Have the Polo Players met their match?

The future of the Athens Hardcourt Bike Polo League may be in serious jeopardy.  After a run-in with the security guard at the Butler Building, league officials decided to move the games scheduled for the evening of Thursday last to the parking lot of the Jittery Joe's coffee sweatshop, a vastly inferior venue.  The Polo League has used the Butler Building parking lot as a training ground for the past few months with no trouble, other than some confrontations with a band of unruly Greeks behind the Southern Wall of the court in conflict. Until the events of December 11, this had been a near-perfect venue for the League's weekly matches. The ground is relatively smooth and level, the streetlights are always on, and one would imagine that the roving bands of possum-slaughtering, khaki-clad, date-raping fraternitarians would be more of a concern or nuisance than an innocuous bunch of beer swilling pipe smackers. Passers-by, police, and (up to this point) security guards have been nonplussed by and unconcerned about the oddballs on bikes riding in circles swinging golf clubs and PCP pipes at a ball that may or may not actually be visible to the naked eye. But somehow, on a rainy and uninviting Thursday night, a hillbilly in a minivan with some stickers on it managed to run off the band of mallet-whackers who had just begun the first match of the evening's program. How did he do this? With fear tactics, poor English, and a mandate of power over a small chunk of cracking asphalt that comes with a meager paycheck twice monthly. A debate ensued, but the League's position was severely weakened by the arbitrary and foolish decree against consuming delicious hoppy beverages in public places, which it was clearly in violation of. Rather than risk an expensive and time-consuming court battle, the League's legal team advised bowing out, conceding a momentary defeat, and moving the matches to the next-best location. 

All we need is a fairly flat space where we can swing our mallets and drink our beers without interference from any kind of arbitrarily appointed authority figure, where the cars of the world will leave us unmolested for a few short hours, someplace in the secretive corners of Athens where The Great Eye is not casting its deathly stare upon us, but where the streetlights still shine brightly as the Christmas star beckoning the Magi, a glowing beacon for the faithful few who showed up on a rainy night in December to pay homage to the Duke of the Mallet in hopes that he might spare their souls and allow them passage to Pensacola, where all good Americans go when they die. This cannot be too much to ask, and such a place must exist somewhere.