The whistle blew. It was all over. The long practices and hard games, all the running and training, all the one touch and shooting, all the pasta parties and house toilet papering, everything. Over, ended, done. Why? Because the whistle had blown. As one team ran off the field in joy and excitement, the other walked off in utter disappointment. As one side cheered, the other cried.

The opposing team had left, and the crowds had cleared, but our team just sat at our bench, looking, staring, glaring at the empty field; mud patches and torn-up grass everywhere. Posters everywhere, some hung high on the windows and some still sturdy on walls, while others hung by a thread, others were just thrown to the ground by on-lookers and still more hung on fences, wishing, wanting, hoping for nothing but the best for the team. Everyone stood, sat, laid looking at the field in amazement filled with disappointment, anger and sadness all at the same time, trying to comprehend how everything they had worked so hard for had come to an end so quickly. Put to an end by the one blow of the whistle. Thinking back to all the perfect opportunities ... missed, all the unlucky touches or unconnected passes. Wondering what would have happened if one thing had been done differently.

Tears, hugs, words, it was all not enough; it all meant nothing. It wasn't supposed to end like this, and yet, with the final whistle, it did. Everyone now experiencing the agony of defeat. Some days when they are sitting in class, staring out the window, at the field, they remember, they wonder, they wish, they push it out of their mind, still experiencing the agony of defeat. l