polo madness

Did I really write a half-sentimental, verging on fuzzy-wuzzy post on bike polo yesterday?
Yeah, yeah I did.
Wow. That's kind of embarrassing. I mean, sure everyone who plays in Boston is incredibly laid-back, but the reality of playing polo is more "Fight Club" than "Sister Act." More "Kill Bill" than "Snow White."
It involves squeaky skidding, the loud thud of the ball bouncing off wheel covers and the clatter of the door hatch as players tap out. The occasional heckle and the cheers when bikes tangle and crash, players get shoved aside, or make kamikaze-like sacrifices.

Because when the best from around the country [plus Canada!] get together in possibly the biggest polo event, ever [35 teams showed!], things get fast, bloody, and broken. I arrived at the Allston court in the early afternoon and got to watch some of the best players in the country unleashed upon each other for the 4th East Side Polo Invitational.

I knew it was going to a complete sausage party [aren't all bike events?] but I was unprepared for the frothing-at-the-mouth-testosterone-fueled competitiveness. With Boston locals clearly in the minority, it was like stepping into a different world. I actually stood in the middle of the crowd for about a full minute, searching for familiar faces, rummaging in my bag like I would somehow find my friends in there.

Not that these strangers didn't look interesting. There were enough mallets, tats, tight jeans, and bikes to make me swoon. Fortunately, being dressed in spandex and knee highs and arriving on my vanity track bike made the situation sufficiently awkward so that swooning would have been out of the question. Fortunately, I shoved aside the awkwardness for a few hours to watch some amazing games. And, fortunately, the players I did end up meeting didn't seem nearly as crazy off the court.

Although, once mounted on bikes with mallets ready, all the teams were fueled by something more than just the desire to win those Volume frames. Pride is on the line, and apparently that makes for some spectacular games. I snapped pictures furiously, leaning over the door, watching the game through the small screen of my digital camera.
Impending final exams [and the need to study for them] forced me to leave early. But ESPI finals are today. You know where to find me.
[Pictures from yesterday here.]
[Edit: and more pictures by Croth from Saturday and Sunday.]

espi 4

In a former life, I would either be currently attached to a TV or in Kentucky, with a ridiculous hat and a mint julep.
Because, hello, today is the Kentucky Derby.
The first of the coveted Triple Crown, I've dreamed of watching this legendary race in person for years. And back when I would have made the weight cut, I even considered training to get an exercise jockey license. Because, you know, that would bring me one eensy, tiny step closer to the Kentucky Derby.

Instead, today, I'm off to the polo courts in Allston and Somerville, with a few prizes in my bag and full of expectations of good hugs from good friends. Finishing up hats for ESPI last night, I suddenly realized that I had promised to make these the first day I showed up to polo. In October. It was just starting to get chilly; I had just watched my life as I planned it go down the shitter, and the only thing I seemed good at collecting were rejection letters from firms. In retaliation, I painted my nails bright, bright red.
And started spending Sunday afternoons with a mallet in one hand [or, at least a beer], and forming those bonds that make bad days, weeks, or months just unravel. I remember biking down Western Ave, then that paved sidewalk to the court itself on sharp, verging-on-winter fall days my mind an emotional mess of "I didn't get that job I was dying for, my note's a mess, my future is falling apart, blah blah blah, wah wah wah wah..." And trying to keep myself from bursting into frantic tears, I'd look up and see a raised mallet or hand waving, Jamie stopping by the wall to say hello [cigarette in one hand, mallet in the other], and Nick making some smartass comment as he coasted by [laughter, in any case, inevitably ensuing].

In any life sans polo, I'd find a way to watch the Derby. But even with three more finals staring me down, I'm going to make a little time to deliver on promises, and watch my polo peeps own. I may not be able to offer any kind of tangible support on the court [unless you count my trademark "get in everyone's way" move], but that doesn't mean I can't cheer or heckle.
And even if Boston doesn't take every single prize offered [including a Volume cutter frame thanks to Kip and Bud at Cambridge], at least the winning team will be forced to rep Boston whenever they might turn these brims up. And with the Derby favorite this year named "I Want Revenge," well, I think that's all too appropriate.
[And if you're reading this, with nothing to do on a Saturday afternoon, pedal your ass over to one of the courts. Right now. GO.]

lack of tired-ness

It's funny how you realize how neurotic your whole entire family is when you spend some time away. It's also, ironically, what makes going home so great: you fit right in, and you don't have to worry about acting "normal" anymore.
I'm not at home, but I take comfort in the fact that my Mom is probably working non-stop on her lacquer-ware [she's an artist]. She doesn't question how I'll stay up into the wee hours of the morning slouched over, embroidering a piece of cloth. Neurotic devotion loves company, I guess.
But I think anyone, even people outside my family, will agree that it's hard to get tired when you're doing something you really love. Well, until much later. Like right now. My legs are finally feeling juiced out, after doing laps from Allston to downtown, to Cambridge and back to Brighton. I don't usually ride this much, but having been introduced to this concept of "freedom," [well, until the library opens again on Monday] I was at a loss as to what to do, other than pedal, pedal, pedal. And though I'm not at home, talking with nearly all my bike friends today came close enough. Because neurotic devotion for the same exact thing is always a guaranteed good time.

First stop was at polo; I hadn't been to the court in months. And with a warmer weather, it seemed like everyone showed up. Boston's Cutest Polo Player was in attendance [I failed to get a pic], as was Boston's Hottest Polo Player [seen below].
And you know how the East Side Polo Invitational is being held here in Beantown in May? The teams coming up are going to face some stiff competition from our home teams. We're just not happy with the whole "one mallet" concept, so we figure double-fisting couldn't hurt. I mean, not as applied to polo at least.

Neurotic devotion? Probably. Are we going to own all the teams that come up for ESPI? Most definitely. Will we be the hottest players there? Yes, yes, and yes.
As I challenged the bald guy in the blue sedan who patronizingly tried to tell me to move over as I flipped him the bird on Comm Ave [which rendered him into some sputtering rage, in response to which I laughed]:
Bring it.