A dorky tradition turned treasure, the Milwaukee Polo Club Grounds in Hartland, is a place where my family enjoys spending Sunday afternoons.
Each time we visit, we make our way to our typical spot—located directly in the scorching sun, four tables past the announcer stand, surrounded by splintering benches. We drape our checkered blankets over the lush turf—far enough from the field that we don’t get trampled, but close enough to snatch any misguided balls.
We indulge in our assorted picnic and then walk around the crowds for awhile, my dad is famous for finding old friends and spending too much time becoming reaquainted with them. Typically, I’m in charge of gathering him—I give him ‘the eye’ and he instantly gets the hint.
For the majority of the game, my face is red hot, blushing out of embarrassment for my mother’s loud cheering—which I should be used to.
Half time is my favorite part of the game. Everyone rushes onto the field to stomp in divots made by the hardworking horses—taking care that we don’t mistakenly step in anything else that closely resembles the divots. The crowd talks with the players, admires the horses, and scurries back to their seats. It’s bittersweet for my family because there’s only one more half, but we all know we’ll be back next week.
This dorky tradition is now my weekly treasure. It’s a time where my entire family is in one place. It grants us time to catch up with old friends, share some laughs, yells, and converse.