At Long, Long, Long Last, Jackie Harrison at The Back Post

Things could have turned out very differently in Swansea on 12th July 2020. The day now belongs to Pablo Hernandez and Bryn Law, the first for agonising the ball in off the post to all but seal promotion, the second for his Spanish inflected commentary to Leeds United’s watching world: ‘Gol, a gol, a gol!’

But unmarked on the left side of the penalty area, as Luke Ayling ran down the right, was Jackie Harrison, flapping his outspread arms like a new born gosling. He was still at it as the ball was deflected behind Hernandez. All the defenders were convening on Pablo while he took control. If he’d slipped the ball then to Harrison, he had a clear shot, and history would have been his, the legendary goal, the iconic celebration, the mural on the Duck & Drake, the commentary from Bryn, doing the best he can about a player born in Stoke.

Instead Harrison ended up standing over the goalkeeper as he lay prone, beaten by Hernandez. Even as the ball was hitting the net, Jackie still had his arms out, still willing Hernandez to set him up. Then he bunched his fists and raised them to the skies. He was happy! Leeds were going up. But I wonder if when he watches that goal back he thinks, Pablo, amigo, I was in so much space.

It wasn’t the first or last time Harrison was ignored this way. Empty Turf Moor was a playground for Mateusz Klich last season, but the all-the-angles video of his goal against Burnley carries a soundtrack of Jackie’s heart breaking on repeat. As Leeds went romping over halfway Harrison made a forceful run down the empty left while Klich looked this way and that in the middle. Reaching the edge of the area, with nowhere left to run, Harrison stops and shouts. “Klicky!” He sees Klich checking away from him, onto his shooting foot, and realising the pass won’t come, his next call is pure Potteries pleading as he swings his arms in despair. “Klick-aaeh!” The ball hits the net and all Jackie can do is stand, and look, thinking, Klicky, brate, I was in so much space. Then the video loops around again. “Klicky!” Still the ball doesn’t come. “Klick-aaeh!”

To Crewe in the Carabao Cup, then, and Illan Meslier’s quick throw to Klich, a ball into space down the right putting Pat Bamford beyond a tired defence, and Harrison thumping up the pitch like he was doing all night. Bamford is cutting inside, onto his left shooting foot, he doesn’t have a goal yet this season, he already set up Klich at the weekend, and Harrison’s flapping is forlorn, like a hen watching all the corn gobbled up. But bless Pat Bamford, the goldendoodle loving environmentalist, for tapping the ball square to Jackie. Maybe Harrison was surprised to get it because he very nearly messed the chance up, just getting his dink over the line via a deflection, but a goal’s a goal and, in front of a sell-out crowd, nobody had to hear him shouting “Pat! Pat, mate, I’m in so much space!”

He got another: a long pass by Luke Ayling sent Bamford down the wing again, but Tyler Roberts’ shot was blocked, so Harrison half-volleyed in a very satisfying shot. Bamford changed the game after replacing Rodrigo for the last twenty minutes, when it was 0-0. Kalvin Phillips got a much needed breakthrough with ten minutes left, knocking in Harrison’s corner, but Bamford’s running and shooting was a contrast to Rodrigo that Crewe couldn’t cope with. Crewe were knackered by the end, which helped, and demoralised by going behind, and Bamford was his own source of frustration by shooting straight at the keeper from impossible angles. But like a boxer jabbing his opponent into submission, even if those efforts were never going to knock Crewe out, they kept stinging the goalie’s hands and quickly turned the crowd from anxious to anticipating. Bang ‘im, Pat. Keep hurting those palms. Pat came on to pummel Crewe and he did it very well.

It’s hard to know what to make of United’s failure to deal with Alex before the last quarter of an hour, on a night when Norwich started their scoring against Bournemouth in the twelfth minute and didn’t stop til they had six, and Aston Villa did pretty much the same thing to Barrow. Leeds put out a strong side but Marcelo Bielsa defused ideas about dancing in a February Carabao fountain at Wembley by outlining his selection decisions: some players needed minutes, some needed fitness, Harrison performs better with a run of games. Adam Forshaw was winning his personal battle with his hips by playing an hour. The team was as much about sharpness as progress.

That didn’t prevent performances being rated for Premier League adequacy, and Diego Llorente came out best by starting attacks with some Pogba style pings; he didn’t have much defending to do. Tyler Roberts was, y’know, fine, his role in the third goal summing up his hesitancy: swing a boot through it, Tyro! Rodrigo summed his own night up by walking straight off to the sidelines when his number went up, trudging dejected to the bench, and posing for photos in the car park, apparently soon after full-time, wearing a faint expression of anguish. Jamie Shackleton was a storm of energy from right-back but, whenever there was a break in play, Bielsa would bring him together with Helder Costa as if trying to work out if there’d been a falling out, does someone need to apologise, why aren’t your passes finding each other. Costa was where all Shackleton’s good ideas were going to die, until Costa’s best moment at the end of the first half, when he cut in from the wing, beat a defender, and shaped to shoot. If you saw what happened next, no you didn’t. The Carabao Cup is still subject to the EFL broadcast deal that cost Shaun Harvey his job as league exec, so nobody could watch live on TV, and those of us who were there have entered into a pact of silence.

It wouldn’t have been Leeds in a midweek EFL game, even if it was only their cup, without the anxiety of embarrassment hanging over Elland Road half the night. It was heightened by the big expectant crowd, and memories of being knocked out on penalties last season by Hull. The day before the game I had an odd conversation with TSB’s Rob when neither of us could remember if we were at that match, or if not, why not. Turns out there was a pandemic, oh yeah. It’s funny how the details of the League Cup’s early rounds fade, so just an aura remains, accompanied by either rolling eyes — penalties to Stoke — or puffed out cheeks of pleased relief after beating Crewe. I wonder if, next time he’s complaining about not getting a pass for a free shot, Bamford will remind Jackie Harrison about this night, but he’ll have forgotten all about it. ◉