It was a day when I could, if I'd been in the mood, have handed out two or three yellow cards. Under the warmth of a Staplehurst sun, the cup match was even and flowed to and fro and I knew both teams well, having refereed them both before. Towards the end there was a little melee of activity after a foul when the placid and calm centre half of one team decided he'd seen an opposing player clenching his fists at one of his team-mates. That led to a little fracas, but I didn't see any blows struck or anything worse than pushing and shoving.
Even then, I didn't get any cards out. It didn't feel right. I'd had a disciplinary run in with one of the teams before and they were clearly on their best behaviour, so i thought they deserved to be respected for that effort.
So the game flowed and five goals were scored. The young players charged around while the older heads kept the calm. Towards the end of the match, one of the home team's veterans, at left back, really should have gone into the book for a blatant shirt pull. But I played an advantage and open play carried on until the final whistle.
According to the book, I should have shown him a yellow card then, but it would have spoiled the whole mood of the match. Also, I sympathised a little with a player who was not as young as he once was and the despairing, vain effort to stop an 18-year-old greyhound.
So the cards stayed in my pocket and everyone seemed happy enough.
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