There she was, running and huffing, blowing her whistle. Every time she blew on it, the players paused, some stopped, some looking for direction and others with a sense of incredulity.
And then the inevitable happened. An ‘oops moment’, the whistle infirmly held by the lips, made the journey backwards towards her throat! What! Hands on knees and bent over out of breath, straining to regurgitate the damned whistle, whilst trying to draw breath, each time the whistle sounding faintly from the abyss into which it had fallen.
Her players looking on, unsure as to which way to run, the other winning team looking on with disdain.
When her ladyship took on the role of coach and then captain of the team, she had a nice shiny whistle on a chain around her neck. Her team were all so proud of that whistle! It would bring them victory they prayed and they vowed allegiance to their coach. How could they fail when they had the sound of the whistle to follow?
They took to the pitch egged on by that sound, obediently industrious every time it sounded. But what now? That nice silver whistle was choking their leader. That chain around her neck was throttling her. Who would direct their thrust now? And the winning team have stopped to stare and some are even advancing with the ball. Their goalie cannot make up his mind, does he try and save or does he wait for the final whistle from the captain? But all he can hear is the huffing and puffing and the occasional whistley wheeze.
An then the ball is flying through the air, and it’s not just one! How can he save them all, it’s not fair, this is not what the coach had promised, this is not what the game looked like, not when the little silver whistle was sounding.