Leeds v Manchester City: Pupil & Master
I’ll level with you — the second De Bruyne hit the post from that free kick, I basically gave up.
It had all been too positive, you see: Bielsa v Guardiola, Yoda v Skywalker, the Master v the Pupil. Football hipsters the world over were frothing at the mouth at the prospect of a Bilbao-Barcelona repeat, as Bielsa’s latest crop of scrappy underdogs took on Pep’s preened and sheened trust-fund lab experiment. Three minutes in and all signs pointed to a repeat indeed, just not the one that Mundial magazine would have wanted.
It’s easy ground for any pundit to tread, the old ‘Bielsa taught Pep all he knows’ story. If, like me, you spend your free time researching the history of our esteemed coach (and, let’s face it, you’re reading this, so you probably do), you’ll know all about Guardiola’s infamous trip to Bielsa’s ranch, where he sat down with the man he felt could teach him how to be a real coach. And, even if you don’t find yourself trawling Wikipedia pages on a Tuesday evening, you’d have been familiar with the tale after watching about two solitary minutes of the build-up to Saturday’s show-down at Elland Road. You might have also heard about the, now legendary, 2–2 draw between Bielsa’s Atletico Bilbao and Guardiola’s Barca in 2011, a game Bielsa called un calto al fútbol — an ode to the game — one that many seemed to think might find itself recreated on a sodden pitch in Yorkshire, in front of nobody.
What looked more likely as that free-kick came cannoning back off the post, Illan Meslier scrambling like an exposed hermit crab, was a humbling duplication of that other Bilbao-Barca game — the one that Bielsa critics point to as evidence of the dreaded burnout that has plagued his managerial record so often. Even worse though was, while Bilbao conceded the three goals they eventually lost the Copa del Rey final by in the first 25 minutes, Leeds looked more likely to concede them in the first 10, and then continue conceding until City decided that they just didn’t fancy it anymore. By the time Sterling stepped across the box (in that way he tends to do), sending Liam Cooper off to international duty early and gliding the ball into the bottom corner, you felt the ‘defensive frailties exposed’ articles rumbling in laptops across the country.
Selfishly, with little to no concern for Marcelo Bielsa’s ego, my mind flashed to my own students, the ones I see every day for an hour or two while I attempt to gauge some kind of non-existent interest in Shakespeare or Shelley. They’re good people, those young people, and sharp as nails; just with little to no care as to why Charles Dickens thought society needed a shake-up around Christmas time. What they do care about, however, is football, Mancunian football to be exact, and they’ve loved reminding me of their apparent superiority for the last few years (ever since the idea of Leeds United arrived on the shores of the consciousness), particularly after the play-off semi-final that must-not-be-named. “Brilliant,” I stew, inwardly, “Monday’s about to get a lot worse”, not helped of course by the fact I’ve been crowing about Bielsa and “real football” ever since we stuck our flag in Anfield. And so, as we kicked off, tails firmly between legs, I began to prep acceptable comebacks that could be thrown at 11–16 year olds. Nothing about mums, not after last time…
And then, just like Sheffield United a week prior, as if none of the stress and pressure had ever really existed, the game was over and the camera stayed firm on Bielsa, crouched and introspective. A point. A bloody-well, honest-to-God, touch-it-with-both-hands-just-to-make-sure point. And not a scrappy, undeserved point, one that was earned through the same sheer cojones that nearly got us the same outcome at Anfield. Possession? Leeds. Passes? Leeds. Successful passes? Leeds. Touches? Leeds. To any unaware of football as a general concept, you’d be forgiven for thinking that Leeds had edged the majority of the game, pushing ever so slightly against a team of equal standing, but unable to deliver the killer blow. To anyone actually watching, the game was, in reality, a blur of end-to-end offense, sandwiched between an opening in which Leeds looked naïve and flustered, and a final 10 minutes in which they looked as tired as I’ve seen them under Bielsa, but defiant that their effort would not go unrewarded this time. Rodrigo’s goal was a spike in the otherwise even wave, jutting upwards excitedly from a smooth peak in the home axis, standing out as clear as day in the hazy madness of the action, before City abandoned any semblance of a tactical approach and reverted to throwing themselves to the ground any time a white shirt came near them.
As I watched Bielsa rise from his haunches, turning to smile that sweet smile at his protégé, shaking his hand warmly and patting him on the shoulder, I thought again of my own students, no doubt fuming in their mosaic-patterned shirts, pointing fingers at their billionaire super-heroes foiled by a team of the mildest of mild-mannered alter-egos. Would I show the same kind of humility on Monday morning? Would I be magnanimous in our achievement, proclaiming the contest an ode to the game, like Bielsa did in Bilbao all those years ago? Would I discuss with them the benefit of the match to the wider footballing world, showing all those who proclaim the beautiful game dead, that it is indeed alive and well as long as dreamers like Marcelo and Pep remain?
Would you?
