The red card - famous in football (together with the yellow card) as the thing Gary Lineker never got.
The red card - feared by players and fans alike, the Ultimate Weapon of the football referee.
The opposing player has just nutmegged your teammate, the goalman is wrong-footed on the other post, you are the last man in defence! Only you stand between the Enemy and a wide-open goal. There is only one thing for it. You launch yourself feet-first in the vague direction of the ball. Or at least, where the ball was 400 milliseconds ago. Boot hits bone with a sickening crunch and even as the opposing player crumples into a mangled heap of flesh you know what's coming. Yet the moment seems to stretch out into an eternity. Like the condemned man, forced to await his execution on Death Row for a decade after sentence has been passed, you lie prostrate and hope against all hope.
But the referee is suddenly there, his hand is already in his breast pocket and you wait for the inevitable flash of... red! Red, held high! Your shame, there for the millions of watching fans to see. Red, the colour they show to bulls, but, like, with the opposite effect.
There is no arguing with red - most players know it. When the red card is borne aloft you know it's all over. Almost as though controlled by a will not your own, you find yourself walking back to the dressing-room, no longer to play a part in the match, unless it is by the very fact of your absence.
That is the red card, my friends, fear it, respect it, don't get one (unless you really have to).
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