Glynis Wright joined the hordes at Elland Road last night.
What is it they say when it comes to the formation of unlikely wartime alliances? “The enemy of my enemy is my friend…..” I reckon. Demonstrated so successfully in the case of Winston Churchill and Joe Stalin, (under normal circumstances, and when in the presence of the other’s company, neither of the two national leaders had much in common when it came to issues of mutual respect and shared understanding) after Hitler did the dirty on his erstwhile wartime ally, by invading the USSR back in 1941.
And a similar principle also applied last night, dear reader, because at Elland Road, and in company with my Bulls-loving other half, I witnessed League Two Hereford United put upwardly-mobile League One aspirants Leeds to the sword, and on their very own variety of muck-heap, too. Sorry, and all that, any Leeds-lovers reading this, but if you were travelling on the southbound carriageway of the M1 after tonight’s game, then the funny hooting sound you might have heard wasn’t your vehicle’s big end playing up – it was just me braying my bloody head off!
It’s my complete and utter antipathy towards the Yorkshire club that’s brought me to this sorry state of affairs, I regret to say, hence my unalloyed joy at the final whistle. Not being of a particularly bovine bent myself – I’m of the West Bromwich Albion persuasion, when not engaged in the ticklish task of keeping my other half’s primeval emotions in check at Edgar Street. Now you know the reason why, more in hope than expectation of seeing Hereford actually putting one over them, I gleefully accepted hubbie’s recent kind invitation to partake of the Yorkshire frivolities with him.
By the way, it’s not long since we were at Elland Road last- it was only back in January when we saw Albion win 3-2. The Yorkshire club’s stadium was a sad, quiet place that day and I remember thinking that would be a long time before we visited again. Oh and Albion didn’t get any seats behind the goal – no, around 1400 Albionites were housed in the South-East corner with its restricted views and antique facilities.
So, how is it I’m still in the habit of treating with complete and utter contempt every single particle of the ground Leeds United walk upon? Simple. Being of a generation that has total recall of the sixties, not to mention the meteoric rise and rise of clubs now well established as household names, I remember all too well the earlier part of the Don Revie era, with Billy Bremner playing the role of Christ’s Representative On Earth, and Leeds’ normal style of play revolving around irritating little tricks innumerable, all of which were carefully calculated to either intimidate or really rack off opponents.
You younger Bulls reading this might like to think that blatant time-wasting, sly fouls perpetrated on the blind side of match officials, an infuriatingly successful offside trap etc. is a modern blight upon the face of the beautiful game, but you’d be dead wrong to do so. Leeds were pulling such stunts over forty years ago, and back then, it worked because nothing quite like it had ever been seen on a British league ground before. All stuff that would have passed unnoticed on the Continent, but brought here by the Elland Road outfit, all of whom proved to be very able pupils indeed. Diving, what they now call ‘simulation’? Leeds were past-masters at it, even then. When viewed in retrospect, their ‘charge sheet’ proves, beyond all reasonable doubt, I really do have ample reason for detesting them with every single particle of my being.
Of one thing I’m sure, though. When one hears of one of the League’s lesser lights putting it over a more well-known side, more often than not, the result’s largely been down to a generous dollop of jam on the part of the visiting side – but not in this case, of that I can categorically assure you. Looking at the game through neutral eyes, Hereford were more than worthy winners, and for much of the game, were playing, by far, the classier brand of football.
To put it all in a nutshell, if the shades of Billy Bremner and Don Revie were watching tonight’s proceedings from whatever type of Valhalla they gravitated to, post mortem, they would have been tearing their ectoplasmic hair out, come the end, at the sheer ineptitude of the current inheritors of the proud Elland Road tradition.
Imagine the currently free-scoring West Brom side in microcosm, and that’s what I reckon you’ve got with the Bulls, pretty much. Last night, it was typical Tony Mowbray/Graham Turner, balls to feet, pass and move, pass and move, wonderful to watch – and Leeds, not possessing that sort of passing ability by any stretch of the imagination, didn’t know what the hell to do about it. By playing in that attractive manner, I would say Hereford just about shaved it as the better side during the first half, but as far as the second was concerned, there was only one side in it – and it wasn’t the one whose pitch the visitors played on, either.
Leeds weren’t just second; at times, you might have justifiably accused them of not turning up at the races at all. And even their supporters, normally a pretty vocal lot, couldn’t be arsed to vocally urge their favourites to better things. Not the Leeds I remember of old, that’s for sure. Mind you, given that the actual quality of their support was so awful, with embarrassingly huge gaps in the remaining three sides of the ground, they deserved everything they got. Once upon a lullaby, both Elland Road and those who attended on a regular basis were a byword for crude intimidation, pure and simple, of both opposition players and spectators alike. Elland Road was a venue to be genuinely feared, back then, and justifiably so. Just ask any Albion supporter of ‘a certain age’ for confirmation. Not any more, though: last night, they were just too pathetic for words.
The winning goal was actually quite hard to see. Our view was quite low down with the goal net in the way so it was quite hard to pick out Ainsworth in the middle of a crowd of Leeds players let alone what he did with the ball. One long, seemingly endless, even, moment of pure disbelief from the away supporters massed behind the goal - then complete and utter pandemonium as the realisation finally struck home among supporters that the Bulls had done the impossible, yet again.
“YOU’RE NOT FAMOUS ANY MORE!…..” that was the wonderfully powerful battle-cry that resounded in Yorkshire ears, as everyone trotted back to the centre circle. That plus the now-familiar Hereford anthem, of course. As for the bits of the ground that were exclusively Leeds, the overwhelming sense of hurt and sheer fury enveloping those figures sprinkled around the blue Elland Road seats was truly palpable. Watching their reactions to the successful Bulls strike was a little like observing a mighty beast, right after a salvo of twelve-bore shotguns had felled it, and someone with a revolver about to apply the coup de grace.
After that, for a while, the visitors had a horrid, torrid time of it, especially after ‘Rosie’ was viciously clobbered, and had to go off for stitches. Cue for Leeds, temporarily given a one-man advantage by the departure of the aforementioned player, to really turn the screw on the visitors. Reduced, albeit temporarily, to ten men, The Bulls packed their box, and by doing so, hung on to that unexpected early lead like grim death. That’s about the only time in the entire game that the Hereford rearguard looked really flaky, and even I have to admit, the fact they didn’t concede at that particular juncture was sometimes down to plain ornery three-cornered luck.
But once Rosie returned from the doc’s sewing class, head swathed in bandages numerous and convincing enough to land him a bit part in the Hammer Films production ‘Curse Of The Mummy’s Tomb’ had he wanted one, with parity of numbers restored, the pressure on the Bulls eased, and for the remainder of the game, Leeds were never again capable of mounting quite the same degree of threat. Oh, yeah – and it was only after two thirds of the first half had elapsed that we finally managed to discover the identity of the mystery Bulls scorer!
How come? Well, for starters, some of the Hereford coaches had been caught up in some horrendous motorway traffic, with the inevitable result that their furious and frustrated occupants missed much of the first half as a result, early goal inclusive. There was a bit of a consolation prize for them though – the game was featured on radio, so there were plenty of trannies being brandished, in order for the travelling band to learn that not only had their favourites scored, the scorer was, in fact, one Lionel Ainsworth. And that’s how we found out, folkies – when a party of latecomers sat in the seat right behind us, with their already-there mates asking the belatedly-arriving ones what they knew about the magic moment in question! It’s come to a pretty pass when you have to ask latecomers to find out who got the goal, but that’s football for you.
After that, it was simply a case of hanging onto that lead like grim death, and, as the game entered the latter stages of the second half, that’s when I saw Hereford grow and grow in confidence, and the home side visibly curling up and croaking it on the spot. You could tell they were trying everything they knew to restore parity again, but the big giveaway was what actually happened with monotonous regularity once they were inside the Bulls’ box, and lining up their sights to have a go: more often than not, they’d either snatch at the fleeting chance, or lose possession at some critical moment or other. That wasn’t the body language of a side confident it could repair the damage done in due course, by any means.
Goalkeeper Brown, normally a chap whose custodial abilities under similar circumstances (or lack of them, more to the point) make him somewhat inclined towards the elicitation of severe panic attacks from even the most phlegmatic of Bulls followers, ended up playing right out of his skin, last night. Surprised? Me? Not half: when accompanying my other half to Edgar Street, of late, that’s the bloke I’ve usually deemed to be the weakest link in the chain. (Im Indoors disagrees with me, by the way)
It wasn’t just during that fraught first half, when he and his remaining nine colleagues found themselves very much under the cosh, he distinguished himself, more for the remainder of the game. By the end, the lad was swooping and diving in magnificent fashion for just about everything Leeds could fling at him, such was the rapid efflorescence of his goalkeeping skills whilst under almost constant Leeds pressure. Who did you eventually decide was man of the match at Elland Road, I wonder? Left to me, there would only be one genuine candidate.
Text at top (next game etc)
Next Game: Oxford City At Edgar Street On Tuesday 5th November At 7.45pm