A String of Poloponies

We took in a polo match in Saratoga on Sunday. We were not rubbing elbows with the swells, but across the field among the unwashed rabble in the tailgating section.

The action is often obscure, frequently too far away to tell what’s going on. But when the horses thunder to your side of the field it’s thrilling. I’m not sure we Americans take polo seriously, but let me tell you: racing around on a horse while swinging mallets is pretty darn serious, if not downright badass. One guy plunged off his horse right in front of us and landed with a thud. He was up and back on his mount in a flash and off after the ball.

When the teams aren’t jostling right in front of you there’s plenty of time to eat and drink. Saratoga Polo’s rules state that you may not bring in your own alcohol, but most of the spectators viewed this as more of a challenge than an edict; everywhere I went folks were pouring drinks into innocuous looking cups. Not me; I would never empty a grape juice bottle and fill it with wine or pour a beer into a Nagalene water bottle. Never.

I usually like to break out the grill for tailgates, but served up cold fare at polo. While I find boasting (and braggarts) distasteful, I will make an exception here to note my prowess at building sandwiches. On Sunday it was grilled chicken and eggplant, avocado, roasted red peppers, romaine, and curry mayonaise all piled on a baguette. Mmmm…

And finally, for those of you who are not Honeymooner’s fans, this will explain the title of this post.

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