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As the clock ticked by in the second half, Elland Road began to ramp up. Leeds United were pressing for a winner and the crowd was going with them, delving into the best aspects of our restless energy. It’s a delicate relationship between the team and the terraces; both simultaneously feed off each other. And on Saturday, a perfect balance was struck. When the players were in danger of relenting, the Kop found its voice. When the building momentum of the atmosphere threatened to stall, the players reminded us they weren’t stopping so nor could we.
Throughout it all, my mind was in two places at once. One part was very much in our cherished corner of Beeston, yelling at the referee, yelling at Raul Jimenez, yelling at anyone in a white shirt to score a fucking goal. The other part was marooned on the banks of the River Thames, back in September, lamenting how the hell Gabriel Gudmundsson had conspired to head the ball into his own net in stoppage time. As the two combined, the same phrase got stuck on repeat in my head: we owe these fuckers one.
Naturally, I refused to verbalise that sentiment for fear of jinxing anything. Some things are better left unsaid at the football (calling Jimenez a cheating cunt is not one of them, otherwise what’s the point of spending £50 every other week if you can’t shout at an annoying millionaire who can’t hear you?). But that image of Gudmundsson’s anguish at Craven Cottage could not be banished. Then suddenly he was breaking down the left wing at Elland Road and into Fulham’s penalty area, swinging his left leg back as he readied himself to shoot at goal. As Gudmundsson struck, a straining neck and head of a supporter a few seats to my right blocked my view. The next thing I knew the ball was bouncing not too far from where I was standing towards the back of the Kop.
It was going to be one of those days.
Draws are all well and good but if there has been anything to gripe about during Leeds’ revival over the last six weeks it’s that there have been a few too many of them when the odd win here or there would have seen us almost safe. Thankfully, Leeds played on Saturday like they agreed. The only problem was that chances were hard fought and easily missed.
Brenden Aaronson should have made it 1-0 in the first half as Leeds crafted an opportunity out of some head tennis between Jayden Bogle and Dominic Calvert-Lewin. Bogle’s first time pass over the defence put Aaronson through on goal but, with only Bernd Leno to beat, he blazed it over the bar. Perhaps the clearest evidence of Aaronson’s own upturn in form though is that he didn’t let the miss weigh on his mind, instead remaining in his groove as United’s creative nuisance. Ten minutes into the second half, he drove down the right and whipped a precise cross to the near post, only for Calvert-Lewin to flick it into the side netting.
The irony of Daniel Farke’s switch to 3-5-2 is that while an extra centre-back has helped make the team more defensively robust, it has also liberated players in being allowed to roam up the pitch knowing their arses are covered. Leeds were propelled forward all game by defenders James Justin (I love him), Jayden Bogle (and him) and Gabi Gudmundsson (and him, too). All three have seemingly endless reserves of energy, like Gjanni Alioski without the whale noises. Sadly, all three are still defenders, as reflected by their finishing ability.
Bogle was eventually sacrificed for Lukas Nmecha. Even with Leeds in the ascendancy, it was undoubtedly a risk. United’s season has been littered by painful late concessions against Fulham, Bournemouth, Man City and Newcastle, but Farke wanted all three points as much as the players and supporters. What must he have been thinking, then, as Nmecha’s first ten minutes after being introduced deserved a Benny Hill backing track? Time after time, he found ever more slapstick ways to give Fulham the ball back in ever more dangerous positions. As Farke said afterwards, “His first three touches of the game I thought he’d put boots on for the first time in his life.”
Yet as four minutes of injury time were announced over the tannoy, Leeds had Fulham penned on the edge of their penalty area. Every time a defender made a tackle, a Leeds player made themself first to the second ball. It wasn’t pretty, but it was relentless. Somewhere in the middle of it all, Ao Tanaka fell over. Aaronson dribbled and was tackled. Ethan Ampadu won it back. Wilf Gnonto dribbled and was tackled. Back to his feet, Tanaka won it back and clipped a pass to Ampadu, who had wandered over to the right wing. Taking one look up, Ampadu swung over a cross that was slightly behind the three white shirts on the edge of the six-yard box. Nmecha made sure it didn’t matter, stretching out his right leg to angle the ball past Leno and into the bottom corner. Have you ever seen a more ungainly goal? And have you ever seen one better timed?
Nmecha’s finish secured what Farke described as the best win of the season. It is unlikely to live as long in the memory as the devouring of Chelsea, but it was quite possibly a perfect win nonetheless. A Saturday 3pm kick off that starts under sunlight and ends under floodlights. Pantomime villains among the visitors in Jimenez and Harry Wilson. An infuriatingly inept referee in Chris Kavanagh. And ninety minutes of gritty persistence rewarded with a deliriously silly stoppage-time winner from a substitute who only seconds earlier I may or may not have accused of taking a bribe from the opposition. Even Fulham boss Marco Silva had to appreciate it. “The atmosphere,” he said, “if you love football you have to enjoy these grounds. Simple as that.”
Nine days earlier I’d driven home from the heartbreak at Newcastle trying to console myself that nights like that make nights like this even better. The history of Leeds United will tell you we don’t have a great record of settling scores, but if we’re starting now then we’ve got over a century of injustice to catch up on. Not that we’re ones to hold a grudge.
So, about that European Cup final in Paris… ⬢
