You never forget your first encounter with a Leeds fan. My own loss of innocence occurred - as these things so often do - in the toilets of a Sligo hotel. We were eight or nine at the time, and we have no idea what we were doing in said hotel, let alone its place of ablutions, other than being grubby and bored and possibly delinquent. It was mid-afternoon and it was probably raining quite hard - this was Sligo around 1982, remember.
How Leeds United FC was progressing in the stately old football league didn't really matter at all to the first inhabitant of that bathroom, which would have been typical of your average, Irish three-star standard of the time, i.e., fairly terrible.
We had never even heard of Leeds and wouldn't have associated the name with anything sporty. It sounded more like something to do with building houses. We were, however, soon to be plucked from that state of ignorant bliss by the next arrivals, a pair of bona fide Leeds United fans.
They were a doleful-looking pair, harmless and morose from too much drink or perhaps from each other's company. This might be a trick of the imagination, but we fancy they were both wearing white football jerseys. It quickly became clear they were not in the Gent's for any conventional purpose, but rather to pursue an urgent debate in more appropriate surrounds. It was then I heard my first Leeds conversation, most of which was beyond my comprehension.
But it was apparent that something unusual had happened in the overall scheme of Leeds United FC. Whether this was joyful or sad was harder to gauge. One of the poor, tipsy Leeds lads appeared to be on the verge of tears about what had happened and was either desperately disappointed or so unaccustomed to feeling joyful that he was completely overcome and didn't know how to handle it. He was swaying in the middle of the floor, as if he was inducing himself to faint, while his colleague held him by the shoulders and spoke sort of urgently at him. Dunno what was said; Sligo dudes were hard enough to understand at the best of times.
I stood on, solemn and vaguely terrified, although intuition told me that they meant no harm. It was at this point that the steadier of the pair, perhaps out of consideration, wanted to know if yours truly was a Leeds man. Being no sort of man at all, a brief shake of the head was offered and proved enough to solicit a long and endlessly boring history of the club. Right there and then I first heard the name John Giles.
On and on he went while I, his only listener - the emotional pal appeared to have fallen asleep on his feet, probably having heard the lecture many times - grew first panic- stricken, and then reconciled to the possibility of parental abandonment. It seemed as if he spoke about Leeds for about an hour and three-quarters and, weirdly, no one else came into the room throughout that time, as if they knew on instinct that a Leeds man was delivering his treatise. In truth, he probably spoke for only 10 minutes.
The incident was soon forgotten and was worthwhile in that it provided the following lesson: never follow a sports organisation that will reduce you to depressing a youngster while your friend passes out in front of you.
But it also left the sense that Leeds United FC deeply matters to Irish followers, maybe more so than for followers of other English clubs. If following a team and wearing that support as a badge says something about who you are, about your expectations and choices, then what conclusions are to be drawn about Leeds fans?
FOLLOWING Manchester United or Liverpool is no great hardship, with glories offered every season or two. It is a clean-cut, rewarding and relatively stress-free sort of fandom.
Following Chelsea is slightly more risque, appealing to the fan that sees him/her self as a daredevil. But it is still essentially safe and clean-cut and hygienic.
Declaring for Leeds is somehow darker. If David Lynch were a football fan, he would be drawn to Leeds. The closest I ever got to understanding Leeds was through some old footage of an FA Cup final between Chelsea and Leeds in the 1970s. The weekend of the game, it showed Chelsea arriving at a swish London hotel with models and flashbulbs. The waft of Brut drifted through the TV. Then it switched to the Leeds night of relaxation, which consisted of Jack Charlton, Billy Bremner and Chopper Harris, etc., playing cards in a broom cupboard.
It takes honesty to announce that Leeds is the club you are going to love through thick and thin. Because Leeds United is mostly about thin. Strange things happen at Leeds United, and the current dramas, of course, carry particular nuances for Irish fans.
It is hard to see Martin O'Neill taking over from David O'Leary. He is too bright - in the wattage, rather than smarts, sense - and transparent for Leeds. He might make Leeds safe and normal, which would never do. Mick McCarthy, with his Heathcliffian appreciation of moodiness, is much more suited to the temperament of the stormy Yorkshire club.
That Leeds is at present a bit of a nursery to the Irish team is also important. Once again, the future of the new, lean R Keane machine is the subject of conjecture. And if McCarthy happens to land the Leeds job, then Ian Harte will have to conclude that the (former) Ireland manager was put on earth as his guardian angel.
Only Leeds look like a club that could plummet from the highs of the Premiership to the lower divisions like an elevator freed of its cables, carrying all its dark baggage with it. It is a club that sits neither at the exclusive table of the Premiership nor among its mediocre safe hands. Leeds is the misfit, the dreamer from the small town.
At the very least, they will be fun to follow over the winter. God help her fans though. Needless to say, I never encountered my first Leeds supporters again, though I wish them well. When I escaped that day, they were attempting a sad and out-of-tune Leeds chant, right there in that toilet. And I have a terrible feeling that they might be there still.
