There was something about polo players, especially the men. Something macho, something beyond-the edge, so smoldering with sex and danger that it could rock my safe little world, if only I could grab a mallet and gallop on in.
The quest in it self, was mythological, seductive and my kind of crazy.
My life as it was, was confined to New York, home of polo armories which had been converted into public schools or antique showcases.
Then, there was the ongoing whining, piped into eligible women's psyches throughout Manhattan that rang out in desperate hysteria that "there were no good men around."
It was time to move on. If there were no good men in Man-Hattan, at least there were gorgeous ones on the polo fields.
The obvious plan would be to go to a few games and meet the players. Obvious, but not my style.
Polo widowhood was not for me; the sidelines didn't cut it. The roads that were too well traveled were mapped out in neon. There was only one-way to go and that was full-throttle and centerfield. I would wallop the ball with a mallet, score my own goals and hire my own pro some day--drop- dead good looks being a prerequisite. I'd name my team "Zack,' and keep my polo-playing uncle's spirit rearing and raring to go in hot neon-green leg wraps, on my string of unstoppable polo ponies.
There were a few small obstacles in my way: my gender and my trust-fund-not," paled next to the phobia that had haunted me since my childhood.
I was petrified, bordering on paralyzed at the concept of getting on a horse, much less telling it where to go.
Clearly, I had little choice. I packed up my bags and headed to Southern Florida.
So, began my life as a polo player.
Love Horse stories? Please fund me at https://www.gofundme.com/Lovehorsestories.
A percentage of the proceeds goes to the Gentle Barn