West Bromwich Albion 0-5 Leeds United: Against Nature
We didn't get a flood of second half goals, but we did get the Strid at full power, Raphinha scoring with the roar of a river through a gorge. His footwork opened West Brom's defence like a vista over moors; the noise of the ball in the net was as pure and monstrous as a kestrel snatching a rat.
Smack! Fizz! Whoosh! Ping! Rustle!
One gain from empty stadiums is the broadcast sound, the boot on the ball to the post and the net. And occasionally the scream, when Rodrigo headed over against West Ham.
There could and should be more of it while channels innovate through the pandemic. Some used to have the option of switching commentary off, leaving crowd noise on. At the moment commentary is ubiquitous and the choice is about background, between fake cheering or not. Think of all the problems that could be solved if the pundits were turned down and the empty stadium sound turned up, so that when Alioski shoots, the ping off the post sounds as close as if it was your own head banging.
We can't be there, but watching Leeds United is still immersive when they're in this form, thrilling and entrancing, like countryside seen from a hill, making you forget the world.
Last night's Premier League results are an embarrassment for the greatest league in the world: three 1-0s and a 0-0. Except the Leeds game. Even accounting for Burnley's sinkhole opposition, there have been 21 goals in the Peacocks' four festive matches. And what goals!
Jackie Harrison's Magpie molotov. The Stuey Dallas doodlebug at Old Trafford. Ezgjan Alioski's Christmas cracker off the West Brom post. Raphinha, making his target larger with every twinkle step, bagging the Baggies in their top bin. Even Pat Bamford's penalty had more drip than Sean Dyche's goatee disappearing behind a butter pie.
One of those goals even came in a mortifying defeat to a bitter rival in an eagerly anticipated match we'd long since lost, but awful as Old Trafford was, Leeds couldn't let it be. There had to be something there for us, and Dallas had the gift. It's Christmas, a weird Christmas, of illness and isolation, of cancelled get-togethers compounding months of loneliness just when dark mornings are meeting their least effective vaccine, a fridge full of booze. Step forward Leeds United, sharing a goal each from Santa who didn't come, Mrs Claus, the elves, and all the reindeer too.
Since Alex Mowatt's week of burning feet in 2015, setting fire to the top corners of Cardiff and Huddersfield with only hours rest between, I can't remember such a rat-a-tat-tat of Super Leeds netbusters.