refusing to be drawn into Eugene’s fury, Fabian still hoped that their confrontation on the same field, which, in the past, had so often brought them together, would lessen his friend’s conviction of betrayal.
He countered Eugene’s assault by slowing down to an easy pace, then twisted abruptly across Eugene’s path in a sinuousthrust, striking the ball at every chance. With the ceaseless leaching of his strength, his legs grew stolid, sweat clouded his vision. His only strength rested in his aim, and he wondered how long he would be able to maintain it. An image of himself lying dead on the field dominated his thoughts.
Polo, even when played under strict formality, barely managed to restrain the force of human flesh, the speed and mass of the horse. To Fabian, this had been the game’s sheer beauty; it was now its ultimate terror. He recalled vividly one of the amateur polo games he had witnessed in Los Lemures. During the first two or three chukkers, the pace was leisurely, safe and slow, giving each player a chance to demonstrate his skills and to relish the accomplishment of the others.
One of the players was an old acquaintance of Fabian’s, a recently retired American businessman who had arrived for the occasion only two days earlier. He was accompanied by his wife and his two sons, whose wives and children also were in the party, all enthusiastic not only about the holiday, but for the happy chance to see him resume polo, the sport he had been most fond of as a young man, and to which, after three decades of what he called executive golf and tennis, he was most eager to return.
During the last chukker, a substitute player was enlisted by one of the teams. He was a young ranchero, a local boy, not often given the chance to take part in a game reserved for visiting polo players. Eager to make his mark in front of his companions and other spectators, he promptly threw his pony into a reckless display of speed, performing at the same time with an uncanny mastery of the ball. By playing so much faster than others on the field, he engaged the spectators on his side; cheered for every strike, he forced the line of attack and defense to be extended across almost the entire length of the field. Even though the other players were tired and on the brink of ending the game, prompted by the applause of the spectators, they quickly surrendered to the rapidly increased pressure of the game, and Fabian saw how his friend, reluctantly and with effort, was compelled by the speed of his team to mobilize his pony, chasingthe ball at the same headlong pace as the other, younger players.
With only three minutes left to the end of the game, the young ranchero scrambled for the ball in a frantic gallop that left his pony choking for air. The other players, challenged by his aggression, spurred their ponies downfield, jabbing, fighting for possession of the ball. Fabian saw the American suddenly pull out of the scrimmage and, wielding his mallet like a hockey stick, come at the ranchero, attempting to ride him off. As the tumult of hoofs pounded the ground, the crowds in the stands, responding to beat and tremor of the earth, broke into volleys of shouting and applause, inciting the players to goad their sweat-sodden mounts to even more drastic speed. Heedless now of everything but possession of the ball, the ranchero pitched into a steep turn, the American hard on his heels. At that moment, in a blink of time, swift as a coiling wrist, the wave of horses and men swelled, then as quickly broke, spilling from its center, in a jet of fluid motion, the glimpse of a horse thrown sideways, then buckling, its neck a sculpture of terror, its rider, the American, frozen in air, a puppet suspended above the empty saddle.
Horse and rider went down in the rolling tide of flesh, human and animal, closing then unfolding above the other players, as if what lay on the ground were a prey they had run to earth.
One after another, the players
He countered Eugene’s assault by slowing down to an easy pace, then twisted abruptly across Eugene’s path in a sinuousthrust, striking the ball at every chance. With the ceaseless leaching of his strength, his legs grew stolid, sweat clouded his vision. His only strength rested in his aim, and he wondered how long he would be able to maintain it. An image of himself lying dead on the field dominated his thoughts.
Polo, even when played under strict formality, barely managed to restrain the force of human flesh, the speed and mass of the horse. To Fabian, this had been the game’s sheer beauty; it was now its ultimate terror. He recalled vividly one of the amateur polo games he had witnessed in Los Lemures. During the first two or three chukkers, the pace was leisurely, safe and slow, giving each player a chance to demonstrate his skills and to relish the accomplishment of the others.
One of the players was an old acquaintance of Fabian’s, a recently retired American businessman who had arrived for the occasion only two days earlier. He was accompanied by his wife and his two sons, whose wives and children also were in the party, all enthusiastic not only about the holiday, but for the happy chance to see him resume polo, the sport he had been most fond of as a young man, and to which, after three decades of what he called executive golf and tennis, he was most eager to return.
During the last chukker, a substitute player was enlisted by one of the teams. He was a young ranchero, a local boy, not often given the chance to take part in a game reserved for visiting polo players. Eager to make his mark in front of his companions and other spectators, he promptly threw his pony into a reckless display of speed, performing at the same time with an uncanny mastery of the ball. By playing so much faster than others on the field, he engaged the spectators on his side; cheered for every strike, he forced the line of attack and defense to be extended across almost the entire length of the field. Even though the other players were tired and on the brink of ending the game, prompted by the applause of the spectators, they quickly surrendered to the rapidly increased pressure of the game, and Fabian saw how his friend, reluctantly and with effort, was compelled by the speed of his team to mobilize his pony, chasingthe ball at the same headlong pace as the other, younger players.
With only three minutes left to the end of the game, the young ranchero scrambled for the ball in a frantic gallop that left his pony choking for air. The other players, challenged by his aggression, spurred their ponies downfield, jabbing, fighting for possession of the ball. Fabian saw the American suddenly pull out of the scrimmage and, wielding his mallet like a hockey stick, come at the ranchero, attempting to ride him off. As the tumult of hoofs pounded the ground, the crowds in the stands, responding to beat and tremor of the earth, broke into volleys of shouting and applause, inciting the players to goad their sweat-sodden mounts to even more drastic speed. Heedless now of everything but possession of the ball, the ranchero pitched into a steep turn, the American hard on his heels. At that moment, in a blink of time, swift as a coiling wrist, the wave of horses and men swelled, then as quickly broke, spilling from its center, in a jet of fluid motion, the glimpse of a horse thrown sideways, then buckling, its neck a sculpture of terror, its rider, the American, frozen in air, a puppet suspended above the empty saddle.
Horse and rider went down in the rolling tide of flesh, human and animal, closing then unfolding above the other players, as if what lay on the ground were a prey they had run to earth.
One after another, the players
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