Re-Birth

My path to salvation started 8,400 kilometres away from Elland Road with a subscription to The Athletic.
“Every time I get the ball, I look for Pablo,” Kalvin Phillips told Phil Hay in June 2020. An English football novice, I was intrigued reading Kalvin’s homegrown descriptions of Leeds United, Marcelo Bielsa, and the general fervour surrounding Elland Road at the time. Some weeks later, my TV recommended the Take Us Home series. Thus began my devotion.

Living in the States, most soccer coverage can be reduced to a grey sludge of Klopp-gazing, the Scum horror show, and whether you prefer Messi or Ronaldo. The Bielsa documentary was a refreshing introduction to a club I’d heard nothing about and a man with rousing dogmatism. Redemption for forgotten players, passion re-born, and evidence that sport was more than money compelled me to the last frame.

Baptism

After watching the documentary (twice), I eagerly tuned in for the 2020/21 season opener at Liverpool. I was baptized in the sweat of the squad’s running and a result that flattered Jurgen Klopp.

9th place was a mirage. Bamford’s hat-trick at Villa. Alioski putting Dallas through at the Etihad. Raphinha. Bielsa’s press conferences a crash course in Spanish and life principles. I was telling anyone who’d listen about my Argentine messiah and his man-marking legion storming the Premier League.

That September, while on a trip with my partner Claire, we answered the 36 Questions to Fall in Love, beginning with, “If you could invite anyone living or dead to dinner, who would it be?” After an emotional history of her mother’s family, she concluded that she’d love to meet her great-grandmother. I could think only of Marcelo.

Confirmation

His sacking the following February left me distraught. Was my mental health really tied to this club? But faith is forged in fire that reeks of Victor Orta’s folly and Jesse Marsch’s narrow, narrow mind.

I stayed strong and grew addicted to the ensuing ride from Skoobs to Big Sam. Even purchasing a membership to read Angus Kinnear’s programme notes. As a diehard 49ers fan, their ownership group’s purchase of the club was a divine signal of my allegiances being in the right place.

(Remote) Mass

On a drab Friday last winter, I screamed and endangered my girlfriend’s furniture as Archie Gray sent the terraces into elation with his goal against Leicester. The Kaiser Chiefs (who I knew nothing of at the time) carried from my laptop and into my imagination. So this is atmosphere. I had read of Elland Road’s reputation, but if I was intoxicated by a mere screen thousands of miles away, the real thing must be magnificent.

Atmosphere is an elusive concept for us Americans as stoppages in our sports furnish phone checking and general inattention, although some venues are certainly famous for their noise spurring home teams to victory. From my early mornings glued to the visual radio, meditating to the chanting South Stand, I was enticed by the continuous atmosphere. “What are they singing?” “Did they really just say that about Michael Carrick?”

I sought fellow devotees at meet-ups across the country. Sharing victorious pints, asking, “How did you begin supporting the club?”, and commiserating upon Adam Armstrong’s Wembley winner last May.

These interactions confirmed my urges. “There’s nothing like it,” they’d say. “Have to experience it.” News emerged of a proposed expansion to 52,000 at Elland Road. I wanted to feel the stadium in its original splendour; the new West Stand be damned. I wanted nothing more than a Champo night losing my voice in the chorus at mass.

Pilgrimage

I consulted everyone from the Leeds United Reddit page to my family before booking, finally taking the leap for late January: three home games in two weeks. One upside of this wretched division is that you can make the most of even a short trip. Christmas season arrived, and people who knew nothing of the team buoyed me: my partner knitted a Leeds scarf and her sister crocheted a balaclava with a pattern almost identical to the Lowfields. Telling people I was leaving for the UK to watch football, most replied, “Leeds? What’s there?” If only they knew.

I travelled to Leeds from Seattle on 16 January, several concerns crossing my mind. “I don’t know anyone there.” “Do they hate Americans?” “Will the atmosphere deliver?”

Mass in the Cathedral: Eucharist and Congregation

I curated the moment, listening to Marching on Together while briskly walking to Elland Road, and as the cathedral reared into view, I stopped. I probably stood in front of Billy Bremner for forty minutes, spellbound. I was sat in the East Lower, wanting to dip a toe in before diving in. Sheffield Wednesday brought initiative with little to show for it. Aside from a scramble in the second half and the late goals, the roar wasn’t in full force.

I will admit my anxiety about not knowing anyone in Leeds wasn’t exactly well-founded. I have the incompetence of Austrian Airlines to thank for a treasured connection. While roaming Venice airport last August waiting for lost bags, a Leeds kit peeked from the crowd and I saluted its owner. We spoke for half an hour about the transfer window, this magazine, and my dreams of coming to Elland Road. Chris graciously shared his number, encouraging me, “Do let me know if you come over.”

Come over I did, and Chris, his daughter, and I shared some pints that carefree Sunday afternoon. My heart warmed in the room with flushed faces and fans around me, cider in hand. We attended the Norwich match together later that week in the Lower Kop, missing Manor Solomon’s early goal. I was stood the whole time, learning songs and marvelling at the seemingly flawless pitch. This was the arrogant, routine 2-0 win I had been hearing of.

“How greedy!” I thought. I’d been lucky enough to come from America for two home wins and clean sheets, but my selfishness wanted jeopardy and… atmosphere. “What would the stadium erupt for?” A comeback? Too risky. A red card? Bad omen. Illan Meslier saving a penalty? Unlikely.

Deliverance

My answer arrived in historic fashion. Burnley away was predictably boring though Chris’ local the Beck and Call had great ambience and cracking steak and ale pie. After traveling to Cambridge for a work talk (which Chris’ daughter graciously attended!) I came back to Leeds for my final match of the trip: Cardiff City.

Prayers, especially for something as trivial as atmosphere at a football ground, are rarely answered with such force. I was in the South Stand for Cardiff, having saved the best for last and was glad I did. There were scarcely a few minutes when I wasn’t singing: chants for nearly every player and several choice phrases for the traveling Welsh contingent. Honoured to be among the faithful and fuddled, no American-hating in sight. When Piroe obliged calls of “we want seven!”, I was lifted from my seat and “limbs” went from a YouTube comment I had read a hundred times to welcome bruises on my arms from screaming strangers. Glory.

I pity the fellow who served me at a chicken shop later that evening, my inebriation both liquid and emotional rendering me useless at the counter. After a fortnight of enjoying pubs across Leeds alone, I made several friends in The Templar that night in the afterglow of the win. Fifty-two years since that margin of victory and I couldn’t believe it. All worries of atmosphere, washed away in seven strikes.

Going (Rising) up?

Anytime I miss Elland Road from Seattle, namely the headed madness against Sunderland, I find solace in memories of that night. My work has plans to travel to the UK, and while nothing is set in stone, I eagerly anticipate the brisk walk to our Cathedral, in this division or the next.

On a train to London the day after Cardiff, I befriended a pair of Norwegians who had been coming to Elland Road for the better part of four decades, men with perspective and a twinkle in their eyes. Steffen and I did the normal jig of breaking down the team, willing ourselves to believe promotion was imminent. Oskar sat quietly across the aisle, interrupting only to sing his chant of choice from the previous night in a mischievous, optimistic tenor. “We are going up, we are going up…” For all our sakes, I hope he is right. ⬢

(This article is free to read from The Square Ball magazine season 35, issue seven)