Wigan Athletic 1-14 Leeds United: Oh The Humanity
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.
Leeds United's players trooped in dutifully for the half-time team talk, and Garry Monk hesitated outside the door of the away dressing room.
He looked around him in the tunnel. There was no sign of Andrea Radrizzani; no sign of Massimo Cellino. He wasn't sure which he would have liked to see least in that moment. Terry George. That was who he would have liked to see least.
Near him instead were his faithful staff. James Beattie wore the resolute expression Monk had seen in his face in the video of Beattie rescuing children from a sinking yacht. Pep Clotet was attempting something nearly as grim, but he was so perennially cuddly that he only resembled a pissed-off teddy bear. As always, the sight of Pep lifted Garry's heart, but it didn't restore the pre-match party atmosphere. What could?
"I thought, today of all days, this wouldn't happen," said Monk to his two assistants. "This group have nothing to lose, so why are we losing? Is it..." He stopped himself before speaking his secret fear aloud, that the deficit was due to the all-yellow away kit.
"Too many through balls," said Clotet. "We will tell them to tackle sooner in midfield, the back four to watch runners more closely."
"Nothing to lose means nothing to win," said Beattie. "They need an aim. Pride is vague. Give them something concrete."
"Woody's goal," said Monk. "The group should at least leave with that."
"Or Tano's," smiled Clotet.
"Why shouldn't we leave here with more?" said Beattie. "We know the players have nothing to lose. But we three have more at stake."
Monk thought for a moment. His mind churned through previous promotions at Swansea, the play-off victories, feeling the trophies in his hand, seeing the curtains of his fringe passing before his eyes. He'd inspired this group in countless half-times already this season. Now he would do it again.
The first half had started brightly but faded into listlessness after Wigan Athletic scored, when Ryan Tunnicliffe went around Rob Green and slid a shot over the line. Similar lethargy had descended at Burton Albion, and worst of all against Norwich City. But at least against Norwich it had lifted. They'd come close, that day, to glory. Drawing that match meant that now defeat for Fulham and a fifteen goal difference swing was the only way Leeds United could qualify for the play-offs, an all but mathematical impossibility.
As the second half began, the players lifted again. They had listened intently to what Monk, Clotet and Beattie had to say at half-time, then taken an early position on the pitch, showing Wigan they were ready. Gaetano Berardi and Lewie Coyle were the full-backs — making of his future a hostage of his past, Charlie Taylor had refused to play — and now they attacked more, with eager support from the middle where Eunan O'Kane was bursting through. After five minutes a run from wide took him into the penalty area where he was brought down: a penalty.
It was a chance for Chris Wood, at least. On another night, long ago, Wood had confidently prepared to take a penalty, and sent the ball flying. He'd taken a lot of penalties since then, and scored a lot of goals since then, and this time he sent it low and firm and into the goal. Thirty! So few had scored thirty in a season for Leeds; so few scored thirty in a season anywhere. He ran to collect the ball, as if he might want it for a souvenir. Stuart Dallas ran to congratulate him. "Thirty, Woody!" he laughed, but Wood wasn't laughing. "Thirty, mate?" he said. "Make it forty."
"Forty?" asked Stuart.
"I want forty, and you guys chip in," said Wood. "The play-offs, mate. The play-offs."
From the kick-off Leeds United attacked again, and soon Kemar Roofe hit the bar. Wood applauded encouragement, but inside he was thinking, as he had since the early weeks of the season, "It's down to me to sort this. Maybe forty won't be enough."
Something in his expression put fear into the hearts of Wigan's central defenders, and something in his movement put lead into their boots. As Dallas, Roofe and Pablo Hernandez worked the ball behind him, they looked for repeats of O'Kane's run, and with the full-backs coming forward, Wigan's players were spinning.
It's not normally the metronome that thrills, but the melody that overwhelms it. But the clockwork regularity with which Chris Wood started putting the ball in the Wigan net was so thrilling you could barely remember the build up. All you knew was that Wood was scoring, scoring, scoring, scoring, five, six, seven, eight. On Sky Sports News, they cut away from the studio cameras, and just kept the news rolling from Wigan; radio stations switched their commentaries.
The scoring was relentless, but as Wood grew stronger, his teammates struggled to keep supplying him. What had been planned as valedictory appearances from Alfonso Pedraza and Hadi Sacko became vital refreshers, and they slotted in seamlessly next to Roofe as Dallas and Hernandez bowed out. Still the team played to Chris Wood's beat, and he continued to shrug off the increasing number of players Wigan used to try to mark him. Alex Bruce came on, but neither he nor the other nine players hanging off Wood like desperate Lilliputians could stop his goals from beating the back of the net as steady as a drum.
Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Wood had forty and then he had more. Television viewers prodded at their remote controls as Homes Under The Hammer, Natural World and Mr Magorium's Wonder Emporium were abruptly yanked from view, urgent calls between competing broadcasters agreeing that, for the nation's greater good, screens across the country should carry coverage of what was happening in Wigan. ‘What's happening in Wigan?' asked the viewers. ‘We can't explain what's happening in Wigan,' said the commentators. ‘But you have to watch this.'