I found Aaron on Wednesday morning out on Pitch Three. He was alone with a bag of balls; suspended players still have to train, even when they feel like ghosts to the rest of the squad. He is twenty years old. He had just been sent off for the first time in his life, roughly thirty-six hours earlier.
"Gaffer."
"Sit down."
He sat down on a ball. It rolled out from under him, forcing him to plant a bare hand in the damp grass to steady himself.
"Have you read any of it?"
"Some."
"Right. Then let me get all the way to the end of my piece before you say anything."
He nodded.
"It was a straight red card. Michael Oliver got it right. I would have demanded the exact same call if Salah had done it to you, and I am not about to stand in a press room and claim a referee was wrong just to protect a twenty-year-old's feelings."
"I know it was a red."
