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.
What Wolves do or don’t do, fairly or unfairly, isn’t our fight. "We have our own problems", as Radrizzani put it, and that's much more interesting. In fact it’s fascinating. And Radrizzani should find it engrossing, if this club is going to move forward the way he claims it will.
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.
All the complaints — the coach should be sacked, the Director of Football should be thrown down a well, all the new players should be returned with our statutory rights unaffected, Radrizzani should shove his PR stunts until he's bought proper players — faded away.
Anyone who expected the removal of the tippy-tappy softie from nets to instantly transform Leeds into 4-4-2 thunder was sadly disillusioned, and that disillusion was soon audible.
Midweek on the playing fields, The Championship thwacks you on the knees, it knees you in the groin, it elbows in the face, leaves bruises bigger than dinner plates.
Instead of foundations, Christiansen has made platforms from high-diving boards way up in the sky, and even if we topple off them now, we’ll do some lovely acrobatics on the way down. The feeling is, though, that Leeds United can go much higher still before anybody needs to think about falling.
The net had evaporated. Fires were burning behind the goalmouth. The ref gave the goal; he hadn't seen the ball once it left Berardi's boot but there was no other explanation. As hail began to fall, television technicians tried to rewind the tape. There was nothing there: all the tapes were blank.