It reminds me of a scene. Picture this. There was a rising star
in the business community. He had even done pretty well monetarily,
well enough, in fact to have been invited to play polo at the club.
Look at him, they said. He’s young, so much promise. He’s bright,
good looking, and doing well for himself. We shall invite him to the
club to play polo.
So our young businessman dedicated himself to practicing a bit of
polo. He was a decent horseman, but he’d never played before. He
dutifully hired a trainer and secretly practiced on the weekends
hitting balls, riding, turning etc. He was sure he’d impress the
crowd and the blue-bloods with his ability.
The day of the polo outing arrived and he was out in front
immediately, whacking balls, shouldering into riders, shoving,
pushing, yelling. He’s going to crush them, CRUSH them and win!
WIN! WIN! He’s went for that prize with everything he had, that
little white ball bouncing around in the mud. He never took his eye
off the little white ball.
At the end of the day he’d bested the field with his take no
prisoners attitude, showed his metal and that he was superior stock,
better than the rest, worthy of inclusion.
An older gentleman made his way to the club house to find our
young friend, where he rested his hand upon his shoulder and said, “Dear
boy, a polo match isn’t about the polo.”