The euphoria and sadness of celebrating Leeds’ Premier League promotion
It’s 19:19, Friday 17 July 2020. I’m alone in my living room, watching Huddersfield play West Brom. After a scrappy 1-0 win against Barnsley yesterday, Leeds needs a point or either of the chasing two – Brom and Brentford – not to win. My dad’s 30 miles away on a bike ride because really Brom look the better side. ‘It won’t happen this evening,’ he told me when Brom score just before half time. No point watching the rest.
Searching for a less lonely reality than the COVID-19-induced present, I’ve got a YouTube All Leeds TV watchalong on a laptop as the game plays on the TV. Even though it’s 1-1 – as it stands we’re up – they’re urging calm. ‘This budget Tesco team [a dig about Huddersfield’s blue and white stripes] aren’t gonna hold out guys’, they demur with the usual neighbourly affection. Then Huddersfield’s loanee substitute Emile Smith Rowe picks his spot and the net ripples.
Oh my god.
I’ve started to hyperventilate.
This is it.
Earlier this season, as fortunes change, knowing the legends are up there smiling.
And suddenly I am roaring, and Finsbury Park has never heard anything like it. The fans on the watchalong have gone wild. ‘I am low key hoping that Brom won’t bottle it,’ my cousin admitted earlier, ‘It would be nice to do it at Derby.’ I’d agreed but now you can be sure I don’t care what the Disney narrative would be. Not one jot. Not even a tiny bit. This is perfect.
We’re into stoppage time and my dad’s stopped his bike and we’re watching the final minutes together via WhatsApp. ‘How long left Floss,’ he enquires, every 15 seconds. There’s six minutes added - totally excessive, what for?! ‘Two goals in five minutes, it’s been done,’ mutters dad who, by this point, has become irritatingly pragmatic. It’s alright for him, he’s 54, grew up in the glory years.
I attended my first match in 1998, aged four, on a grey August day. I kept singing Jingle bells, apparently eager to get involved with the chanting but unfamiliar with the content; probably for the best. But I don’t remember that. My first recollection is Alan Smith crying as we’re relegated from the Prem. And me crying. And it all going up in smoke 16 years ago. I was nine, past the point of just going along with the family mood, starting to develop a true passion for my club, for a team of exciting top-drawer players. Ferdinand, Milner, we all know them, yet their stories were played out elsewhere.
“My first recollection is Alan Smith crying as we’re relegated from the Prem. And me crying. And it all going up in smoke 16 years ago.”
My teenage years are filled with dark trudges to a faded Elland Road, no longer full. Away games celebrating imagined goals because what took place on the pitch was just horrible. League One. Shoddy owners. ‘Build a team, not a hotel.’ Fuck off Ken Bates. A litany of cast offs, has been, or just plain failing, managers (except you Simon Grayson, not you, love you). Becchio. Beckford. Great players, no great team.
We’re down to our final time check, 15 seconds dad. I’m trembling.
This is it.
The ball is booted, and I hear the final whistle. There is no sweeter sound. I think I jump, I think I scream, shout, Leeds, Leeds, Leeds! I think I’ve started to cry but not until my Dad’s hung up, said a final ‘wow’ and jumped back on his bike because he’s real Yorkshire and he’d not approve of such a display of emotion. Keep that to yourself lass.
Then I’m alone in my living room. And there’s really nothing else to do except belt out Marching On Together, and have a cry. Because last year (after the play-off loss) it hurt so very much, and I don’t know if, after that, I really thought we would be able to pull it off. We haven’t had the star signings, just the odd glittering loanee (Ben White, Eddie Nketiah). We don’t have a consistent goal scorer. No Benrahma, no Mitrovic. Not even a Charlie Austin. So I cry because I am relieved, euphoric and so very happy.
Five hours after promotion, the emotion is still high (or) the tears are still flowing
At the same time, there is a flicker of sadness. I feel robbed. I should be there, I shouldn’t be in my living room in London, a displaced fan, surrounded by my washing and precisely no one. Before the crisis, I had, hubristically, booked the week off work. It was meant to be a victory parade. Not a solo roar in your trackies.
I put the Youtube watchalong - which has turned into a celebration - up on the TV, to feel like I’m with fans. That’ll have to do. Play Endor’s Pump It Up, our tune for the season, have a little dance. Open the champagne, roar a bit more, cry a lot more. It’s all a wonderful haze. Social media is a lifeline, I start watching the scenes as they emerge from Elland Road. Alioski’s live on Insta, crowds are gathering celebrating.
I wish I was there, and I know it’s a bit wrong that there’s a gathering at all. Mixed emotions, oh so sublimely Leeds. We’re never straight forward, we always do it the hard way, the interesting way. We’ve lost some legends during lockdown: Hunter, Cherry, Charlton. But in our centenary season, a goal, scored by another player at a rival club, has signalled a new dawn for my football club, one those legends would be proud of.
Popping out for essential supplies immediately after promotion, displaying my scarf with pride
It’s 8am the next morning now (as a caveat, I’ve had minimal sleep, so I’m sorry if this account is a garbled mess, it’s the best I can do) as I type the tears appear, again. I’ve woken to a new dawn, one I’d lost hope of seeing before El Loco, Bielsa, that brilliant, brilliant, man graced Yorkshire and changed how I saw my club. No longer the painfully labelled ‘sleeping giant’ of the EFL. Finally fixtures with the teams on our level. No more Burton, no more Barnsley, no more.
If the players recover sufficiently from the celebrations, or just maybe if Brentford stop bloody winning, this weekend could see us crowned champions. Not that anyone really cares about that, but it would be a nice touch to see Derby give us a guard of honour on Sunday, finally humbled.
Then the sobering task of staying up awaits, of trying to make it in the promised land. The realisation that many of the lads who got you to the Premier League aren’t really good enough to retain their place, the heartless process of cutting the deadwood. Sure, we need White to stay, and a talismanic striker to ease the load on Bamford, who really isn’t a lone front man. But enough of that talk for now.
For the next few days I’m stepping out of that football cycle, which always looks towards the next thing, towards the next victory, the next new star, the next glory. Savour this one. It’s taken 16 years, it’s not how it should be, not happened how I had imagined. But it fits Leeds to come out of the wilderness like this. We’ve done it our way. And by god it feels good.
Words and Images Florence Mitchell