Watching Jesse Marsch on Leeds’ touchline packs a season’s action into 90 minutes - The Athletic 5/11/22
By Phil Hay
On the other side of Spurs away next Saturday, Jesse Marsch
will grant himself a short break on the other side of the world. He and his
family are heading to Peru, to the heights of Machu Picchu, to attend a wedding
where best-man duties fall to him. His speech? “I’ll start working on it,
maybe, the day after the final whistle at Tottenham,” Marsch said. No time at
all to dwell on it yet.
His South American destination is one of beauty, over a mile
above sea level and, for a head coach, as far away from football as it is
possible to get without braving those parts of the planet where intrepid trips
carry the risk of death.
Marsch has been scaling Everest at Leeds United recently, so
a change of scene with a touch of relaxation, if only for a matter of days,
cannot fail to do him good.
The 2022-23 Premier League season is now four months old and
almost ready to stand aside for FIFA’s sole priority in life (that is, when the
sport’s global governing body is not part of the process blaming Leeds for the
shambles of a signing that was Jean-Kevin Augustin) but Marsch has packed a
year’s worth of feeling into it already, a pound of flesh taken in less time
than management is supposed to extract it, however glaring the warning on the
tin.
There he was punching the air against Chelsea, like Michael
Jordan in ‘The Shot’, only to regress to a red card at Brentford and the first
sign of madness (talking to one’s self) in the aftermath of Fulham before a
celebration at Liverpool which, in Marsch’s words, had his wife asking “what is
wrong” with him. Anfield, nonetheless, was nothing when set alongside
Saturday’s 4-3 win over Bournemouth, an open-mouthed afternoon if ever there
was one.
In the tranquil surroundings of Machu Picchu, that wedding
speech should be a walk in the park by comparison.
Marsch on the touchline is an event in itself, the equivalent of a tightly-wound spinning top running in all directions without ever stopping; fizzing on good days, inviting a coronary on bad, worth watching in a game like Saturday’s when beating Bournemouth was, well, the gateway to a bit of peace in South America.
It is often said that there is nothing a manager won’t touch
when tension mounts and Marsch’s first job, a few seconds before kick-off, is
to gather the jackets his players wore on their way out of the tunnel and are
launching into the technical area one by one. A member of Leeds’ kit staff has
paternity leave booked and Marsch finds himself sorting the laundry.
His own jacket stays on, but only for 19 minutes — by which
point his team are 2-1 down. Off it comes, dispensed with instantly as fresh
trouble brews.
Marsch had barely settled in his seat when Leeds were
awarded a penalty after 50 seconds and he crouched through Rodrigo’s safe
finish, almost as if he wanted to cover his eyes. But Marcus Tavernier
equalised, unmarked, and Marsch’s head flicked back in a seen-this-before
twitch. Philip Billing then rifled a Bournemouth second into the roof of the
net and with that, Marsch launches his coat into the dugout, light rain soaking
into his jumper.
So much of his body language is involuntary, like a glance
at his watch after all of 15 minutes.
At 1-1, he is running to launch the ball back into play,
fuelling urgency which, if truth be told, hampers Leeds and heightens their
lack of control.
In the days of Marsch’s predecessor Marcelo Bielsa, Leeds
assistants used to flood technical areas, sometimes breaching rules on numbers
allowed there.
Marsch stands alone for the most part on Saturday, pacing,
halting, arms folded, then thrown in the air, hands dug into his pockets,
rarely settling. Now and again, Mark Jackson and Rene Maric step up to speak to
him. But largely, he suffers alone.
In the 42nd minute, a piece of paper appears in his hand and
he starts talking intently to substitute Wilfried Gnonto, the 19-year-old
Italian.
Gnonto will be on before long and his presence will be
decisive.
Marsch needs it to be.
Leeds are behind and their defending has been erratic,
dismal, unmitigated. His side are all about transition but transition on the
part of the opposition is killing them, as it has more than once this season.
Bournemouth should be further ahead and three minutes into the second half they
are, a strolling counter-attack finished off by Dominic Solanke’s backheel.
The atmosphere is asking the obvious question. Is Marsch
pushing his luck too far? So soon after that rousing win at Anfield, what will
this lurch back towards mistakes and incompetence mean?
But his staff beckon Sam Greenwood back from his warm-up by
the West Stand and five minutes after entering the action he reduces the
deficit to 3-2 with the type of curling, 25-yard shot which made his name as a
junior. Marsch sparks up but keeps something in the can, ushering everyone back
into position.
Liam Cooper then equalises with a header from a corner and
Marsch is on the pitch, fists clenched and pumping towards the stands.
The nearest assistant referee considers having a word but
decides to leave him be. Not worth the fight, with a fire lit under Elland
Road.
It is Leeds’ game now and Bournemouth have lost it.
Gnonto’s dynamic sprinting is hurting them and Marsch has
got that change right. Joe Gelhardt gets a slap of the hand as he joins the fray
too.
Marsch is on his toes in the 84th minute, gripped with
anticipation as Gnonto surges forward from a Bournemouth free kick with a
nuclear boom of pace. He gets an arm in the back but feeds a blinding pass to
Crysencio Summerville who, Marsch says, won’t score every week but seems to be
doing just that.
Summerville advances and then strikes, whipping a shot past
goalkeeper Mark Travers.
Marsch is bouncing for a second time, almost incredulous.
The match is mayhem and beyond explanation. Leeds have won
it by the odd goal in seven. The only way to comprehend the timeline is to
watch it in its entirety.
How many minutes, Marsch asks the fourth official as
stoppage time comes. He is told five and rolls his eyes, the same as the crowd
when the board goes up. But there is no sting in the tail, no door in the face,
no kick in the bollocks.
Tactically, the afternoon has been carnage, so wrong but
somehow right, and Marsch is buried in a group hug at the final whistle.
He does a lap of the pitch with more punches towards the
Kop.
His press conference is sprightly, with a joke or two
towards the end of it.
None of that stops Marsch moving on, with six points from two fixtures and Leeds breathing more easily; not free of worry or free from the fact that living on nerves is a false economy but no longer wedged in the hole they were in a fortnight ago.
It is Wolves away in the Carabao Cup’s last 32 next on
Wednesday and then that trip to Tottenham. After which, Peru will offer a
breather from the wildest of coal faces.
Perhaps Marsch needs it.
Who at Leeds doesn’t?
