A night at the games. Of specatatorial and participatory wreaking of on-court carnage. Some incredible goals and missed whacks aplenty. Straight up Friday night bike polo.
We may not be going 200 miles an hour, but I suspect there’s a similar thrill involved at times. Of seeing an incredible opening, standing hard into the pedals and pumping like your life depends on it to beat the other chap who’s seen it. Of a well-placed high-speed diversion dribble that allows you to bypass a defender and lead a conquest on their side of the field.
Polo it is. Polo for the ages, for the now and then, for the youngish and older. For the unbruised and incredibly bruised. For those in excess of the six players in the arena that watch, drink and heckle.
We’ll meet again Sunday.