There was a moment that, with the feverish, mudded clarity of obsessive hindsight, I now completely pointlessly believe marks the transition from the good Leeds United that non-Leeds fans briefly and begrudgingly admired, back to the more classically shit Leeds United that everyone professes to hate, while also sort of pitying.
After the fourth goal in our 5-0 annihilation of West Brom – dressed as we were in fine claret, good legs, strong bodied and playing with more than a soupçon of panache – there was a ruction. A rupture in the emotional braiding of reality that marked the beginning of our dissolution. And I’m not saying it’s all Rodrigo’s fault. But it sort of is.
Two of the five goals scored that day were slightly shop-soiled relative to the other three resplendent left foot finishes. Firstly, Romaine ‘The Lettuce’ Sawyers dinked a perfect no-look OG past their stranded keeper. A total embarrassment of a goal that was accepted for the true nothing it was, with everyone jogging back to first positions, business-like, and ready to crack on and defeat them in a more substantive and rewarding manner.
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