Free at last

Regular readers will be relieved to know that I’ve been released from the Bavarian prison and am now back in Fresno where I belong. Most of the allegations surrounding my recent flight to Germany have already been dropped, and I’m confident the final two, “willful destruction of private property” and “violation of the Mann Act,” will be resolved in my favor soon. The former charge, regarding damage to the Airbus 340 is rightly a warranty claim since at no time did I use the lavatory for anything other than its intended purpose. As for the Mann Act charge (transportation of women across state lines for immoral purposes), it’s on shaky ground. I met those tramps 35,000 feet over Iceland, had no role in their presence on the flight and only gave them that wad of $1 bills so they could make correct change for drinks. That rap will never stick.

The last few days of my incarceration in Germany were a blur of daily culinary nastiness, closed-door strategy sessions, odd gladiatorial games, and a visit to a palace and a nunnery. It was a challenge to keep my spirits up amid the abuse, but I did so and am back at work flushing 3/6 kill players from the weeds and picking up empty Corona bottles. I still have nightmares over the mess, but they say writing is good therapy. Over the next few days, I’ll provide some recaps to help cleanse my mental palette.

Fancy a bit of polo?

A few days into my detention, the sadists holding me decided that hilarity would ensue if they dragged my comrades and me to a polo pitch, propped us up on horses and forced us to engage in combat. I’m a competitive guy and my fellow captives were a doughy lot, so I would typically embrace this opportunity to shine like Maximus before a packed Coliseum. In heads up sport, though, I prefer something I can do with my feet on the ground like a good drinking game or Madden ‘09. Polo? Are you kidding me? So what if I’m a part-owner of a pari-mutual betting lounge? Playing the ponies isn’t quite like riding them.

As a little kid, I once remember bouncing around an indoor ring and someone yelling at me that I looked like a “goddamn sack of potatoes.” Then, twenty years later, I recall sweating atop an old nag named “Dusty” in Mexico as part of a not-like-it-looked-in-the-brochure day trip to a remote beach. My mental notes from that romantic venture were that flies the size of terriers swarmed around me all day and the horse directly in front of me had a diet high in fiber. That made two times in the last 40 years I’d been on a horse and both times left me with deep emotional scars. Awesome.

As a general rule, if I suck at something and I’m not being paid, I’ll avoid it. But here I didn’t have a say in the matter. I was herded together with the others and ordered to prepare for battle. First, we spent a few minutes of practice on wooden horses. Practice involved standing on the hobby-horse seen below, holding the reins like the thing was actually moving and swinging a mallet at a hard wooden ball on the ground.

Mount up, fellas


While a select few of us would flail from the horse like crazed tee-ballers, the others would retrieve the balls from the field without any protective gear. Most of these knuckleheads had the hand-eye coordination of Ray Charles but with 30 years of chasing tennis balls under my belt, I climbed up and gave a little clinic on keeping your head down and following through.

The Natural





Perfect, in reverse



After setting the standard, I hopped down and took my turn retrieving balls hit by the others. Imagine you’re ordered to collect balls at the local driving range without the benefit of a caged range car. Admittedly, most of the time, I wasn’t in any real danger—the typical “shot” was a complete whiff or feeble nick of the ball. But at least one of my colleagues connected with perfect timing and launched the hard wooden ball squarely against my left ankle. WTF! Ok, that’s why the horses have shin guards.

After a few minutes of this nonsense, I limped over and was given a helmet and instructed to mount a horse named Emily for “live practice.” I pulled myself up on the English/Argentine mix with the enthusiasm of Charles Manson’s cellmate ordered to the top bunk. Emily, like most women I’ve known, was unimpressed and began to wander off, disinterested in me and my commands. My captors found this hilarious, of course, and ridiculed my efforts to sweet talk her into compliance.

Edmond charms the beast



They had grossly underestimated my mastery of seduction, though. Like the others before her, she responded to smooth talk, sharp kicks to the sides and my breezy confidence in the saddle. Within minutes I had her right where I wanted her…sort of…

Emily, would it kill you to seem interested?



Cover shot from the October issue of Polo Times



When our captors decided that we were trained enough to play without harming the horses, they forced us out on the pitch, four at a time, to compete. It was gut-wrenching to see my friends pitted against each other in awkward battle and I cursed the bastards for making me watch. What’s next? Bussing in local nursing home residents for a soccer match? 1/2 limit? It was horrible.

El Polo Loco



When it was my turn to compete, I was forced back onto Emily, but she’d had enough of my self-deprecating charm and was intent on wandering back to the stable. At one point, I managed to steer her back in the general direction of the group on the field, but at no point was I within striking distance of the ball. I tried to figure her out, but she stayed true to the gender and refused to respond to logic or direction. It was like trying to make sense of Omaha hi/lo. Four cards, use two, high and low hands win? What the fuck is going on here and why? And what happened to all my money?

Emily decides she's had enough



At the end of our match, the evil bastards decided to highlight how pathetic we were by mounting the same horses and engaging in a quick scrimmage. To shame us further, a couple of young girls mounted up and joined them. Under skilled riders, the horses were different creatures, turning and stopping like an M-series BMW. Every shot rocketed downfield and the riders covered the 10-acre field like it was their backyard. It was like watching a bunch of middle-aged guys struggle at whiffle-ball and then having Derek Jeter and his girlfriend take the same bat and ball and hit line drives into Monument Park. Thanks, guys. Nice touch.

I wanted to forget the whole damn affair but my colleagues would have none of it. Later, at dinner, they presented me with the coveted Pegasus award, a stuffed horse key chain, for the rider “Least able to control his horse.” I accepted it with the same pride I felt when, at the age of 4, my friend asked me how I managed to roll my Big Wheel over 60 yards of wet sod into an empty wading pool. I still don’t know, but it was humiliating and tiring and I’m not doing it again.

Next up…Trapped at a convent.