This is an open love letter to Boston and Boston Bike Polo.
Boston is probably one of the worst biking cities in North America. I don’t know why specifically; it could be because of the generally unfavorable road conditions, the oblivious and ornery automobile drivers, or the roads that look like someone dropped a handful of spaghetti on a map. The city and its bureaucrats hate that we play polo on the hockey court in Allston, the hockey players hate that we use the rink more than they do, and hardcore road cyclists with their $4000 Cannondales hate the way that we represent bikers to others on the road (no helmets, ignoring traffic signals, bombing one-way streets the wrong way, etc.)
I have a theory: all of this hate directed towards Boston Bike Polo brings us closer together as a community. The fact that the city of Boston generally sucks is in fact the glue that binds us. When the weather isn’t great, we get together and play awesome board games and drink beers and geek out until 3am. When the court is covered with a foot of snow and the forecast looks promising, we strap on our duck boots, grab our shovels and a 12-pack of Sam Adams, and we scrape that lumpy white devil powder (not the fun kind) off of our court. When the city says we can’t do something, we secretly do it anyway, and then we light a bunch of firecrackers.
There is a reason that I feel more comfortable with my polo friends than I do with the people I work with. I can truly be myself: unashamed that I make more shitty puns and more dick jokes than any reasonable adult in his mid-twenties ought to. Polo gives me an excuse to fly to Puerto Rico for the better part of a week with my best friend, and subsequently forget to wear sunscreen on the beach. Polo gives me a relatively healthy outlet for my desire for carnage.
Boston is not a fun city. The bars close at 1am, the T stops at 12:30, and the city resents me as a resident. Every year my friends tell me they want to move, and every year I get more excited when they don’t. You guys, I don’t want to be here either. I have weekly fantasies about moving to other dope polo cities like Austin or Toronto or San Francisco or Lexington. However, it’s when I travel to other cities that I hear whispers of people saying they want to move to Boston, and let me tell you, you wouldn’t regret it if you did.
Come April, if you need me, you can find me sprawled shirtless on the docks of the Charles River with my Harpoon IPA in a Freaker, warning other kids not to touch the bottom when they dive into the water. -ZS