Bielsa once said he'd prefer a team of robots to humans, but Tony Pulis has them; ten ginormous figures of steel, looming over the pitch like the towers of the Tees Transporter Bridge; and Jonny Howson.
Saiz dribbled towards the centre, swerving through two tackles, and was fouled by the third; he sprang to his feet, offered his hand and pulled the player who had fouled him back to his feet, desperate to play. We were 2-0 down in stoppage time in the Carabao Cup here.
Kalvin Phillips threw himself at the ball to stop Norwich taking a shot at Peacock-Farrell, and it was a moment when Bielsa's principles of complete commitment from first to last combined beautifully with Leeds United's principles of side before self and effort for the cause.
Bielsa sits, crouches or prowls, eyes on the action, with one aim in mind that inspires countless thoughts and strategies: get this plan working. Bielsa has one way to play. His flexibility comes from the extraordinary lengths he'll stretch to so that he doesn't have to change a thing.
At times you could feel the strain Leeds' players were under; it would have been easy to revert to last season's type, to concede a stupid goal, have a couple of players sent off, give it loads of bollocks in the second half when it was too late then end up losing amid boos. But that was then.
It was a battle to recapture the carefree spirit of the first half an hour, and it's Bielsa's permanent battle in sport; he intends to take not worrying about the opposition to its logical conclusion, so that whatever they're doing, his team keeps playing the same.
Frank Lampard has perfected the in-game suit, the respectful soundbite, and the pensive touchline stance; as Bielsa beamed kindly at him at full-time, like a vet about to do what's best for Lampard's favourite pet, Frank looked shocked.
United's triple-action coaching, three t-shirted tenors taking cues from their conductor and delivering an opera of instructions to all parts of the pitch, was augmented by a claque of coaches strung across the front of the East Stand, so that the word of God was heard all across the field.
If this was the start of something, we'll look back at these twenty minutes as the origin story, the moment when Thomas Christiansen's Leeds finally declared an end to giving in to adversity.
Waiting for the ball to cross the line was agony, waiting for Christiansen to turn results around was agony, trudging to a half-empty football ground season after season has been agony. Ecstasy was always there somewhere, though.