The ACN Review: Leeds (a)

How did we play?

One never knows how to address these things in the immediate aftermath of a match. One may as well channel the spirit of Alan Bennett, irascible diarist and Leeds denizen; difficult to imagine he takes much of an interest in the association football these days, if he ever did, but there’s no harm in the attempt. 

He would raise an eyebrow at the ‘we’, no doubt, but he might hazard that the Norwich players started the game in a somewhat timid manner, probing at the big boys of Leeds with none of their usual vim before backing anxiously away. Hard to know, Alan might ponder, if this was for want of some notion of bravery on the side of Norwich, or whether each of the Leeds players were simply better at playing football than each of ours. Certainly, every one of what might once have been called ‘the hard-faced Northerners’ was a little quicker into the tackle, a little faster on the ball, a little smarter about closing down the spaces, and so on. It was all a little dispiriting, Alan would have sighed, raising a glance to the murky Yorkshire sky. And that was before the goals started raining in.

That two of the goals were disallowed was consolation of the mildest sort, Alan muttered to the gentleman beside him; the fact was that the goals seemed to arrive on cue more or less whenever the Leeds players felt like breezing in that direction.

The performance after the interval was an improvement in its own little way, Alan noted in his diary; whether because of a proverbial rocket being fired by the manager, or because of some clever yet imperceptible tactical variation, it was difficult to say. But the youngsters in yellow and green seemed more willing to move towards the Leeds goal, quicker to pass the ball as well as to pass it to a greater variety of positions, and more determined to get the ball back from the Leeds players. None of it amounted to very much, in the end, of course. But then, what does?

What was the best bit of the game?

The shuttle bus service between Leeds city centre and the Elland Road stadium, Alan observed fondly, is well-managed, efficient, reasonably-priced, and staffed by some delightful ladies and gentlemen. From the priority seating, one can enjoy a view of the Leeds arterial roadways and conurbations, basking in the warm glow of Cup dreams as the stadium hoves into view.

The buses leave from right outside a lovely brewery tap that serves some great bao buns, and Alan would definitely recommend it as a preamble to the football experience, and quite honestly, the highlight of the day. 

What was the worst bit of the game?

After the second of the allowable Leeds goals touched the back of the net, a nauseous feeling of inevitability washed over Alan as he sat in the crowd, and he felt it wash over the rest of the Norwich fans as well. One only hoped it wouldn’t drench the Norwich players themselves. This was very much not going to be our day, he reflected.

What was the atmosphere like?

One never knows where the line should be drawn between humorous ‘banter’ and offence, Alan pondered after the match, and the accusation that ‘you can’t say anything these days’ is never far away should one find reason to object. But one can’t help finding it troubling to witness paedophilia be the topic of what can only be described as ‘raucous teasing’ on the part of the Leeds fans, the topic having been prompted by Norwich fans gloating over the geographical origins of Mr Jimmy Saville. Those who find the name of Saville good for a jape might do themselves the courtesy of looking into the manner of his extensive crimes, and closing their mouths.

Hero of the match

This really wasn’t the type of game in which a hero could be identified; the Leeds players did what was expected of them, and the Norwich players tried to keep up. If one wished to indulge in a little structural analysis, as Alan sometimes does, the hero could be identified as the triumph of capital expenditure over human ingenuity and the narrative of pluck, as represented by the yawning chasm between the Premier League and the Championship. But one may as well urinate in the general direction of the bracing Yorkshire breeze.

Summary in Five Words

We Didn’t Make History, Boys.