Leeds got blurry - The Square Ball 23/5/22

TASTES SO FAMILIAR AND WILD

Written by: Rob Conlon

If ever someone asks me what it feels like to support Leeds United, I will tell them about the moment, an hour into the final day of the 2021/22 season, when an adorably optimistic fan dared to start chanting ‘We Are Staying Up’, and the rest of the pub I was in screamed at him to stop. Leeds were 1-0 up and Burnley were 2-0 down. United were indeed staying up unless there was a three-goal swing in thirty minutes. But that poor fan was met by a guttural growl, wordless threats from strangers in sync, reminding him about more than a century of bad juju.

I’d love to be able to explain to you how Leeds avoided relegation by winning at Brentford on Sunday. Maybe I could try my best to eloquently describe Jackie Harrison’s last-minute winner, or unpick Burnley’s tactical downfall against Newcastle. Throw in some xG numbers and pressing stats, or psychoanalyse Jesse Marsch’s motivational speeches. But I’m afraid I can’t. It was a headfuck of an afternoon to end a headfuck of a season.

It was also an awful lot of fun. Absolutely terrifying for the most part, sure, but all the better for it. It’s what Leeds United does best. How could you possibly imagine supporting any other club?

The lack of phone signal in the pub didn’t help the dread, particularly when trying to corroborate information being given to me and my friends from neighbours in every direction, the links in multiple games of Chinese whispers.

A promising first half only made me feel worse. I resigned my fate to the hands of the cosmos when some lads on the table to my left were telling me Burnley had been awarded a penalty against Newcastle a few seconds before Joffy was spanking the ball into the roof of Brentford’s net. In an adjacent room, the few remaining families trying to quietly eat their Sunday dinners gave up any last hopes of earnestly enjoying their afternoons as the rest of the pub collectively lost its shit. VAR ruled out Joffy’s goal, but everyone kept cheering because apparently Newcastle, not Burnley, had scored a penalty.

Burnley losing rather than winning meant it wasn’t as bad as I feared, but Leeds still drawing meant the moment wasn’t as perfect as I hoped either. Couldn’t someone just shake me at full-time and let me know how everything turned out?

Raphinha’s penalty should have eased any anxiety — except for the random child a friend launched in the air while celebrating — but the hope just made me feel worse. After fifteen minutes of staring at the floor, counting my feet, I had to excuse myself to watch the remainder of the game standing outside in the beer garden. There’s something about watching sport sitting down that makes me feel more nervous, and now Burnley had pulled a goal back and Leeds were swapping centre-forwards for central defenders. I needed to be able to pace around.

I timed my leave with Brentford’s equaliser, missing both the goal and Sergi Canos getting booked for his celebration, only catching a replay of his header. His red card for a second yellow was a confusing but hilarious surprise. I’d hidden from so much of the second half I didn’t realise Brentford were down to nine players. Leeds certainly weren’t making it look like they were playing with a two-man advantage.

Soon the TV was telling me Man City were 3-2 up, when the last thing I knew they were 2-0 down. A man in front kept saying that’s the kind of thing that makes us love football, strange when in that moment I utterly hated it. I turned around, where a dog was calmly sitting on the floor, looking up at me with the sympathetic eyes of a creature recognising a fool. It let me stroke its head for reassurance, never losing its look of pity.

With one minute remaining, knowing a Burnley goal would send Leeds down, I started walking back inside to rejoin my friends so we could accept our fate together. Before I could get there, the pub exploded in mass celebration. My walk turned into a run, and I jumped on the back of my friend after seeing the ball in Brentford’s net, neither knowing nor caring how it got there.

There was lots of hugging, a chorus of Leeds Are Falling Apart Again, and a regrettable panic buy of a large round of Aperol Spritz. Fellow Square Ball writer Chris McMenamy tried to restore respectability by buying us all whiskies, but I preferred the fizz.

The entire day remains blurry. I’m happy for it to stay that way. My final memory is leaving friends who were getting a taxi so I could walk home and try to process what had happened. It didn’t work. As I was walking through Headingley I passed a beer garden full of Manchester City fans singing about winning another title. Suckers, I thought, grinning to myself. Don’t know what they’re missing.