At this point in the 2019/20 season, I was a mess. No, not because I was an asthmatic hiding from a respiratory pandemic. That I could control, kind of. It was Leeds United. As we edged ever closer to avenging two decades of hurt, I became increasingly superstitious.

Despite growing up in one of the western world’s most superstitious places, I wouldn’t consider myself a superstitious person; perhaps I’m a little stitious. By July 2020, I was waving at magpies and taking very specific routes around my local park on the morning of each game. I would wear the same shirt, sit in the same seat and listen to the same playlist before kick-off.

Perhaps I had spent too long locked up in the house, eating banana bread while trapped in an endless cycle of Zoom calls, or maybe I just failed to deal with the trauma that began with Ten Man Wigan and ended with Frank Lampard and a steamy dump in the away changing room at Elland Road.

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