When you arrive, you can hear them before you can see them — the hollow knock of mallets against boards, the skidding of tires, and the slap of plastic balls ricocheting across cement. As you approach the rink, the lights hum overhead and the players zip past in a blur. On rookie nights, extra bikes and mallets wait off to the side, ready for anyone curious (or brave) enough to try. Two hockey nets mark each end of the rink. There’s no clear leader, but everyone seems to know the drill: welcome in the new folks.
I sat on the bench, feeling nervous and fully aware of how much I didn’t know. I’ve been cycling for years — the kind of rider with too many bikes and not enough storage — but I’m also incredibly klutzy, which is probably why I spent the last eight years putting off the one sport I’ve always wanted to try: bike polo.
This summer, I finally crossed it off my bucket list — not because I got any more coordinated, but because I decided to stop letting fear keep me from fun. Thanks to rookie nights hosted by Bike Polo Toronto, I found the sport to be far more accessible — and way more enjoyable — than I expected. I left without a scratch, and with new skills, new confidence, and a few new friends too.
I’ve always felt that there’s a special kind of magic when public spaces are designed for nighttime use, giving people — especially young people — a safe place to congregate. Toronto’s Dufferin Grove Park is one of my favourite examples.
The park boasts a skate park, wading pool, pizza ovens, basketball and tennis courts, fire pits, and an outdoor ice rink that, in the summer, becomes a bike polo player’s dream — complete with bright lights for playing late into the night.
I arrived with mechanic’s gloves for padding and my well-worn helmet. Most regulars wore hockey gloves and knee pads. I borrowed one of the club’s bikes and a mallet — a metal stick topped with what looks like a plastic can of beans. One end scoops, the other hits, letting you guide the ball much like a hockey stick and puck.
Steel Steeds
In traditional polo, players ride horses. In bike polo, your “steed” is a stripped-down bike with straight handlebars and only a front brake. No rear brakes means faster maneuvering, but also more risk. Brake too hard and you might fly over your handlebars — but get it right, and you can swing your back tire around sharply to reposition mid-play.
All mallets in
There’s no draft here. Instead, one person tosses players’ mallets into the air, and whichever land closest become a team. Half the fun is trying to find yours afterward — especially if, like me, you borrowed one and forgot what it looks like. Seasoned players’ mallets are decorated with stickers, tape, and marks from games past.
Games are three-on-three. Teams line up with one wheel touching the boards, and the ball is placed in the centre.
Marco… Polo!
Before the game begins, one team calls “Marco!” and the other shouts “Polo!” — then it’s a mad dash. One rider from each team races to the centre to claim the ball. If you’re lucky, you get there first. If you’re really lucky, you don’t crash into each other.
There’s a knack to sprinting while holding a mallet, and a rule that your foot can’t touch the ground. Ever.
Dab? Tap in.
Balance is key in bike polo — and not just to stay upright. If your foot touches down (called a “dab”), you have to pedal to the rink’s centre line and tap your mallet on the boards before rejoining play.
I was a frequent dabber in my first game. But eventually, I got the hang of hopping my bike into the air to stay upright, using my pedals like a springboard and white knuckling my handlebars.
What helped most was the energy of the group. There’s no ego in this scene — just encouragement. No one minds if you miss the ball or bump into someone. Everyone’s here to play and help each other improve.
Some riders stop in for a single game, others stay for hours. Friends show up just to watch, cheering from the bleachers and shouting tips to both teams. Even passersby get invited in. One group of teens took a break from skateboarding just long enough to get heckled (gently): “Come join us and try!”
“We don’t know how to ride bikes,” they shouted back.
“It’s rookie night!” the players hollered. “Come try!”
In one game play, as I tried my hardest to square off against another player, keep my feet off the ground, my bike stable, and still have time to reach for the ball, I could hear seasoned players shouting encouragement: “Stay up, stay up, stay up!” It was just enough to keep me going. I didn’t get the ball, but I didn’t dab either — and honestly, that felt like a win.
At one point, I found myself barreling toward a cluster of bikes in the corner — but instead of freezing up, I realized I was smiling. I wasn’t worried about falling or messing up. I was just in it, amused and focused, surrounded by players I barely knew who already felt like teammates.
There were arms in the air to celebrate slick moves, arms around shoulders to cheer on a good shot — I even left with a hug one night that felt more like it came from an old friend than someone I’d just met.
I didn’t expect to leave with new friends, or to feel so pulled in so quickly. I definitely didn’t expect to want to come back. But somewhere between the shouting, the dabbing, the late-night lights and the missed shots, I stopped worrying about doing it right and started having fun.
