Goals, Gulls, Urinals: Harte & Ribeiro Go Mad by The Swedish Sea
Four Bruno Ribeiro free-kicks and four Ian Harte headers. And four goals!
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Four Bruno Ribeiro free-kicks and four Ian Harte headers. And four goals!
Only for Kalvin Phillips' sake, I reckoned, should we be trying to remember anything about the otherwise numb blank of the Cardiff game, not letting a happy moment be buried by the bitterness all surrounding it. But it has only worked out that way now thanks to the Yorkshire Pirlo himself.
Leeds fans believed they had the best team, but in most areas of the pitch they'd concede individual supremacy was up for debate. Bobby Moore was a worthy rival to Norman Hunter. Pele might, they'd grudgingly admit, improve the side. But who was close to being a better left-back than Cooper?
Haaland's serenity is frightening in certain lights, like the bloke sitting placid in his pub corner for years, who one day starts smashing pint glasses over his own head.
I know Bielsa will always love Newell's the most, and one football fan to another I respect that he'll never change. But dear me Leeds must run them close.
Dennis Wise told David O'Leary to calm down. David Batty found a plastic carrier bag on the pitch and threw it in Wise's face. Wise caught it and started following Batty, trying to throw it back. In keeping with the game, it was all more silly than vicious.
West Ham fans, whose opinion of Harte was low enough after the first half, did not enjoy his somersault, or that he was spinning in front of a stand full of ecstatic Leeds fans, a cheerful pile of white and yellow replica shirts in the early summer sunshine.
The fixture was a powder keg filled with fireworks wired up to a detonator in the hands of a toddler. Or Danny Mills, who pushed Ashley Cole over for no reason as he took a throw-in in the fifth minute.
We didn't get a flood of second half goals, but we did get the Strid at full power, Raphinha scoring with the roar of a river through a gorge. His footwork opened West Brom's defence like a vista over moors; the noise of the ball in the net was as pure and monstrous as a kestrel snatching a rat.
'Bowyer for England!' the Leeds fans chanted. Then, to the same tune, 'Sign your contract!' Finally, even louder, 'Sign your contract for the lads!'