On Mentoring from page 46
With one arm fully extended and
the other armed with fear, I led King
George III as he cooled down from his
exertions. After getting help securing
King George III in his stall, I caught
a glimpse of Wallace. We made eye
contact for a few seconds. No nod or
smile. Just eye contact. Then he walked
off.
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48
November 17 m 2011
Moving Up
As the weeks progressed, and my
fear subsided, I "graduated" to other
chores. My afternoons now included
cleaning tack, changing stall bedding
and wheeling the discards to the dung
hill, stacking, re-stacking, un-stacking
and distributing bales of hay and
cleaning dreck stuck between hooves
and horse shoes. There wasn't a dirty
chore Wallace didn't send my way or
that I wouldn't do, including catching
mice that took up residence in the feed
bin. When I came home, exhausted
and hungry, I wasn't allowed inside
until I stripped outside.
Imagine smelling worse than
pe'tcha
And then there was the memorable
Friday afternoon when my free child/
teen labor was first rewarded. When I
arrived at the barn, Elsie was already
saddled up and tied to the wooden
beam in her stall. Elsie was a gray
mare that hadn't played in a polo
match in years and looked more like
the Borden milk cow. In fact, Elsie
preferred to sit, rather than stand, in
her stall. I still remember the slogan
one of the wise-guy players chalked
onto the side of her wooden door:
"Elsie — there ain't no udder."
I was asked to bring Elsie into the
otherwise empty arena by one of the
stable hands.
"Go ahead, get up!" Wallace boomed
from the nearby shadows as he walked
toward me. Until that moment, I had
been under horses and alongside of
them, but never on one. So, with a
dose of trepidation, I pulled myself
up. But there were only a few seconds
to admire the view. Suddenly and
violently, Wallace smacked Elsie's
hindquarters. "Squeeze with your
thighs" was all I recall thinking as the
old gray mare became more than what
she used to be and dashed forward. No
one talked about liability insurance in
those days ...
Saddle Time
Each week during the polo season,
my reward was to ride on Friday
afternoons. Periodically, Wallace
would add a new wrinkle to the rid-
ing routine. One time, it was riding
without stirrups. Another time, rid-
ing without stirrups, hands on top
of my head while posting (this was
before John Wayne showed in True
Grit how to ride with reins between
your teeth.) Another time, "stick and
balling" with a polo mallet.
Saturday was match day, with Yale
President Kingman Brewster and
his wife, Mary (you were expecting
Jehuda and Shulamit Reinharz?),
perched on the wooden benches
behind the sidewall and mesh that
separated the action from the specta-
tors. Between the usual chores, I also
served as the official scorer. After
one match, Wallace gave me a phone
number on a piece of paper.
"Call this, and tell them what you
saw. But write down what you saw
first:' he instructed. The number was
the sports department of the Sunday
New Haven Register newspaper. I
dictated what I saw to a raspy-voiced
man. Magically, it appeared in the
Sunday sports section ... and always
with a bigger headline than it seemed
to deserve.
Shaping A Career
In subsequent weeks, I continued to
dictate dinky stories that received
great position in the sports section.
Finally, I asked the guy on the other
end why these stories were being
treated so well?
"Kid, don't you know your polo
coach is also the managing editor?"
With gentle nudging from my
father (and pestering from my
mother), I mustered the courage
to ask Wallace for a summer job at
the newspaper. I had just turned
16. Actually, I didn't have to ask. He
already created one for me — copy-
boy trainee. I took orders from the
copyboy. The pay was $2 an hour. The
year was 1970. Long after I turned
in my pitchfork, Wallace re-hired
me each summer for positions of
increasing responsibility and pro-
vided references and other support as
my career path took shape.
Wallace passed away in 1999, los-
ing a long battle with cancer. While
he left the newspaper industry and
Yale many years earlier, he remained
active with the U.S. Polo Association
(USPA), which dedicated an annual
award in his memory. The award,
the Daniel J. Wallace Women's
Intercollegiate Player of the Year,
"encompasses horsemanship, sports-
manship, and leadership, the same
attributes Wallace spent a lifetime
promoting and coaching on two con-
tinents."
I can still see the red cheeks, feel
the vibration of his voice and the
firm hand on my shoulder, and hear
the smack he delivered to Elsie's
backside that moved my mount, and
my career, forward. I I