My Close Encounter with the Prince of Wales

My first real job after college was as a junior programmer at the National Opinion Research Center (NORC) in Chicago. Ron and I lived in the suburbs so he could play golf as much as humanly possible. I would accompany him sometimes so I had a basic sense of golf courtesy.

One Friday afternoon, my co-worker Carol Z. asked me if I had ever been to a polo match. Bostonians do not do polo matches I summarily informed her. Carol was not deterred. She added that Prince Charles would be playing in the match. I’m an American and don’t do royalty. Plus, there’s the whole Boston being the heart of the rebellion thing. However, I was intrigued by taking the rest of the afternoon off from work, and, more importantly, the promise of drinks afterward.

We went to my apartment to change into our polo finery. For me, it was a $20 polyester sundress, $20 pair of white high-heeled sandals, and a free pair of nylon white gloves from my mother-in-law. Carol was a dancer in another life. Tall, thin, and elegant. We thought we were the cat’s meow. So, off to see the wizard. I mean the Prince of Wales.

The polo match was held at one of the suburban golf courses in Oakbrook and Carol found parking for her old Chevy Nova on one of the luxury side streets. (We’re lucky she didn’t get towed!) We walked across the greens poking high-heel holes in the soft ground. (I kept thinking Ron would have a stroke if he knew.) Unfortunately, all the cheap tickets were gone. Not wanting to waste the trip, Carol and I skirted the fence behind the courtesy tents. That’s where the rich and famous hung out drinking libations I had only heard about from TV.

Carol asked me if I spoke any foreign languages so I decided to babble in pseudo French. I was young so it didn’t occur to me that the folks in the tents would know it was not really French. Anyway, we came to an open area with a gate, probably used to get the horses in and out. They players were flying back and forth and we were both excited. Not too long afterward, six Illinois State Troopers showed up. The oldest asked “What’s the matter, you girls can’t afford to buy a ticket?”

Normally, I would have spazzed big time at being called a girl. But it finally dawned on me that what we were doing was not Kosher. I was also outnumbered and outgunned so I sucked up my pride and said “Yes. Only the $50 tickets were left.” They let us watch a bit more of the match so I got to see Prince Charles, then they shooed us away.

For the next adventure, we went to Bennigan's and drank Gallo burgundy until we couldn't stand up. What happened next is a story for another day…