A train journey to Leeds

With the Men's World Cup over, we turn the page to what's next: the Women's World Cup this summer and the long, winding path to 2026. And so to begin that journey, I'm in Leeds, again.

For what feels like rather long now, personal and professional momentum has built toward the Men’s World Cup. Now that’s done, the fun begins— or, can be returned to. 

I’m in Leeds again. I’m sitting next to a space heater, drinking instant coffee in an old place made of brick with a kind caretaker who found a way to say “cracking on” in every sentence while showing me around.

“Right sign this, then we’ll crack on” 

“Make sure you take a photo, before we crack on”

“You can make coffee or tea like x,y,z, okay, cracking on”

“Milk’s in there, crack on”  

“The code is 1234. Right! Cracking on”.

I’m in Leeds, again. It’s been five months since my first arrival. It’s been five months since the start of the new season and Jesse Marsch had the full scale of it to himself, a test. It’s five months since a pair of young Americans debuted, joining a proud old club in the world’s mightiest league. It’s five months since a whole lot of people wondered how they’d get on. 

As individuals, they’ve done rather well. As a club, it’s been a scrap. Very likely, it’ll stay one. 

Five months forward from now- on May 28th- Leeds will play Tottenham, a curtain call at Elland Road to their third consecutive season in the Premier League. Their success at scrapping through this will determine whether they remain for a fourth. 

Our collective Leeds-watching will be suspenseful, every second, starting now. They recommence their scrapping today with a handful of clubs at the very top. Erling Haaland- the most menacing person to ever wear french braids- will pay a visit to Elland Road. And I’m in Leeds, again, to watch. 

Arriving- much like Leeds did upon return to the Premier League- was quite the ordeal. At times, I wondered if it would ever happen at all. It involved a montage of overcrowded or cancelled trains from Wales, every one of them godforsaken. 

Wrexham

There will be much to say on Wrexham in the paper from the town where Rob McElhenney was born. So in lieu of saying what I saw in Wrexham, I’ll focus for now on what I saw when I left. Which is the stadium- The Racecourse Ground- sitting just beside Wrexham General Station. 

A cold, gray, misty December morning, and there it sat beside us, bidding us farewell on a journey further north. It’s the oldest international football ground in the world. All of it is loved- kept alive by its supporters- even though some of it is falling apart, in desperate need of restoration, or repair. 

There’s poetry, in retrospect, to setting off beside by the Racecourse, only to end a winding journey in the home of Elland Road. Both grounds historic, proud, unique, kept painstakingly alive and preserved in the character of place by the unfettered passion of their supporters. 

No small feat— many have fallen to uniformity over the years. 

And I suppose on opposite ends of a footballing spectrum, both clubs need consider how to advance and update, while keeping some things in place. Wrexham wages that battle from all the way down, looking to pry their way into the English Football League by June. And Leeds does so from all the way up in the top flight, waging their campaign to remain. 

Godforsaken train number one

Whether the football pyramid or yesterday’s voyage, it’s a long winding journey from end to end. 

Inside godforsaken train number one, we were packed in like sardines— packed in like an overcrowded football calendar and adding more tournaments by the day. The otherwise hourly train to Chester was the only available. The seven or so surrounding all cancelled. And so there we all were, inside of the one train and in a crowded human pile. 

At least ten of us were crammed into the standing end space of one compartment- the unlucky among us falling through the gravity of any opened door- treated to an American (Canadian?) woman telling her Scottish boyfriend it’s time to join a gym. Just incredible timing, it must be said, as we all stood balancing nearly on tip toe, back to back and silently waiting for it to end. 

“I think you should join a gym” she goes. He’s hrmming and hmmming, clearly uncomfortable. We’re all listening, no real choice. She begins to list off all the gyms he can try in proximity to their flat. 

A lurch and a stop, a man by the window clashes hard into it with a bang. “Shook me if I’m honest” he says to us, “thought I’d launch through.” A bit of levity, we all laugh, he begins to recommend gyms to our new Scottish friend, who’s still hrmming, unenthused. 

The weekend crowd, on a Tuesday

I suppose for some, the holiday season makes all the days a weekend. Godforsaken train number two was filled to the brim with the already drinking and the very high-heeled heading to Manchester to have a nice time. 

The young lads

I can’t actually recall if this was godforsaken train number three or four. There was a required change. There was overcrowding, there were cancellations, there was needing to exit one train to enter another with more cars. There was a stalled train in Manchester when the driver disappeared (??), and an announcement made saying we’d move when they found one to take us further north. 30 minutes later, a new driver emerged. 

And so aboard train three or four - somewhere in the expanse of England east of Liverpool and west of Manchester- there was a group of young lads aged maximum fourteen- one perhaps all of just nine- behaving as if they were about twenty-eight. 

A similar vibe actually also happened aboard train two- to an extent- wherein an exceptionally loud group of boys were among the crowd heading to Manchester for the night, one among them shouting to the whole train about how he’d turned fifteen last week. “Nobody is getting through here!” they’d yelled to the train compartment from their overcrowded end, only to politely get out of the way when somebody did need to get through, shoving each other into the toilet at to make space. 

I’m reminded as well of earlier this summer riding a train south from London alongside a group of shirtless thirteen year olds cracking their beers on the sides of the train, all while the now memorized recording made the routine train announcement (ride any British train or any expanse of time and you’ll know the announcement I mean): “If you see any anti-social behavior, call x, y, z”... then, the slogan: “See it. Say it. Sorted.”

The young lads between Liverpool or Manchester didn’t need reporting by any stretch. Though they were conspicuously pre-pubescent and discussing their tinders, which I didn’t know twelve year olds could have. One proudly announced he’d matched with a nineteen year old in Edinburgh. “I’m gonna shag her”, he told friends. If only he could just find a way to Scotland. 

At some point I was identified nearby them and it was decided I was southern (not the American kind). The man beside them was now scowling into his newspaper and looking every so often behind. The nine year old among them was instructed by the lads, “ask her if she’s Southern. Say: are you southern?” Then, “ask her if she’s alright. Say, are you alright?”

I was quite looking forward to being asked if I was southern, so that I could clear my throat and announce to the crowded train: no I’m American. But the next stop was mine, and opportunity lost. 

A woman who wants Hemingway

And while we’re on the note of the state of things- the dating things, the fourteen year olds who think they’re going to Scotland to shag a lady they met on an app- as I did finally arrive to Leeds, I overheard a woman earnestly tell her friends she’s had enough with “the four word texts”. 

“I want to be courted” she’s telling a group of friends, “I want Hemingway”, she says. 

A lamentable sentiment, though I’m not sure it’s actually Hemingway she wants. Famously unkind to women, married four times, and if brevity is the issue, Ernest was famously concise. Enigmatic, sure. But he was a man that used a few words to say a whole lot. 

If he were a football team, for example, perhaps he’d be Leeds— direct, to the point.  

But really I think Leeds is Hunter S. Thompson— direct sometimes, but largely unpredictable, and on drugs. Unique though, and alluring, a thrill of a ride! Little rough around the edges. Can’t look away. Given the erratic behavior, it’s possible they won’t be around very long. 

Then again, they might be around for all time.

She probably doesn’t want to date Leeds, either. Unfortunately that might be her club. 

Leeds

And so, I’m here. I’m in Leeds. I’m waiting in the wings of the press room at Elland Road. Haaland, have mercy. Brenden, it’s time for your performance of the year. All that energy not used in Doha? Elland Road is the place. 

Tyler, alas, won’t play. The red card from a former scramble carries forward tonight. No matter, he’ll be needed as we ring in the new year, further north.

Tyler Adams and Brenden Aaronson featured on coffee mugs at the official Leeds store in downtown.