Everybody’s Second Team
It feels like nobody likes us again… thank God for that.
“To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance”
So Ebenezer Scrooge is described in ‘A Christmas Carol’, and so we as Leeds fans like to look on ourselves. Not a club interested in the redemption Scrooge achieves in Dickens’ classic, we’ve always been quite content existing on the fringes of the footballing world, holding the more saccharine aspects of the modern game at arm’s lengths. Though the last decade and a half has been spent mainly in the doldrums of the third and second tier of English football (apologies for the use of the word ‘tier’, by the way, I know that can be a trigger), there never seemed to be a craving from many corners of Elland Road to achieve Premier League status for any other reason than we deserved it for all our suffering; not because we particularly desired to mix in with the squeaky-clean monopolies that once resembled the clubs we had traded lumps with on less-than-pristine pitches in less-than-pristine stadiums across the country. On top of all that, it distinctly felt at times that the powers that be that had turned the Premier League into the shiny, media-friendly behemoth it now is, would much rather we stayed exactly where we were, providing much-needed viewing figures and a healthy dose of schadenfreude for the struggling lower leagues.
After so many long years of this mutual resentment, it became almost uncomfortable when, on our promotion, you could barely find a piece of Leeds-related media that wasn’t fawning over our tactical approach or declaring us the footballing-equivalent of Lazarus. Even worse, the pundits that had spent so long finding thinly-masked enjoyment in our years of pain, were now declaring their admiration and joy on our long-awaited return to the top table. We were, sickeningly, “everyone’s second team”. Our door had been knocked down by an over-eager nephew inviting us to dinner, one which we had little interest in taking part in.
The club, understandably, responded in kind, signing deals with a plethora of hip, young brands, most of which participate in a world not designed for the likes of me or you, but would no doubt encourage the engagement of those lost generations, uninterested in watching uninspiring second division players lump long-balls past the midfield to players with names derived from medieval jobs. Gain is the master passion after all, and mankind is business. You won’t hear many complaints if Rocnation helps to sell a few more shirts in the US and more quality appears in the side (Thank you kindly, Mr Z). But it was admittedly hard to find too much enjoyment in the simpering praise of a media bubble that we all knew was ready to burst the moment it found a point sharp enough.
With all the self-awareness the sports media doesn’t possess, that point was found after the *score not important* loss at Old Trafford. Leeds, the team praised to high-heaven for their unerring, offensive approach in the face of any opposition, stupidly and naively went to Old Trafford with an unerring, offensive approach which gave Manchester United the opportunity to win a game that they probably should have won anyway, given the blatant gulf in quality and experience in the squads. The reaction from the majority of fans (those that don’t film themselves watching the game, anyway) was one of disappointment, but measurement in the understanding that this was always the risk of going head-first into any challenge, all the while being told by any pundit that didn’t play in Salford they should be apoplectically furious at the approach that had earned their club so much praise from the same pundits who were now criticising it. This kind of mental contortionism must be why Paul Merson constantly looks confused.
Imagine, then, the poor bloke’s brain when, seven days later, the team he had loved and then harangued for their swashbuckling tactics, then ground out an ugly 1–0 win in a game punctuated by penalty decisions and the sound of Sean Dyche’s gravelly voice whining in the December air. Surely there would now be universal praise of our tough, defensive display against a team renowned for their physical approach? Marcelo Bielsa would be, once again, the media darling who sensibly tweaked his uncompromising approach in order to get a result? A kind of Patagonian Roy Hodgson, perhaps? And yet, the conversation now seemed to swing to how unfairly we’d earned our win, and how poor Burnley, with their Cratchit-like resources and Tiny Sean on the sidelines, had been cheated and swindled out of a result by a team that were obviously favoured by the invisible authorities that control such things.
Leeds, everyone’s second team for a brief flash, were back to their degenerate ways, despite not really doing anything they hadn’t been doing before. It’s a story so confusing and nonsensical, not even Dickens would bother to pen it. Happily, we’ve always been a fanbase much more content in infamy than inclusion, so we’ll continue to edge our way along those crowded paths, finding amusement in the ignorance of those that just don’t get it, and never will.
Who wants to be liked anyway? Humbug.
