Once I would have been yearning for the final whistle so I could quit morose observance of such a drab winter's scoreline, leaving the Hull fans in the away end curling their hands in the air like children, opening and closing their gobs like fish, singing about cats like fucking idiots.
Bielsa doesn't bring happiness. Bielsa brings principles and duty, and faith that the effort of adhering to them will result in happiness in the end, and the understanding that it probably won't.
While Reach's speculative strike had the satisfying audacity of a stunt, Klich made something artful, deliberate and beautiful. It's the difference between watching two magpies have a fight in your garden, or watching a nature documentary narrated by David Attenborough.
The lingering impression from seeing Bielsa take on Pulis was not that one style of football works better than another; neither is going to suddenly change their minds now, anyway.
Frank Lampard has perfected the in-game suit, the respectful soundbite, and the pensive touchline stance; as Bielsa beamed kindly at him at full-time, like a vet about to do what's best for Lampard's favourite pet, Frank looked shocked.
United's triple-action coaching, three t-shirted tenors taking cues from their conductor and delivering an opera of instructions to all parts of the pitch, was augmented by a claque of coaches strung across the front of the East Stand, so that the word of God was heard all across the field.