Dearest gentle readers,
One does not often witness a contest so decisively concluded that the scoreline itself begins to blush. And yet, beneath a sky the colour of damp disappointment, the afternoon ended in a most emphatic 10–0 defeat.
Five of those tallies arrived in the first half — though, as several among us confessed, we rather lost count somewhere between disbelief and self-preservation. The second half proved… reassuringly consistent for the opposition.
Our adversaries — seasoned, composed, and as ruthlessly efficient demonstrated a particular fondness for the short corner. Six, perhaps seven, were converted with such clinical precision that one began to suspect they had signed a private arrangement with destiny itself. Each set piece unfolded like a rehearsed scandal: inevitable and swift.
And yet — let it not be said that our side lacked courage.
Three brave souls made their 2s debut. Their initiation was, shall we say, thorough. Meanwhile, several players found themselves deployed in positions unfamiliar — stepping into roles not entirely their own, yet performing them with admirable resolve.
According to the captain — second half of the first half and the first half of the second half our finest play. Indeed, there were passages where sticks connected cleanly, passes found their mark, and the opposition looked momentarily inconvenienced. It was during these fleeting intervals that hope dared to flutter its delicate wings.
Alas, frustration is a most unrefined companion. As fatigue crept in and tempers simmered, tackles grew… ambitious. One particularly enthusiastic challenge (this author would not dare mention their name) resulted in an opponent dramatically reacquainting themselves with the turf, and our gallant aggressor was shown a yellow card — dispatched for ten minutes to contemplate the consequences of zeal. Curiously, exile appeared to suit them. Upon returning from their enforced sabbatical, they emerged energised — as though the sin bin were less a punishment and more a restorative spa retreat.
There were, I must confess, glimmers. A short corner won by our side sent a tremor of possibility through the ranks. For a heartbeat, the script threatened rebellion. Sticks were raised. Voices lifted. Dreams stirred.
But the net, cruel creature that it is, refused our advances.
The match concluded with a spirited burst of attacking play — a final flurry that suggested a team unwilling to be entirely defined by the arithmetic of defeat. The goals did not come. But pride, though bruised, remained faintly upright.
Ten–nil, dear reader, is a harsh tutor. Yet even the most resounding losses may forge resilience — provided one learns and adjusts.
Take comfort. Society is ever watchful — but it also has a short memory.
Yours in scandal and sport
Lady Whistleblown