t here to stop what
he’d call ‘a bunch of nonsense.’
“What’s goin’ on?” Jelly’s voice
had a tentative edge to it, not sure if he wanted to be involved with
whatever this was. It
looked exactly like something the big boss wouldn’t like. The wary
ranch hand leaned on the fence next to Teresa and watched the cowboys
whooping and swinging their brooms.
“It’s a game, Jelly. Something Scott saw back east. It’s called
polo.”
“A
game?”
Miguel and Jose’s horses collided as they both skittered sideways away
from their respective brooms. “What’s the point? To
scare the horses to death?”
The young woman’s laugh was as light as the breeze as she pointed to
the object in the center of the field. “No! They have to hit that ball
past their team markers, there and there.” She indicated the rocks and
trees. “Each team wants to score, but the other team tries to steal
the ball and score, too.”
Jelly
blinked in confusion for a second then snorted in disgust. “I knew
them fancy easterners were an odd bunch.”
Teresa laughed again, and then the observers watched at the teams
separated to their prospective sides with the ball sitting on the ground
between them.
“Teresa! Yell 'go'!” Scott bellowed, his
horse dancing nervously.
She waited until all the horses were still for a second, and then
hollered, “GO!”
The teams charged at each other in a dusty brawl, horses tangling in a
confused mass. Teresa and Jelly could see brooms flailing wildly between
the horses’ legs for a few moments before the makeshift ball broke
free of the throng from between a bay’s legs with Johnny in hot
pursuit
“GO JOHNNY!” Teresa screamed and clapped.
Barranca’s
ears were flat against his head in concentration as Johnny leaned
forward, broom high and his eye on the ball. Scott reined away from the
crowd and was on his brother’s heels in a flash. The others streamed
behind, jockeying for position. Frank’s pinto refused to stay with the
bunch and curved away from his rider’s swinging broom while the cowboy
sawed on the reins.
Johnny took a swing at the ball and sent it flying toward the boulders.
Scott’s horse tossed his head at the motion, and then surged forward
bravely. Johnny was poised for another strike, broom high, but Scott
slammed his horse into Barranca and the pair swerved off the ball’s
path and thundered past. Johnny and Scott reined their horses into a
wide arc as one as they circled back around.
Cipriano and Miguel were neck and neck coming up to the ball, brooms
raised high in their right hands. Miguel was in the better position, but
Cip’s sorrel showed more confidence with
his ears set deeply back. A half dozen strides before the ball, Cip
set his mount strongly into his opponent’s side. Miguel’s bay
yielded at the pressure, giving Cipriano a clear shot. He swung and
connected solidly - the ball flew ahead.
Miguel wasn’t about to let that happen again, and he slammed his bay
into the sorrel’s side, pushing them out of position for a follow up
strike. Meanwhile, Johnny and Barranca charged in from an angle with
Scott and his mount tight in his flank. Jose and Frank were coming in
from another angle; Frank’s pinto a length behind and clearly worried
about the flailing brooms - the horse’s eyes showed white and it
tossed its head in protest.
“Old Spots ain’t takin’ to this too
well, is he?” Jelly commented, pointing at the pinto.
Teresa, smiling broadly, laughed in agreement. “Frank does have his
hands full,” she said, watching closely. Scott was right, she thought,
this is exciting!
It was clear that Jose would reach the target first, barely ahead of
Johnny and Barranca. Seeing this, Johnny changed tactics and
concentrated on keeping Scott away from the ball to give his teammate a
clear shooting space. Jose spurred his sorrel, which dropped its head in
response and thundered ahead.
Frank saw he wasn’t going to beat the sorrel, so he, too changed
tactics and stretched his broom forward. Jose’s arm was cocked, ready
to strike, when Frank poked the bristled end of his broom into the
sorrel’s rump.
The sorrel instantly tucked his tail and jerked his head up in surprise,
nearly unseating Jose. The frightened horse slid to a dusty stop and
reared as Frank darted by, laughing. Frank wasn’t able to bring the
broom around for a hit and didn’t notice the alarmed pinto eyeing the
ball. He laugh came to an abrupt halt as the pinto took a flying leap
over the obstacle. Blue sky was clearly seen between Frank’s rump and
the saddle as the horse sailed through the air.
“WHOA!!” Frank bellowed, dropping his broom in mid leap to grab the
saddle.
Johnny, seeing an opening, switched gears yet again and Barranca’s
feet danced in flying lead change as the palomino sharply turned to the
ball between Jose's bucking sorrel and the terrified, stampeding pinto.
Scott followed like a shadow a half length behind. Cipriano and Miguel
had split and circled back around in opposite directions, and were now
coming up behind the Lancer boys in a duel of horseflesh.
Firmly seated with eyes locked on the ball, Johnny coolly cocked his arm
for the strike. He was taken completely off guard when the broom
didn’t fall; Scott had leaned over his mount’s rippling shoulder and
locked his broom onto Johnny’s, preventing the swing. The pair
galloped by the ball as one.
“Hey!” Jelly pointed. “Ain’t that cheatin’?”
“I don’t think so!” Teresa laughed, clapping her hands and clearly
entertained.
Cipriano and Miguel were neck and neck heading to the ball, which now
looked a bit worse for wear. A last minute push by the bigger, stronger
bay gave Miguel a last second advantage. He wildly swiped at the ball
and managed a solid thump which sent the ball closer to the boulders,
but the broom went flying from his grip.
“Miguel’s
scoring for the wrong side,” Teresa giggled.
The ball came to a deflated stop just short of the goal, but Miguel’s
broom managed to land squarely between the boulders, flushing a brace of
quail into the air. The explosion of wings made both Miguel’s and
Frank’s horses shy sharply to the side and charge away in fright. Both
men worked to circle their mounts around to the goal.
Meanwhile, Scott and Johnny had circled around and were battling for
position on the ball. Barranca held the lead, but Johnny was unable to
unlock his broom from Scott’s. Finally, less than a half-dozen strides
from the unraveling target, he simply dropped his broom and leaned over,
his heel hooked on the cantle, and snatched the package from the ground
with his hand.
“HEY!” Scott yelled, waving his broom as
Johnny threw the decrepit ball over the rocks. By now the rope wrapping
had unraveled and trailed behind the blanket making a comet-like
apparition. The blanked opened and fluttered over the rocks.
Meanwhile, Miguel and Cip’s panicked
animals bolted away from the whole scene and were soon on the pinto's
heels. Jose's sorrel’d had enough. Just
settled from his bucking stint, it whirled in fright away from the
blanket and followed the departing herd with Jose fighting to recover
his seat from the spin.
Scott
and Johnny reined to a stop, their horses puffing hard. Johnny’s
brilliant smile could be seen across the field by Teresa and Jelly, even
through the settling dust. The yelling of the four other cowboys receded
with the departure of their four stampeding horses.
“Guess
that was a seven point goal, huh
Boston
?” Johnny laughed
gustily.
“That’s not how you play!” Scott sputtered. He calmed down when he
realized the game had, in essence, come to a halt. He brought his horse
next to Barranca and pulled him to a stop.
“I guess cowponies aren’t meant for polo,” he sighed as he
leaned down and patted his horse’s sweaty shoulder. When he glanced up
at the departing herd, a low laugh began to escape his lips. Soon he was
laughing as heartily as his brother.
Johnny
wiped his eyes. “Ya know, Murdoch really shouldn’t know about all
this,” he sputtered as he tried to control his laughter.
“I
think you’re right about that one, brother.” Scott tapped his horse
into a walk toward Teresa and Jelly. He could see that Teresa was
laughing hard at Jelly, who looked at the disappearing horses and
scratched his head. “I don’t think Lancer’s quite ready for
polo.”
Johnny
slapped his brother’s shoulder. “No, you got that backward, Boston. Polo ain’t quite ready for us Lancers.”
Scott
thought briefly about the skilled cowboys and their equally skilled
cowponies. Johnny was right; the Lancer crew was very good at what they
did, and no eastern polo player or pony could even come close to doing
what was done here on a daily basis. “I think you may be right
on that point, too.” He glanced at his brother with a sparkle in his
eye. “But that was cheatin’, you know,
so we tied, zero to zero.”
“I don’t think so!”
The
brothers argued good naturedly all the way to the barn to await their teammates' return. |
