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Sam Warburton has penned his memoirs from an epic rugby career that saw him twice captain the Lions and skipper Wales to the Grand Slam and a World Cup semi-final.

That last four showdown with France, of course, is remembered for the controversial Warburton red card dished out by referee Alain Rolland, which cost Wales the chance of winning the World Cup.

Warburton has always taken a diplomatic line in public, saying the official got it right.

But his true feelings come out in his autobiography 'Open Side', where Warburton says it was never a sending-off offence and, in fact, one of the greatest tackles he made in his career.

Here, in the first of two days' worth of Wales Online extracts from the book, Warburton tells the real story behind the most infamous red card in Welsh rugby history.

It includes him fearing he would become a hate figure in Wales, similar to David Beckham in England after being sent off in the 1998 football World Cup, but how the staunch support of fans throughout the rugby world lifted his spirits.

This is Warburton's story on his own words...

Eden Park, Auckland, Sat October 2011. France v Wales. It's early in the World Cup semi-final and Warburton is about to nail French wing Vincent Clerc

Come on… come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.

Clerc comes flying onto the pop pass. I line him up perfectly, driving up and forward with all the force I can muster as I hit him.

I absolutely unload on him, hit him as hard as I would one of their locks or props, because you can’t go into a tackle half-heartedly. But Clerc’s two stone lighter than me, so suddenly he’s up in the air and his body’s twisting beyond the horizontal.

I’ve got not just weight and strength on my side but momentum too, as he slows down just before impact. If I keep holding on his legs will go higher still, I will drill him head first into the ground, Lyds (Dan Lydiate) and Toby (Faletau) will be coming in right behind me, and all that could get very ugly very fast, mean a nasty injury for the lad.

All this is going through my head in the blink of an eye.

So I let go. Clerc hits the deck and I’m on him again, competing for the ball and ripping it from him. That’s an awesome tackle, I’m thinking. I’ve melted him there. That one’s going on my all-time highlight reel for sure.

The next thing I know, there’s a French fist in my face, and another one, and the Welsh lads are hauling me up and away while the French forwards are still trying to use me as a punchbag.

I honestly don’t know what the fuss is about. I did almost identical tackles twice in the quarters, one on Ronan O’Gara and the other on Stephen Ferris, and neither one caused a problem.

Clerc’s lying on the ground, holding his head and writhing around a bit as the physios crouch over him; he’s making a meal of it, I reckon, in a rather French way.

Rolland blows his whistle and beckons me over. He’ll remind me that it’s the tackler’s responsibility to bring the tackled player to earth securely, and I’ll say it’s precisely because I had that in mind that I let go to stop him being hurt.

I honestly can’t see how it can be any more than that. I don’t even think it’s a penalty, let alone a yellow card.

Rolland reaches into his pocket and pulls out the red card.

(Image: David Rogers/Getty Images)

With his right hand, he holds it high above his head, with his left he points me to the touchline.

For a split second my mind goes blank, just unable to compute what I’m seeing. Then a single thought goes through my head. Don’t complain. Don’t argue, don’t remonstrate, don’t protest.

I’ve seen enough footballers do that, and I really hate it. It’s disrespectful and it’s pointless, as the referee’s never going to change his mind. Just walk off. No matter how unfair it seems, button it and walk off.

That’s just what I do. A camera follows me all the way.

Don’t swear, I’m thinking. I remember an Under-20s match against Japan in Swansea three years before when I’d been yellow-carded for an accidental high tackle. The match was shown on S4C, and there I was caught on camera like a petulant youngster. My mum gave me a right clip for that, and deservedly so.

And that’s all I can think right now: if I use even a single curse word, it’ll be shown all around the world and my mum – who’s in the stands today – will give me another clip.

It’s like a bad dream. I sit heavily down onto the bench, the camera still in my face.

(Image: Ben Evans/Huw Evans Agency)

‘What are you doing?’ Jenks (Neil Jenkins) says. ‘I’m off, mate.’

‘For that? That’s ridiculous. Anyway, get a coat on you. Keep warm anyway. It’s only ten minutes.’

‘Mate, it’s not yellow. It’s red.’

Jenks goes nuts, kicking the air, raging at the assistant referee.

It’s a few seconds before the red card logo comes up on the screen. I feel about three inches high. The biggest match of my career, captain of my country in a World Cup semi-final, and I’ve let everyone down before even a quarter of the match is over.

The team, the fans, the country – I’ve let them all down.

Gallant 14-man Wales dominate much of the match even without their inspirational captain, but end up losing 9-8. The World Cup dream is over

The dressing-room’s like a morgue. Phillsy (Mike Phillips) puts his arm around me. ‘Don’t you dare think that what happened was your fault. It’s been an honour to play with you in this tournament.’

One by one, the other boys come up and say similar things.

Not a single one of them blames me or has a go.

I have to say something. I can hardly get the words out.

‘I couldn’t have asked more of you. Any of you. You couldn’t have been braver.’

Then I find an empty toilet cubicle, lock the door behind me and sob my heart out for 15 minutes. Hot, angry tears, letting it all flow out. Tears not just for me but for those I love and respect too.

Listen to a Welsh Rugby podcast special with Sam Warburton here now:

When I can trust myself to last a few minutes without crying again, I come out of the toilet and have a shower. I stand in the shower, letting the water beat against the back of my neck as I stare at the floor.

I can only imagine the reaction at home to my sending-off. It’ll be like what happened to David Beckham after his red card against Argentina in the 1998 World Cup, though obviously on a smaller scale: people blaming me, calling me a dirty player, the man who lost us the World Cup, throwing eggs at my window, maybe even burning an effigy of me on Bonfire Night in a few weeks’ time.

Shaun Edwards puts his arm around me. ‘Welcome to the club,’ he says.

I offer a weak smile. In his rugby league days he’d been red-carded for clotheslining Brad Clyde in a Great Britain–Australia Test match.

‘The difference is,’ Shaun continues, ‘I deserved mine and you didn’t.’

Numb. Just numb. I can’t remember feeling this bad, not about anything.

I go the hotel bar with Mum and Dad. We all need a drink.

‘Where are you guys from?’ the barman asks.

‘Wales.’

‘You see the game earlier?’

‘We caught some of it, yes.’

‘What the heck was their captain thinking? You’d have thought he’d have known better, wouldn’t you?’

I look at Mum and Dad. We’re all frozen somewhere between disbelief that this is happening and frantically trying not to laugh. I’m half-looking around for a hidden camera somewhere in case this is a TV prank show.

The barman brings us our drinks. A few minutes later, I see one of his colleagues talking urgently to him. They look in our direction. The barman’s face drops, and he’s out of there like Usain Bolt.

We don’t see him again.

The day after, and Warburton heads to an IRB disciplinary hearing with Warren Gatland

We turn right onto a street full of bars and cafés. Rugby fans are spilling out of pretty much every one of them: men and women in the shirts of their home countries, talking and laughing and drinking.

For a moment, I check my stride. This is the very last thing I need, to run a gauntlet of boozed-up fans hurling abuse and telling me what they think of me. I’m just about to look for another way to get to the hearing when I clock that the nearest bunch of fans have seen us. We can’t turn around now even if we wanted to; it would look like we were fleeing.

Nothing for it except to hold my head high, keep walking, and not react to anything anyone says on the way past. It’s not far. Block it out. Game head on.

The nearest bunch of fans start to make a noise, and it’s a moment or two before I realise what it is. They’re clapping and cheering me. And then the next bunch start to applaud too, and the next bunch, and the next one, a Mexican wave of cheering and appreciation that ripples all the way down the street. It’s not just the Welsh fans, it’s the French ones and the Aussies and the locals too.

Every single one of them letting me know they have my back. My throat’s a lump and my eyes are smarting by the time we make it to the tribunal building.

Rugby’s got the greatest supporters in the world, it really has.

Mon-Wed Oct 17-19: Warburton's spirits are lifted by the famous 'Is This How You Feel' Western Mail front page, realising a Welsh nation is fully behind him

I do five and a half hours of interviews when I arrive back in Cardiff. In each one I stick to the line I’ve used so far, that I agree with Rolland’s decision to send me off, but actually deep down I don’t.

I think it should have been yellow, as that’s how most of the games were being officiated. Other incidents in that tournament which were worse than mine didn’t lead to red cards.

The red seems too harsh. But there’s no point saying so in public. It won’t change anything, and it’ll just stir up the controversy again.

You can’t change the past. But if I had a time machine and only one opportunity to use it, this is the one I’d alter.

(Image: Mark Lewis)

We were so close, and yet we should have been even closer. Of course it would have been great for me to captain a side to the World Cup, it would have been great for the Welsh fans. But most of all, it would have been great for rugby.

It would have shaken things up a bit, for a tiny country to have won it. It would have shown that you don’t always need to be one of the big nations to succeed. It would have given hope to every team, no matter how much of an underdog they might be – this could be your victory, this could be your time, today could be your day.

It could so nearly have been. It wasn’t to be. But we gave it a damn good shot.

Open Side, by Sam Warburton, is published by HarperCollins, price £20.

SAM BOOK SIGNING SESSIONS

If you want to meet Sam Warburton, he will be doing the following book signings...

Tuesday Sept 17, In Conversation and Q&A with The Chepstow Bookshop 7pm.

Wednesday 18 September, book signing Griffin Books in Penarth 6pm.

Tuesday 24 September, book signing at Tesco Extra Bridgend (in partnership also with Braces Bread product launch) 4-6pm.

Wednesday 25 September, book signing at Tesco Extra Cardiff (in partnership also with Braces Bread product launch) 4-6pm.

MORE GREAT EXTRACTS ON WALES ONLINE TOMORROW: HOW SAM ALMOST WALKED OUT OF LIONS TOUR TO NEW ZEALAND AND HIS BRUTALLY HONEST TAKE OF WHY TEAM SHOULD HAVE DONE MORE