I sprint down the field on a clear breakaway, bringing my head up to look
at my final destination, the goal. The next moment, I find myself spread-eagled
on the turf, my limbs twisted in odd angles. I open my eyes to see a blurry and
off-kilter world. I blink once, twice, and my vision slowly rights itself. Shakily, I
stand to find blood flowing from a broken lip. I snarl, a sight that I am sure is
made even more terrifying by the crimson liquid collecting in my mouth. I throw
my arms out wide and demand a call from the ref. A foul, a yellow card,
anything! My pleas are fruitless; the referee is pretending that he cannot hear
me and the girl who took the ball from me is already yards away. I turn on my
heel and sprint after her, anger simmering in my veins. My cleats pound into the
turf, bringing up sprays of black rubber pellets with every stride. The metallic
tang in my mouth urges me to push harder, run faster, and hunt her down.
With no regard for the rules of the game, I slide into the girl’s legs from behind,
effectively tripping her and bringing her down. Once again I am on the ground,
but this time with a sense of satisfaction as the ref blows his whistle for the
blatant foul that I committed. The blood staining my teeth tastes like victory as
he pulls out a card as bright as the triumph that surrounds me: red.