Sylvie's Cowboy: Cinderella In Reverse

CHAPTER 8: THE GAME

The ladies in the stands at the Palm Beach Polo Grounds looked like Vogue models dressed for a photo shoot at Tara. Every woman in the place, with the possible exception of one illegal immigrant who was cleaning the bathrooms, looked like a million bucks. Okay, five million, if you added the value of their jewelry to the cost of their ensembles, mani-pedis, facelifts, tummy tucks, hairstyles, and stunning wide-brimmed hats.

Leslye Larrimore and Silvie Pace were no exceptions. Both ladies glowed in the sunshine and basked in the admiration of envious fellow spectators. Silvie, newly impoverished, had been forced to wear a dress one or two people had seen before, but she was counting on their discretion. How gauche it would be to announce to the competition that one of the belles was too slight in the bankroll to be premiering a new frock at the day's match!

Blending with, and even outclassing some of, the polo spectators, Silvie and Leslye surveyed the players as they took the field for warm-ups.

Leslye spoke confidentially near Silvie's ear, "So, how are you really, after two weeks of the working-class culture?"

"I'll make it," Silvie replied with chipper tone and perky smile. "Coming here helps. Seeing you. Friends."

"And how's the cowboy? Bad as you expected?"

"Worse. Les, you cannot believe it, but less than two hours from here is another planet, where Visigoths rule and I'm forced to sleep beneath the remains of their kills." Silvie pointed at one of the players on the field. "There's Dan. You know, I wonder if he wouldn't be in the market for a new horse."

Suddenly Silvie's eye was drawn to one of the players taking the field for the opposing team. She inhaled sharply and grabbed Leslye's arm. "Great Caesar's ghost," Silvie whispered, "would you look at that!"

"What?" Leslye craned her neck to follow Silvie's gaze to the end of the field and the opposing team.

"There! Number three for the other side. It's him, isn't it?" Silvie shook Leslye's arm for emphasis.

"I don't think so," said Leslye, carefully removing Silvie's fingers from her arm. "It just looks like him."

"No, it doesn't. It doesn't look like him at all. I've never seen him look like that, but it is him. That lying son of a gun! He never told me he played, and he certainly never said anything about coming here!"

"Well, I suppose we shouldn't be surprised," said Leslye. "I have always suspected the man was capable of anything. Any. Thing."

Silvie glowered at the oblivious player number three and muttered to herself. "The secret life of Walter Mitty McGurk."

Down on the field, players criss-crossed in a systematic drill for warming up the horses and the players' mallet-swinging "shooting" arms. As both teams were moving about the field, Dan Stern managed to ride up alongside Walt and Walt's pinto in a corner of the field where their interchange would be unheard.

"Say, Dogpatch," said Dan, "as long as you're here, why not be a sport and help me win a friendly wager this afternoon, eh? I'll share the winnings."

"How 'friendly' is the bet?"

"Substantial -- but he can afford it. No one will be hurt. Sort of a great joke on him, all right?"

Walt smiled. "Sorry. No sense of humor. If you've got a lot riding on this match -- and if you need to win for a change, as I expect you do -- I reckon you best try to play a little better'n usual today."

As quickly as they had come together, they parted as if nothing had happened. Dan had to work hard to camouflage his anxiety, however. He did need to win, and McGurk on the other team meant no sure thing for Dan's side.