Whistle

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Set my stick down, the head perpendicular to the ground, shooting strings lay loose like a wheeping willow tree. Knees bent at an obtuse angle, steady on my toes. Knuckels flat againts the hot, burning soil, i wait patiently and with the utmost content, for timing the whistel is crucial.

I gaze at the ball woundering what will be my next move. Still waiting and watching, and yet at ease for i know what his next move will be. He slipped up, made himself readable, he looks at me. Frustrated, discouraged, he jumps the gun. The whistle blows, but not for him.





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