Leeds have ninety minutes of trying left but few of their games lately have gone that far. We’ve had six weeks of waiting for second halves to be over, wishing for less time even when time felt like the only hope.
Pat Bamford is far from being the only malfunctioning part of Leeds United Football Club, and in many ways good players losing the ability to do good things is the story of this season’s failure.
If there was a win for Leeds in Manchester it was the swift application of new, ugly ideas and, more importantly, ninety-five minutes of head-retention.
When Leeds lose a vital match this way there’s nothing new to say that hasn’t already been said. That, pals, is purgatory. At least, by definition, it’s temporary.
The players need to remember who they are and how they got here, because that wasn’t easy and neither is this.
The people to blame can fire someone then hire someone else then move blithely on, in the background when they choose to be, or the foreground when they choose to be, until they sell and take the profit and leave.
Somewhere out of those five garbling words came a concept like Rasmus Kristensen at one end of the pitch, trying to get the ball to Charles De Ketelaere at the other, while Jesse Marsch stood on the touchline between them enquiring after their family’s health.
It was 3-1 before Gracia could get any substitutes on, and his instructions never seemed to evolve beyond, lads, whatever you’re doing, please stop.
This game, as Leeds asserted themselves as they should, was like a steady sesh on serotonin, a football match like a pub garden one spring lunchtime when it feels like things are going right for a while.
A few hours of distraction for the fans, some exercise for the players, Saturday afternoon ended and Saturday evening began.