Bielsa has been working at Thorp Arch all the summer long, and when he wasn't working he was domiciled a matter of steps away, and the one time he ventured beyond Yorkshire, to Scotland, he was quickly located and photographed by fans.
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.
It's hard to see what Casilla contributed as captain. He did the coinflips for the kick-off and to choose the ends for penalties, I suppose. Apart from that, all his ascent to the captaincy did was attract the negative energy of articles like this one.
Leeds and West Brom are on the same side of the fighting against the teams below. As such you could take this match as pure sport, a game to decide nothing except who has the better team.
We looked at the league table as if seeing it properly for the first time. Leeds United in 1st place. Secure in the automatic promotion places by eleven points. I said last season it was going to be fascinating to see how Leeds messed it up and, well, I was right. This season?
Luke Ayling dragged Klich to the ground for a celebratory pile-on as if he's been missing those long-range Klichers as much as Mateusz. They should enjoy them, too.
We've been preoccupied with sexy this season. And a point in Sheffield ain't that.
Spontaneously, like a unicorn had fired it from a glitter cannon out of the field's crowded left, the ball was in space on the right, and Stuart Dallas was through to score.
This is, as I've written a lot over the last year or so, why they call him El Loco. Marcelo Bielsa reorganised Leeds with two central strikers and one winger, and if that imbalance was confusing from the stands, it was worse for Brentford, trying to adjust their back three to suit.
Last season's game was another in United's long history — that word again — of proving that getting what we think we want is usually the precursor to a disaster: the club that spent nine seasons in Division Two after the war, won promotion, and was woken one night to its Main Stand burning down.