Spinning the Whistle

Sunday mornings need a little noise to kick off properly. I slipped out past the cracked hallway door and bounded straight over to the empty basketball court. Down by the painted white baseline, somebody had dropped a shiny metal referee whistle looped on a woven black lanyard. I grabbed the flat metal edge with both gloved hands and yanked it hard across the asphalt. It spun like a top, clattering against the rough court surface before catching a dry autumn leaf and rolling to a stop. One solid nudge with my sneaker flipped it right-side up, gleaming under the morning glare like an official referee trophy.