Dedication: four syllables, ten letters. The dictionary definition says that dedication is the quality of being committed to a task or purpose. That’s true, but when I think of dedication, I think of one thing. Polo.

I’ve been playing polo for two years now and have already hit some bumps in my very short career. Starting young, I’ve never truly felt respected, as I was inexperienced and shorter than at least half of my clubmates, the tallest being six foot six. Even so, no matter how much the older boys teased me, I wanted to keep going. It was easier said than done.

The biggest and most important of the problems I faced was a clash with my coach. She was not truly a coach until my second year. Instead, she watched and critiqued us on our equitation, a major part of polo. The first practice with her was absolutely horrible. Yelling indistinguishable phrases through the wind,  she left my teammates and me completely confused. Her face screwed up against the gale, she marched out into the arena and instructed us, nitpicking on every heel position, every hand twitch. She seemed to take special interest in correcting me. After spending six years perfecting my position on the saddle, I took this rather badly. Unfortunately, the next practices were not much better. By sticking me on harder and harder horses, she nearly reduced me to tears several times. I was forced to ride horses that did not turn, were slow, or both. Horses that were crazy and would not stop no matter how hard I tried. Her harsh tone kept ringing in my ears as she yelled at me over and over, “Keep your heels down! Back straight! No, not that straight! Knees in! Hand up!” Consequently, I vented loudly to my mother during the long drive home. Finally, my mother had enough and decided to go talk to all three of my coaches. After about half an hour, my other coach, Patrick, the one who taught me how to play and the coach whom I most admire, told me to get in the back of his pickup truck.

“This is the truck talk,” he stated as he plopped down next to his polo mallets and a random saddle, “Rule is, you stay in the truck until I say you can go. Now talk, what’s wrong?”

I decided it would be best to spill what had happened. Due to the repeated criticisms and difficult horses, my heart and mind were heavy. My joy for the game had diminished rapidly, causing me to get more frustrated while playing. He listened quietly, occasionally interjecting to tell me stories of his experience in high school polo and how he understood the problems that I was facing. As I came to the end of my explanation, he said,  “You already know what I’m going to say. Suck it up! Are you going to let a few tough horses ruin your goals? Polo ponies are nothing if not difficult. You can do it. Put on a war face and get out there!”

While clambering out of the truck and mounting my horse, I mulled over what he had said. The following practice was one of the best I have ever had, difficult horse and all.

Two practices later, I was riding a beautiful, yet bouncy horse named Esmeralda. I sat in the middle of the arena with my friends as my coach yelled out the teams for this week’s practice chuckers. “Okay so, Justine, Cat, and Naima on one team, and Athena, Anju, and me on the other. You guys will be playing second. Toby, you’re on a team with Sid and Tom. Aaron, you, Danny, and Emilie are a team. Got it?”

My heart jolted at the sound of my name. I would be playing with the boys, the more experienced and thus, faster team. The time before, it did not turn out so well, as I nearly fell off and caused our team to lose. I breathed, and steadied myself for the imminent chucker. As the ball rolled into the lineup, I felt an odd wave of confidence wash over me. I followed Aaron (the star player) while riding off Toby. As Aaron fumbled the ball in front of the goal, I drove Esmeralda even harder into Toby and swung, the half shot connecting smoothly with the ball and slamming it into the goal. As we cantered back to the center, both teams were shouting words of praise as I grinned like a madman. The following seven minutes were some of the most brilliant I had experienced in Interscholastic polo. I went faster than I had ever gone before and had an abundance of good hits, causing the ball to streak across the arena and turning the tables in our favor.

After practice was over, and the two teams congratulated me on a job well done (even though practically all of them made more goals than I).  My coach, the one who had tormented me so, cornered me as I was untacking my horse. I bolstered myself for a slew of corrections, but all she said were five words: “Really nice job today, Emilie!” At this, I smiled wider than ever before. I’ve stuck with polo through thick and thin, and my dedication finally paid off with two fast, intense chuckers and the kind words of a coach I had once dreaded to be around.