Leeds United 1-1 Fulham: Point Unproven
Let's use Chris Wood here as a metaphor for Leeds United; because until we're not scuffing headers from three yards, we've not proven anything, and there's nothing to gain from being cocky.
It's never good to hear a Leeds United player being booed by the Elland Road crowd. Worse, though, is seeing a Leeds United player running to the crowd with his ear cupped, as if he's proving a point; at least the fans are always on the right side of the ticket/wages transaction in this argument.
The nadir, though, is a player thinking he's proven a point to the supporters when less than five minutes earlier he, Chris Wood, a striker, a number nine, has missed a header from three yards out. What point, exactly, did Chris Wood think he'd proven, that was worth visibly making to the Kop? That if he was actually as good as he's supposed to be, he would have scored that bloody header and we would have won?
The overhead kick that he did score with was pretty great; you could see it coming while the ball was still dropping, and the only question was whether he'd bugger it up like he buggered up the header. He didn't, because as I pointed out repeatedly last season, Chris Wood loves a volley but hates a header, but still insists (or has had insisted upon him) that he's an old fashioned number nine.
The overhead kick was good enough, and enough of a relief, to rub the header off his deficit chalkboard and let us all move on; but Chris didn't want to do that. I don't actually know what went through his mind. Wood hasn't been 'abused'; he's been criticised, and subjected to audible moaning and frequent sarcasm, that his performances merited. And his goal didn't 'prove' anything; for 89 minutes against Fulham he was again as lumpen and passive as he ever is, only this time he threw a missed sitter into the bargain.
I don't know what went through his mind when he had that chance, either. A striker would have scored it. Any striker. Instead Wood headed the ball as if he'd never headed a ball at goal before, and it bounced so sharp and shallow into the ground that of course it ballooned up and over the bar.
I can only conclude that as much goes through his head as connects with it whenever there's a defender so much as breathing on him: nothing. Yet another below par performance from him could have passed mildly by under the cover of his point-saving goal, but as soon as I saw him celebrate, the joy drained from the moment and I wanted nothing more than to find this keyboard as soon as I could and tear into him.
Which, as mentioned at the start, is far from ideal. But even Billy Paynter got this. Paynter, when he scored that goal at Preston that one time, didn't act as if he'd just scored one over the fans who had sarcastically barracked him for not scoring for so long; instead he recognised that the switch from brickbats to bouquets was genuine, that the delight in his goal was real, and joined in with the mood of carnage that a goal by Billy Paynter was always going to generate. Billy got that, and that's why years later when I talk about that goal at Preston, you know exactly what I'm talking about, and you smile.