This is Leeds United (part 1)

For those who may not have seen this, a ‘goodbye’ piece by Phil Hay of The Athletic (and previously the YEP) who is moving on from writing about Leeds.

Think this perfectly encompasses being Leeds.


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“PHIL HAY
I was 25 when I started covering Leeds United. I also had hair.

I’m not saying the job has put years on me but I remember a supporter telling me once that to pass the time on the way to a game, the bus he was on had a go at guessing my age. Somebody went with 60. I turn 44 in four months. Half the battle in life is knowing when to stop.

From today, I’m moving into a new position at The Athletic, producing our global football newsletter full-time. It doesn’t mean I won’t ever write about Leeds again, and the scale of our coverage won’t change either, but the baton is passing on after 18 years home and away. If you’re not sick of me by now, then you probably should be. As another journalist joked, I’ve followed the club for longer than is truly healthy — and been exceptionally lucky to do so.

As a sign-off, I wanted to jot down the things I’ve learnt about Leeds United: what they are, how they think, why they’re addictive and the way in which this job resulted in me getting asked for a selfie in a toilet at Disneyland Paris. They make you lose your hair and your marbles. But they’re worth it.

The first thing Leeds teach you: they’re everywhere.

The decorator who painted my bathroom last year, the person who used to shout, ‘Good morning’ out of his car window on the school run (hello, whoever you were), the random, ‘Can I get a photo?’ by those theme-park urinals; there’s a Leeds fan born every minute.

Disneyland Paris was only the second–weirdest selfie request to come my way. First place goes to the one taken in Leeds General Infirmary, a week after I’d had brain surgery and about 10 minutes after having a laxative inserted where no one wants a laxative inserted. “How’s it going?" Better than the play-offs, I guess.

Because the play-offs are something Leeds don’t do. Leeds to the play-offs are Napoleon to invasions of Russia. Enter with troops massed behind you and die in the snow. They don’t do simple, they don’t take the clearly-marked path when there’s a minefield to explore but they don’t throw the towel in either. I saw capacity crowds in League One. I saw full away ends at Hereford United, Yeovil Town and Hartlepool United. Leeds rarely get their ticket allocation system right because there’s no way of getting it exactly right; too much demand, too few seats, forever a battle to go to Millwall (again).

Not that seats are needed. You find Leeds’ following on their feet, always. Clubs, councils and local authorities can moan about persistent standing in stadiums as much as they like but they’re wasting their time. Authority is a funny thing in Leeds, in the sense that it’s not welcome. They hate the EFL. They hate the Premier League. They hate VAR, they hate Sky TV, they hate referees and it’s all — categorically, undeniably — indicative of institutional anti-Leeds bias. What do they like? Yellow away kits, for one thing (even though their best seller was the charcoal-and-pink effort pictured below). And trolling Tyrone Mings.

There’s a marvellous talent around here for holding grudges. Take Michel Kitabdjian, for transgressions in 1975. Or failing that, Ray Tinkler for transgressions in 1971. Or Alan Smith. Or any of the owners, coaches or players who contributed to their post-2001 demise. It might sound petty but the closer you get to Leeds, the more you appreciate the way in which their supporters have been asked to stomach incompetence, ineptitude and promises written on cheques which had zero chance of being cashed. Leeds are an example of only being as good as whoever’s letting you down next.


They’ve also long been an enticing proposition. They are a great club, a famous club who didn’t so much fall on hard times as get skewered by them. For potential investors, the thought of what Leeds could be if the pieces fell into place has been seductive. Naturally, that also ran the risk of attracting chancers. For players and coaches coming through the door, the thought of pleasing a starved fanbase fanned their egos but the pressure caused by a 21st-century timeline of emotional trauma was usually too heavy to bear. You don’t get a free pass at Elland Road and Leeds people don’t suffer fools, but the way in which Marcelo Bielsa will be feted forever and a day here tells anyone that tangible achievements which touch the soul turn you into royalty.

(Continued…. See Part 2)