My Leeds United - An exclusive club and why Leeds fans are like goalkeepers

David Guile is an analyst, Square Ball contributor and former goalkeeper for Roundhay Rangers

It was midnight in a dark corner of Cardiff when I encountered a heavyset man standing at a urinal, engaged in animated conversation with an unseen party behind a toilet cubicle door.

The man’s argument, delivered over his shoulder at a volume loud enough to split ceiling tiles, was that Leeds United, regardless of how many years they spent outside the Premier League, would always be considered an elite club.

I interrupted, voicing my agreement. The man looked surprised, said ‘wheeeeeeey!’ and crossed the room in two monstrous bounds to hurl himself into my arms.

He delivered the Leeds salute, said something my ears didn’t register and vanished back into the club without washing his hands or doing up his fly.

Afterwards, I inspected the toilet cubicle. It was empty.

So many of my favourite Leeds United memories take place in that kind of environment; chance meetings far from home where the unfamiliar setting enhances the experience.

As fans, we thrive on the exclusivity of our club. You’re either Leeds or you’re not, and if you’re not then you’ll never understand the thrill of being greeted with a familiar gesture that builds an instant connection between the two of you, whilst mystifying everyone else present.

I like being an outsider. It’s one of the reasons I became a goalie, the main reason being I liked football but had the control of a giraffe on stilts.

Goalies are like Leeds fans, in some ways.

They’re used to being the fall guys in someone else’s success story, and often feel unfairly maligned by those outside their famed ‘union’. Leeds goalie Nigel Martyn was the one who made me fall in love with the position, amid the turgid football of the early George Graham era.

Suddenly there was this Cornish giant, clawing shot after shot out of the air, saving us week after week, marking each act of gravity-defying brilliance with a humble smile. There was a quiet nobility about the way that he simply got on with being the best player on the pitch.

He was my first hero who wasn’t a Power Ranger or a humanoid turtle, and I was desperate to emulate him.

I never had the talent to do that on the pitch.

But I did learn something about resilience from him. It served me well when Leeds tested my patience the most - as a student in Sheffield when Neil Warnock was king, as a traveller in Australia staying up in the small hours to watch us lose to Histon, as a new dad when the sleepless chaos of my household mirrored that of Hockaday’s regime.

The passion, faith and good humour of Leeds fans sustains us all through the darkest times.

I hope my own contributions to The Square Ball have made a few people smile.

And I’ll always credit Leeds United for making me an optimist, because all Leeds fans are optimists, deep down.

Why else would we do this to ourselves?