A Reflection on All the Pretty Little Polo Horses

I will be honest with many of you, I have never watched a polo game. In fact, if you asked me the question, "Did you watch the polo game today?, " I may respond, "Yes, and it is apparent that my university must invest more money into and recruit better players to sign with Long Beach State's water polo teams."

In comparison to Long Beach City College (whose teams are decent enough to win state titles), Long Beach State's water polo teams have been traditional doormats for quite some time. The "jobbers to the stars," to quote a wrestling cliche. Able to beat Division III sides and teams like MIT and Harvard but incompetent against UCLA, USC, Cal, even UC Irvine and UC Santa Barbara.

But if you reply with, "No, I was talking about the polo game with the horses," I would return a quizzical impression, as if you preach of bourgeois decadence and luxuries that I couldn't begin to imagine.

So when I found out that 21 horses, who play for a Venezuelan side, were killed due to some hare-brained vitamin blend that was supposed to simulate a banned substance from Europe, I, surprisingly, took it hard.

I mean, how in the living laminitis of Barbaro can you let these stately ponies, who were ready to help Lechuza Caracas in the Hall of Fame Cup semifinals against Black Watch at the 2009 US Open Polo Championship, die like this?

Was it too much selenium? Was it human error times two dozen minus three? Was it a way to stick it to Hugo Chavez (if so, hallelujah) for his style of running the country where Lechuza is based from?

Who knows.

It's these types of situations that really get me interested in sports, which I never had much interest in.

I mean, I was following Barbaro's fight against laminitis in the same devout fashion that I was monitoring the condition of Pope John Paul II in the days leading to Divine Mercy Sunday 2007.

The last time the USA medaled in polo at the Summer Olympics (Silver) was the same year the USA medaled in rugby (Gold), 1924 in Paris.

The way their demise was realized is the stuff of Hollywood cinema.

They dropped like flies before they faced Black Watch, those stallions from Venezuela— one, then two, three, four, then seven—and all the rest, as they went back to the farm in a large silver vehicle converted to a makeshift hearse.

Those 21 horses did not die in vain. Those who wept and left flowers by Lechuza's camp stand testament to that fact.

My parting thought regarding Black Monday, April 20th, is a little nursery rhyme:

    Hush-a-bye
    Don't you cry
    Go to sleep my little baby;
    When you wake,
    you shall have,
    all the pretty little horses.

On that Monday, all the pretty little horses were, indeed, had.

And as for the baby's name? None other than the Grim Reaper himself.