I'll give you Respect

It was just 20 minutes into the first half and play was puttering about in midfield. South London on a chilly autumn's day and, apart from a louder than usual display of dissent from the benches, the game was uneventful. I've cursed myself for my lack of reaction ever since, but only feel safe to write about it now that the scar has disappeared. As often happens the ball was played in my direction by a midfielder. Usually it's easy to get out of the way just by letting the ball run between your legs or hopping over it. This time, however, I felt a violent blow to the back of my calf and a searing pain. "F***ing hell ref" a voice behind me growled. I hobbled out of the way and looked at the player, thinking at the time that it had to have been an accident.
I toughed it out, ignoring the pain and it was only at half time that I had the chance to pull my sock down and noticed a pretty deep stud-shaped cut and fair amount of blood. The match became a pig to referee; Five minutes after the "accidental" collision, the player who did it suddenly exploded, shouting his head off at me over an innocuous decision. I booked him and he was on the point of collecting a second yellow when he was subbed. I was on my way home before I realised that the "studding" was most probably deliberate.
In general the insults were more devious and more personal than I've experienced before. "Fuck off and have a heart attack" was the sweet message from a player somewhere behind me. Another player wouldn't give me his name, only his number, until I called his captain over and told him I'd send the player off unless I got a name. Being referred to contemptuously as "Bro" was actually quite funny, but the tension of a close match got to the benches, who started scuffling as I blew the final whistle. The losing manager, having informed me I was the worst ref he'd ever seen, proceeded to berate his team for at least 10 minutes, screaming his head off at them.
Respect? You're having a larf!