The Glory Game (3 page)

“She knows about them.” Luz didn't doubt that for a minute, although she refrained from reminding Drew that Trisha would be eighteen in a short two months. And Trisha wasn't horsecrazy. It was the action on the sideline she preferred to the inaction of the grandstand seats. “If you're going to worry, worry about when she discovers men.”

“That's not fair, Luz,” Phil Eberly protested, then leaned a shoulder closer to Claudia Baines's chair. “She makes us sound evil, and we're not, are we?”

But she appeared not to hear him, directing all her attention to the field. “Which one is your son, Mr. Thomas?”

“Let's see, he's …”

When Luz heard the uncertainty in her husband's voice, she pointed him out. “He's on the blue team, riding a gray horse.”

“The gray horse, that's easy to spot,” Drew said and smiled. “Usually she tells me something like ‘He's riding the bay horse with the white snip on its nose.' Out of the eight horses on the field, ten counting the two umpires, half of them will be a bay or brown color. And who can see its nose?” The obvious dilemma such a description created drew a warm, infectious laugh from Claudia. A part of Luz listened to the conversation going on in front of her while she focused on the game. The black team controlled the knock-in and moved it toward midfield. “Of course, Luz is more familiar with the horses than I am. She exercises them and helps our son keep them in condition.”

“Do you ride?”

“No, I'm no horseman.” On the field, shouts and absent curses mingled with the grunts of straining horses, the clank of bridle chain, and the groan of leather. Digging hooves threw divots of turf into the air as the horses were directed by their riders into tight reverses, sharp turns, and hard gallops after a backhanded ball. “Now, Luz comes by it naturally. She was born and raised in Virginia, rode in the hunt clubs while she was growing up. Do you follow horseracing, Miss Baines?”

“No, it isn't one of my vices.” She sounded playful, but Luz couldn't tell whether she was being deliberately provocative.

“Then you probably have never heard of Hopeworth Farm.
It's a large Thoroughbred breeding farm in Virginia, owned by the Kincaid family.”

“Really? I knew he controlled several financial institutions and insurance companies, but—”

“—and a large brokerage firm and a lot of real estate along the East and West Coasts plus a few points in between.” Drew had lowered his voice and Luz could barely catch his words. “And Hopeworth Farm was the start of the family fortune. The first Kincaid to come to Virginia arrived shortly after the Civil War and bought the former plantation for back taxes. In those days, I believe they called such people ‘carpetbaggers.' He bought more land, started a bank, and ended up making a lot of money from the South's misery.”

Everything Drew said was public knowledge. No dark family secrets had been related. Yet Luz was surprised that he told the story so freely, with no prompting for information. He spoke as if he were an outsider repeating gossip instead of a member of the family, albeit through marriage.

A whistle sounded across the arena. “What does that mean?” Claudia Baines asked when the play continued without a break in action.

“It's a warning to the players that only thirty seconds are left to be played in the chukkar,” Drew replied just ahead of the announcer's explanation.

“I might as well ask: What's a chukkar?” The admission of ignorance carried refreshing candor and a trace of self-mockery.

“A polo game is divided usually into six periods—or chukkars—each seven minutes long. Like quarters in football and basketball.” The whistle was blown again, signaling the end of the first period of play.

“Now what happens?” She watched the riders trotting their blowing horses off the field toward their respective picket lines, where the fresh mounts were tied.

“The players change ponies and tack, if they don't have an extra saddle and bridle. There's usually time for a quick conference and something to drink before the next chukkar starts. There's a longer rest break between the third and fourth chukkar—halftime, I guess.”

The scoreboard indicated Black Oak had the lead over the blue team by four to one. Luz removed the binoculars from
the case by her feet and held them up to her eyes. After locating Rob's picket, she adjusted the focus to zero in on her son.

With methodical and meticulous care, he checked the tack on the sorrel horse, all saddled and waiting for him. Then he went over his equipment with the same deliberation, ignoring -the chestnut-haired girl impatiently waiting for him to drink the Gatorade from the cup in her hand.

It wasn't fair to call Trisha a girl anymore. She had outgrown the coltish angles of her early teens, her slim figure rounding out nicely. She was fun-loving, outgoing, outspoken—too out-spoken, Luz thought sometimes, venturing opinions without being asked, which didn't rank her too favorably in Audra's book. But Jake had loved that about her, calling her spirited instead of sassy. Luz often said Trisha had been born knowing her own mind and speaking it.

She wasn't like Rob, who was so moody, sensitive, and indrawn, a fierce competitor with himself, yet so well-mannered. Her son had the long hair, but her daughter was the rebel. Through the magnifying lenses of the binoculars, she watched him take a swig of the thirst-quenching liquid, then swing into the saddle. Trisha handed him the polo stick, shaped like a croquet mallet with a long handle.

“Why do they call them ponies? They look like horses to me,” Claudia Baines commented, and Luz laid the binoculars in her lap, observing that the woman had a never-ending supply of questions for Drew, and he didn't seem to mind.

“It's a holdover from the early days of polo, the turn of the century. Back then, the rules stated the players had to ride horses fourteen hands high or smaller—pony-size, in other words. Times changed, the rules changed, the horses got bigger, but the name stuck—they still refer to them as polo ponies.”

The players took the field while a sea breeze stirred the tops of the palm trees that formed a tropical backdrop for the turfed playing area. The second chukkar began without fanfare, but the Black Oak team immediately set a swift pace. Time and time again, the blue players were caught flat-footed or out of position under the merciless drive of their opponents. Three goals were scored to their one, and that one came on a fluke when Tex Renecke's horse accidentally ran over the ball and knocked it between the goalposts. They fared little better in
the third chukkar. At the midway point in the game, the score stood at eight to three in favor of the opponents.

During the lull in the action, Drew finished the introductions. Then Ross suggested that he and the children fetch drinks for everyone from the lounge concession. Luz noticed the look Drew directed at Phil Eberly just before the junior partner volunteered to go with Carpenter.

After they left the private box, Audra Kincaid turned her attention on the dark-haired guest and smiled warmly. “Tell me what your impressions are of your first polo match, Miss Baines. Is it what you expected?” Her interest was genuine. She never asked a question if she didn't want to hear the answer.

“It's confusing,” Claudia admitted ruefully. “I know the objective is to hit the ball between the goalposts to score—as in hockey or soccer—but it all happens so fast that half the time I don't know where to look or why.”

“Part of the confusion lies in the fact that every time a team scores, they change goals. A novice to the game sometimes has the impression goals can be scored at either end by the teams, which isn't true,” Audra explained.

“It is a fast game, though,” Drew agreed with Claudia's previous assessment. “I sometimes have the feeling that I'm watching a cavalry charge from one end of the field to the other. It's a game that requires highly skilled players—and horses. When you put it in simple terms, it sounds impossible. A man astride a galloping horse is expected to accurately hit a ball only three and a quarter inches in diameter roughly seven feet away from his shoulder with a stick somewhere around fifty inches long that has a mallet head maybe nine inches long. Now when you add that the player has to hit a moving target from a moving horse, and control both at the same time, you see that a player has to be a combination daredevil, stunt rider, billiard player, and juggler. And there's generally two or three other players close by with the same idea who will try to get in your way or beat you to it.”

“Don't forget the horse,” Luz spoke up. “Some professionals claim a horse is seventy-five percent of the game. You see, Miss Baines, a polo pony is asked to do things that go totally against its instincts. It is trained to not swerve away from an oncoming horse. A pony is expected to stop suddenly out of a dead run, turn sharply, and within two strides, be in a hard
gallop or maneuver in close quarters with another horse while mallets swing all around its legs for the ball. But more than that, the pony is expected to do that nonstop for seven minutes. And, as you said, it all happens so fast.”

A small frown creased her forehead as she thoughtfully considered their collective assessment. “It sounds dangerous.”

“It is.” Drew chuckled, the sound coming from low in his throat, while he studied the young woman with an indulgent look. “Those horses weigh anywhere from twelve to fifteen hundred pounds, close to a ton adding the rider. They travel at speeds of twenty-five to thirty miles an hour. When they collide, even in a legal bump, the impact has brought more than one horse down.”

With a mild shake of her head, Claudia glanced at the distant players resting by the picket lines. Most were either lounging wearily in lawn chairs or sprawling on the lush carpet of thick green grass. “Why do they do it?”

“That's easy.” Luz laughed, and her ear caught the differences in sound between the low, cultured ring of her own and Claudia's light, melodious laughter. Hers had been like that before she learned to temper her bold feelings, to develop that indefinable aura her mother called “class.” And class was never dull. “People play polo because it is fast, dangerous, and exciting, always testing one's skill to discover the limits—then go one step beyond them. It's addictive. It challenges a player's nerve, his courage. More basic than that, I think it brings out the competitive drive in a person. It's a game with winners and losers, and a rider plays to win—for the sheer glory of winning.”

“Don't they get anything for it? A prize or something?” Claudia sounded puzzled and vaguely surprised by the possibility as she turned to direct her question to Drew.

“Usually just a trophy. There are a few high-goal tournaments now that offer a cash prize, but very few.” His attention was naturally centered on the brunette as he answered. Luz noticed the animation in his expression and knew it wasn't polo that had generated the lively interest in his dark eyes. He didn't care about the sport unless Rob was playing. “It's strictly a hobby—and an expensive one when you consider how much it costs to stable, feed, and maintain a string of polo ponies.
Rob has—what? Fifteen horses now?” He glanced to Luz to confirm the number, and she nodded affirmatively.

“I suppose it's another case of if you have to ask how much, you can't afford it,” Claudia responded with a smiling grimace. Drew laughed, and he wasn't a man who laughed often.

“What did I miss?” Phil Eberly led the returning, drinkladen entourage into the private box. He flashed a dazzling smile at Claudia, but she didn't appear bowled over by his flattering attention or virile looks.

“Nothing. Just small talk—polo talk.” She took her iced drink from his hand and turned away. Luz noticed his mouth tighten to suppress a ripple of irritation before he forced it into a stiff smile. She had the impression he was getting nowhere fast with Claudia, and Phil Eberly wasn't accustomed to rejection. “I suppose I sound like a curious child always asking questions, but …” She paused as the other drinks were passed around and Drew received his glass.

“Go ahead,” Drew prompted the question he guessed was coming.

“I don't understand this business about goals and how many a player has. The announcer has said that some have six or three, but the score isn't that high.”

“I'm sure the announcer was referring to a player's rating. Our son, for instance, is rated as a two-goal player. It's a handicap system, similar to golf, based on a player's skills. Except in golf, the better the player, the lower his handicap, whereas in polo, the opposite is true. The better players are given higher ratings, with the top being a perfect ten.”

“There's only a handful of ten-god players in the entire world,” Luz added. “Until recently, there weren't any U.S. players with a ten-goal rating. That elite group has been predominantly from Britain, Argentina, and Mexico, although India and Europe have been represented, too.”

“Do women play polo?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, there are several women's leagues in the United States, but you don't often find mixed teams … unless it's a family tournament.” Luz sipped at her drink, using the plastic straw. The wide straw brim of her hat briefly blocked the woman's face from her view.

“Have you ever played polo, Mrs. Thomas?”

“Yes. In college.” As she lifted her head, she wondered at
her failure to insist on being called Luz. Usually she felt the stodgy “Mrs. Thomas” had always belonged to Drew's mother, not to her. She thought of herself as Luz Kincaid Thomas, distinct and separate, even though his mother had passed away ten years ago. ‘Then I married Drew, and the children came along. After that, I played only occasionally … in family tournaments with my father or with Rob and Trisha when they were younger. Now I mainly help Rob practice by hitting balls to him.”