The flight path over the Sea of Japan was clear, but the view from the window of the private jet was a blur of emotion. I closed my eyes, leaning my 30-year-old frame against the cool leather of the seat. I was leaving behind the rolling green hills of West Yorkshire for the unfamiliar humid air of Shikoku, chasing a dream I never thought I’d be able to live out.

In my teens, I'd had the world at my feet, living the dream of all my mates. A local hero. A working class lad from the streets of Pudsey, taking the Championship by storm with Leeds United. Debuting at 16, I made 102 appearances and scored 14 goals from midfield in 3 years. I had a future as bright as the floodlights that now loom over the West Stand at Elland Road. That future was swiped away from me just as quickly as it had been attained, not for a lack of form, but for the brutal, excruciating, searing pain of a femoral fracture, early on in the 2014/15 season. The long, lonely years on the treatment table had killed the player, but it was the birth of the coach.

I was what you could call one of the early FM-inspired coaches. I played it as a kid, and by my teens, I was equal levels obsessed and intrigued by the tactical side of the beautiful game. I consumed football just as intensely as I was playing it, fascinated endlessly by Pep Guardiola's Barcelona, Vicente Del Bosque's Spain and Marcelo Bielsa's Chile.

As soon as I graduated from the academy in 2010, I launched myself headfirst into earning my stripes, coaching the U12s side, just 3 years my junior. I wanted to earn my coaching badges, I knew exactly what I wanted to be when my playing days were done. The training pitches became my classroom, learning from some of the best minds in the youth game, watching and shaping the best players of it. By the time disaster struck, my group were U16s, taking their last steps before agonising decisions were taken on their futures.

I gave up on my recovery at the end of the 2016/17 season, scarred by numerous surgeries and failed returns to action. I had continued my coaching journey and was now an established cog in the U18s machine at the club. That summer saw the arrival of Carlos Corberan from the ASPIRE academy, a man I now owe my entire future in the dugout to. A fierce mentor, his tactical passion and meticulous attention to detail inspired me. We took many first steps together, first at Leeds, then at Huddersfield, Olympiacos and finally West Brom. I had absorbed every lesson, every late-night analysis session, evolving from an assistant to a trusted confidant. But when Corberan packed his bags for Valencia, I felt the pull of home, the need to step out of my master's shadow.

I remained at West Brom, still feeling the sting of failure in Greece. But a further more brutal sting would follow. I fell victim to the pragmatic sweep by new manager Ryan Mason, keen to start with a fresh slate and staff he knows and trusts. It was a professional, polite exchange, but my god did it hurt.

After a couple months of soul searching, I was ready to get myself out there and take the reins of a club, become the main man. I'd had an interview with Halifax Town. I'd been shown the facilities, the ground and everything that made that club tick. To all the world, it seemed a no-brainer. A return to my homeland in West Yorkshire. A gritty National League campaign to really get those managerial juices flowing.

And then on the morning I had intended to give them the call to say yes, I received an offer I simply could not refuse. The lesson I had learned over the past year was that you cannot let experiences overseas get you down. If anything, they should be aggressively pursued where possible. Nothing expands your horizons in any walk of life quite like learning a language on the job, adjusting to a new culture, both professionally and away from your desk. If you fail, hard lines, football is awash with failure. Those who make it furthest in the game are those who take it on the chin, dust themselves off, puff their chests out and say "right, here we go again then, let's have it".

A few days previously, I had been interviewed over Teams for the job at Tokushima Vortis, a team in mid-table in the J2 League, based across Wakayama Bay from Wakayama, South West of Osaka. I thought I owed it to myself to at least hear them out, so I interviewed and thought nothing of it. Until a foreign number flashed up on my phone screen on that fateful Sunday morning.

​They were a club adrift. Five games left in the J2 League season. Thirteen points off the play-offs, seven clear of relegation- a safe, sterile mid-table finish was assured. I took a leap of faith, a trial run. Five dead rubbers, followed by an arduous 9-month transition period in which the Japanese leagues would go from a summer calendar to a winter one. It was going to be a footballing eternity. Beyond that, there was a hefty squad build on the horizon. With just one player contracted beyond the end of January, I had to take stock of who was worth keeping, who wanted to be here and who we should be saying goodbye to.

​The challenge wasn't just to coach. The challenge was to build. To construct a team from the ground up, to understand a new culture and a new language, to find players hungry enough to climb out of the second division. I had no mentor, no familiar faces, just a notebook full of tactics and a memory of what a career-defining injury felt like.

​As the plane began its descent towards Tokushima, the coastal city emerging through the clouds, I gripped the armrest. I was no longer the prodigy, nor the assistant. I was the manager. The past was a scar, the present was a blank canvas, and the future was a long, arduous climb back to the top.

​Tokushima Vortis. J2 League. Promotion. Nine months.

​I smiled, a grim, determined expression. The East wind had brought me to this remote corner of the world. Now, I had to make sure it carried me home with a trophy.

I didn't choose football, football chose me. It lurked the maternity ward at Leeds General Infirmary on a crisp February morning in 1995. The moment Dad headed into a nearby pub to watch us play Man United in the cup, it sought me out and consumed me whole.

My childhood was soundtracked by constant football chat, and where we were, it was about one club and one club only. It was Dad recounting European nights and telling stories about the great Revie team. It was my mates convinced we'd beat Arsenal with Michael Duberry and Stephen Caldwell at the back (we lost 5-0). It was bulletin after bulletin about the latest fire sale. Growing up supporting this club in the early 2000s was a baptism by fire, but it was a journey I wouldn't change for the world.

My first pilgrimage to Elland Road came in slightly headier days, the opening day of the 2001/02 season. I had been deemed too young to take along to those UEFA Cup and Champions League nights, a whirlwind adventure had evaded my grasp by a matter of months. Still, the experience of my first game was no less thrilling. The sights, smells and sounds of a match day never leave you, least of all your first. We beat Southampton 2-0 and I was instantly hooked. My bedroom was instantly adorned with posters of Alan Smith, Lee Bowyer and Harry Kewell. Those posters would come down as abruptly as they had gone up.

I was as keen a player- if not moreso- as I was an observer. I had a lightning fast mind, having decided who's having the ball from me a good few passes before it had even arrived at my feet. If the positioning changed in that time, so did my choice of pass, but I was never indecisive once it came to me. Touch, turn, pass, move. That was my mantra. I was a hive of activity in the middle of the park, and that was never for a second lost on the people I sought to impress the most, the scouts at Leeds United.

My arrival into the academy of my boyhood club could not have been more juxtaposed against the harsh reality of where the club was heading. There I was, 8 years old, having to pinch myself, awestruck as my dream came true. But the walls I passed belonged to a deeply troubled entity. A club realising that the foundations for its success were built on sand, an empire crumbling. Stars of the club's dizzying European rollercoaster were being cashed in on en masse, the directors desperate to claw back the immense gamble that was now exploding in their faces.

By the time I took to the pitches at the academy, the club had lost Rio Ferdinand, Jonathan Woodgate, Nigel Martyn, Robbie Keane, Robbie Fowler and Harry Kewell. There was quality still at the club, but it was a fractured dressing room. The academy offered a sanctuary from all the noise. We were the club's future now, the club's only barrier to fielding 11 weary journeymen, knee deep in the Football League. We were protected, nurtured by some of the finest coaches on the youth scene.

It was at Thorp Arch where I became more than a nippy ball player, I grew into a combative midfielder with an eye for a pass, a centre of gravity that completely belied my ever growing physical stature.​ I excelled, climbing the ranks with a quiet determination. I learned early that wearing the white shirt was not just a privilege, but a burden- the burden of carrying the hopes of a city that had been repeatedly let down by those above.

By the time I was a teenager, the crisis at the club had deepened. I entered my teenage years with the club scrapping their way through the playoff places in League One, burdened by the weight of a 15-point handicap imposed the previous summer. Years of financial implosion were the backdrop to my coming of age, as my star continued to shine and the academy looked on the brink of another success story. Thorp Arch was my home and it instilled in me not only a sense of pride in my club, but the understanding that success was fragile, money was fleeting, but the club, its identity and its fierce support were everything.

I never forgot that afternoon at Elland Road when Ipswich were in town, witnessing the club slide into the third tier. The sadness of the previous relegation morphing into the white hot anger and apathy of the latest one. It wasn't just a sporting failure, it felt like a betrayal. It forged a vow deep within me, that I must continue on my trajectory and help fix the mess we found ourselves in.

It was this profound, almost spiritual connection, raised in an era of financial ruin and fuelled by staunch loyalty, that all prepare me for the astonishing opportunity that arrived on a wet Saturday afternoon in the autumn of 2011.

The first-team training ground felt like a foreign country compared to the academy's austere, familiar pitches. I was fortunate enough to have faith placed in me by a man who is all too familiar with my own journey.

The club, at that point, was managed by Simon Grayson. He was born and raised in Bedale, North Yorkshire, and had a deep connection with the club. Like myself, Simon grew up supporting Leeds, and signed on schoolboy terms, in the days before academies were swooping in on primary school aged boys. He rose through the ranks with Gary Speed, and as close as their friendship was, their fortunes at Leeds couldn't be further removed from each other.

Simon made 2 appearances- appearances that he held a deep, intense gratitude for nonetheless- before forging a career of his own elsewhere. The lad was taken out of Leeds, but the Leeds never left the lad. Simon returned as manager 16 years later, with the club gasping for air in another League One promotion scrap. He built a side around lads who truly understood what it meant to be Leeds; from local heroes such as Jonny Howson, Richard Naylor and Ben Parker, to cult heroes who had caught the bug such as Jermaine Beckford, Andy Hughes, Luciano Becchio and Paddy Kisnorbo. His side of diehards- both organic and adopted- dragged the club from the anguish of two consecutive playoff heartbreaks, endured a near-catastrophic post-Christmas collapse and fought back from a man and a goal down on the final day to put an end to the club's third tier nightmare.

That side had been dismantled in the space of little over a year. Not by a manager's ruthless desire to upgrade the squad- with just a touch of polish, that squad finished 7th in its first season back in the Championship- but by a chairman's ruthless desire to cut costs. Contracts were allowed to expire, players were sold- needlessly in some cases- for peanuts. The stars of the club's return to and resurgence in the Championship were replaced by, with the greatest of respects, 'seasoned pros', 'veterans' and 'journeymen', willing to take a lower wage. It was a shift in squad building strategy that was manifesting on the pitch. The old heart and lungs were replaced by these seasoned pros, who couldn't quite replace the speed and intesity of their esteemed predecessors. The club were bogged down in mid-table, and 'an air of discontent' became far too mild to describe the relationship between the fanbase and Ken Bates.

Despite the chaos, I was like a child on Christmas eve the night before the Portsmouth game. I'd been given the nod that I'd be part of the squad on the Thursday, and so Friday night was spent tossing, turning, equal measures buzzing and terrified. Lights were out by 8pm, but it must have taken me until around 2am to fall asleep. Sick with anxiety, high as a kite on excitement, I was a juxtaposed wreck.

There was only one way to find out whether my legs would buckle under the lingering fear, or whether I'd glide weightlessly across the hallowed turf, fuelled by adrenaline and Lucozade Sport (orange, if you're wondering). The moment of truth came 65 minutes in.

For all the toxicity that surrounded the club like a billowing cloud of smoke, there was a defiance in the air. We were 1-0 and playing well, courtesy of a scrappy second half goal from Danny Pugh. We were struggling to hold possession, dropping deep, and inviting Portsmouth forward. Grayson’s assistant- Glynn Snodin- looked at me, his face grim.

​"Right. You're on. Get in there, keep the ball, and for God's sake, don't lose it in the middle third. You’re on for Browny [Michael Brown]"

I barely heard him. Blinded by the lights of the towering East Stand, all I could hear were the roars and ripples of applause. The whole ground on its feet for another academy lad, their newest hope both trembling and chomping at the bit. I heard the well mannered banter from the Portsmouth fans, housed in the new- albeit not so shiny- away section in the West Stand, to the right of the dugouts. It was everything I had laser focused my academy days towards. The cheer as I crossed that white line was deafening, but the noise lifted me, it felt like I was cruising above the clouds.

I replaced Michael Brown, a midfield enforcer whose lungs were spent. I now bore the hopes and dreams every man, woman and child of a Leeds persuasion. From the next generation of little street ballers as I once was, to the old boys, some of whom had seen John Charles play. I was their newest hope.

The instructions were simple, but the execution was terrifying. I was immediately targeted. Portsmouth’s midfielders, veteran pros with scars and cynicism, swarmed me. I moved the ball quickly, taking only one or two touches, just as the academy had drilled into me for years. I won a couple of critical fifty-fifty challenges, my eight years of grinding academy work translated into raw aggression.

Then came the moment.

​In the 78th minute, a loose ball bobbled twenty yards out. I didn't hesitate. I controlled it with the outside of my boot, shielding it from the defender before slipping a first-time, defence-splitting pass that dissected the back line and found Ross McCormack charging into the box. McCormack, momentarily shocked by the quality of the service, stumbled, and his shot was saved by the keeper's outstretched leg.

​The chance was gone, but the message was sent. The crowd roared not in frustration, but in awe of the pass. They had seen the vision. They had seen the future.

​I played out the final twenty-five minutes, including stoppage time, without fault. The score remained 1-0. Three points. The sigh of relief around the stadium was palpable.

Back in the dressing room, exhausted but filled with relief, my older teammates gave me a cursory nod. There was none of the lifting on shoulders or three cheers going on. This wasn't a Goal! film, I hadn't hit a screamer. I'd had a tidy debut when we were looking leggy, in a dogged early Autumn Championship clash. More importantly everyone got their win bonus, so were all smiles.

But I felt as though this was my moment. The first day of the rest of my life. The start point of my metamorphosis from boy to man. From fan to hero.

The sound of boos was the loudest noise of the night, piercing through the frigid West Yorkshire air like a dagger through flesh. The boos weren't just noise; they were physical pressure under which we were gasping for air. Not for the first time this season, we had been utterly humiliated on home soil, each occasion feeling like more of a personal affront than the last. Another night where we were simply not good enough, this time subjected to a one-man rampage as Birmingham City's Nikola Žigić terrorized our defence in the air, his four goals putting us to the sword in a 4-1 defeat at the end of January.

The ground could not empty quick enough, and before I knew it, a heavy, dead silence had descended on the dressing room. A squad of grown men sat stunned, speechless, and numb. The feeling that we weren't going to be up to scratch to make the playoffs was dawning upon us. If anything, we were regressing, and that felt sickening.

We'd been here before, totally humiliated, angering an ever-dwindling crowd of the few who were yet to boycott the ground. Earlier in the season, we were beaten 5-0 by Blackpool. Reserve keeper Paul Rachubka had had a disasterclass that evening and was substituted at half-time. As a player, you don't go in on a goalkeeper in the dressing room at this level on nights like that; I'd never played in goal and had no idea what it was like for a man's confidence to be dropping howler after howler when the stakes were so high. But beneath the surface, I was seething, and I'd be surprised if the other lads weren't too.

These two defeats were a microcosm of all the chaos at the club at the time. During the summer of 2011, we had lost Bradley Johnson and Neil Kilkenny after their contracts expired, Davide Somma suffered a long-term injury, and Max Gradel was sold on deadline day to Saint-Étienne for a measly £2m. They were replaced by the aforementioned 'seasoned pros,' who the fans were growing increasingly impatient with as the club wrangled with mid-table obscurity.

January came around and just one signing had been made: Robbie Rogers arrived as a free agent from America, having recently finished an MLS campaign with Columbus Crew. A further fan favourite departed the club to deepen the rift between fans and board, and this time, the fans took it personally. Jonny Howson, born and raised in Morley—just a couple of miles from Elland Road—and nurtured in the academy, had become one of its success stories. He was a good few years older than me, but he was the first to put an arm around me as soon as I was pulled into the first team. It was Howson who protected me from the wrath of my much older teammates in training, who was my most honest critic behind closed doors, and who empowered me to speak my mind when standards weren't being met. He was like an older brother to me. He was sold to Norwich City in the middle of the January window, and now we were a thoroughly rudderless ship.

I replaced Howson, but I couldn't replace his presence. Now, without his leadership in the middle, I felt the space around me widen. I had to become the voice, the shield, and the runner, all before the end of my first season. The vacuum left by his sale forced me to mature three seasons worth of tactical responsibility in three months.

The message from the owner was that the club could not afford to be spending every penny that came in from the sales that were being made (assuming we were receiving a fee). So you can imagine the sheer furore that erupted when unsightly cream-clad corporate boxes emerged on the side of the East Stand in late 2011. We were a side destined to be mid-table fodder, stripped of our best players and replaced at very little expense, yet here we were jazzing up corporate facilities at a ground where the supporters were boycotting and the team was looking ever less likely to return to the Premier League.

I woke earlier than usual after the Birmingham defeat. The usual procedure after a midweek game was a recovery session in the afternoon, followed by a tactical debrief. I'd wake up at 10am and saunter down for midday. I awoke to my phone ringing at 8am, with the name 'Redders' across the screen. Redders—known professionally as Neil Redfearn—was the academy director and a man I owe a debt of gratitude to. He arrived shortly after Simon Grayson, when I was almost 14 years old, and was the man to recommend me to him in the summer of 2011. We were hamstrung in the midfield with the departures of Bradley Johnson and Neil Kilkenny, and with little money to spend, Grayson pulled me into the first team on the word of Redders. I hadn't heard from him since the first team came calling, and it seemed ominous that he was calling the morning after a defeat, so the need to answer right away was not lost on me.

"Morning Redders, what's up?"

"Morning mate, I need you down at Thorp Arch by 10am please. First team meeting room."

"Is anyone else going to be there?"

"The whole first team are going to be there mate, I'm addressing you all."

"Is everything okay?"

"To be honest...no, but that's why I want you all in, I need to speak to you face-to-face."

"I'll be right there, catch you in a bit."

With just six months' experience of senior football to my name, I had no prior experience of a manager being sacked, but I had a gut feeling this was it. Why else would a member of staff other than the manager be calling a meeting with the first team because he had to say something face-to-face?

When I arrived, Simon wasn't there, nor was Glynn Snodin. Redders gave the news everyone in the room seemed to expect him to give. Just over three years after he found the club floundering in League One on the back of six straight defeats—including a cup exit at Histon—Simon Grayson had been dismissed as manager, with the club seven points off a playoff spot. I felt sick as a parrot. Simon gave me my debut, believed in me, and mentored me. Beyond what he'd done for me, he'd dragged the club out of League One and given the club some memorable cup ties against top-tier opposition, notably a win against arch rivals and reigning English champions, Man United. It was my first lesson in the brutal volatility of management and was a harsh reminder that hardly anyone gets out of a job on their own terms, regardless of earlier performance.

Redders had been placed in temporary charge until a permanent replacement was found. Four games—two wins, two defeats—later, the club appointed Neil Warnock as manager. A man with a track record of winning promotion, Warnock also had a history of antagonizing the opposition, a habit that hadn't been forgotten about at Elland Road in particular. He had got the better of Leeds with his Sheffield United side on several occasions, and his enjoyment of those results had not been lost on the fanbase. Still, the fanbase remained hopeful he could turn our fortunes around.

My experience of him was that he was harshest to those he rated the most. If he believed in you, he'd hold you to higher standards and would hammer you if those standards weren't met. There was one game at home against Derby, where I had been beaten to a loose ball, dribbled past, and let my man go. He screamed at me in the dressing room at full-time, not for being dribbled past, but for not having the sharpness to get there first or the tenacity to hunt my opposite number down once I had been beaten. He was warm enough on a one-to-one basis and was keen on bonding the team together. The results weren't great though, and we limped to a 14th-placed finish.

My first season of senior football had been a baptism of fire. Humiliations, sales of key figures, protests, and managerial changes created a cauldron of chaos that I had to swim in. It was this chaos, though, that I thrived on. The worse things seemed to get, the more I upped my game, desperate to help pull us up the table and rise above the car-wreck that was constantly threatening to derail us. One player doesn't make a team, though, and I finished the season as frustrated as anyone else. No top-flight eyes on me would distract me from the fact the club I loved was truly mired in the shit.

This was just the beginning...

As the sun beamed through my window, the apartment was instantly illuminated, as if a surgeon's lamp had been violently tilted directly into my face. I squinted, running a hand over my tired eyes, my mind pulling itself in several different directions; the mental toll had become exhausting. My tea was perched on the kitchen surface, brewing, unfinished, awaiting decisive action; it was symbolic of the club itself—just laying there, of no use to anyone, slowly going cold.

​I had just recently returned home after an exhausting day of contract discussions with my agent and the club's new owner, Massimo Cellino. In my younger days, it felt inconceivable that I would second guess a five-year contract at the club I loved so dearly. But the last two and a half years had been a long, dreary grind. Every time it looked like things were about to change, we came crashing straight back down to earth again, often with the revelation that all wasn't as it seemed. It was mentally exhausting, a constant burden weighing on my back, a rucksack filled with managerial changes, protests, thumpings and takeovers, as I trekked around the same old Championship grounds. Each defeat was a branch slapping my face, chants of "who are ya?" from opposing fans ringing in my ears as my body reeled from the shock.

In Warnock's first summer, noises of a takeover rumbled throughout the local media, and gathered real momentum as David Haigh and Salem Patel- representatives of GFH Capital, a Bahrain-based investment bank- were spotted in an executive box with Ken Bates. Optimism gave way to caution, as inertia over the deal stalled the club's transfer ambitions and ultimately left us with a squad no greater than the one we had ended the 2011/12 season with. As the takeover dragged on, so too did the boycott, and the all too familiar sight of lonely, empty blue seats continued as the supporters refused to put another penny of their money into Ken's back pocket.

The takeover was finally completed in late 2012, and was followed by a collective sigh of relief, a belief that the inertia that plagued the club was all over. A club that had since lost yet another of its brightest lights in Robert Snodgrass over the summer could look forward, plan its great escape from second tier mediocrity. What followed was another harsh kick from mother reality. Luciano Becchio, League One hero and current top scorer at the club, had a year and a half remaining on his contract. With the new board reluctant to commit to him any further, he left for Norwich City at the end of January 2013. It was a dagger to the heart, what felt like the last great player from the League One promotion and subsequent gatecrashing of the Championship playoff race had been taken from us. As much as Warnock's style had its critics, Becchio had made it effective up to that stage, notching up 19 goals in 31 appearances. After a minor wobble knocking us off our stride over Christmas, he scored in his last appearance, against Bolton Wanderers on New Years Day. From that stage, we folded like a cheap deckchair.

As much professional respect as I had for Warnock, his system was not suited to an attacking partnership with Luke Varney's lack of pace and Ross McCormack's lack of height, and neither had enough of what the other lacked to compensate. Steve Morison was signed to replace Becchio and he was a fit for the profile of player Becchio was, but he struggled to be as effective. There were fallings out with players- Ross McCormack had a particularly tempestuous relationship with Warnock and Ross Barkley was sent packing from his loan spell early- and old favourites getting preferable treatment. Michael Brown, Michael Tonge and Paddy Kenny in particular were beneficiaries of the star treatment. Amidst a collapse in results, it made for a perfect storm.of discontent. On an afternoon where McCormack loudly told Warnock to go forth and multiply after scoring, Neil resigned after a 2-1 home defeat to Derby County, with the club flying dangerously close to the rapturous winds of a relegation battle.

In his place, the club hired ex-Reading manager Brian McDermott. A very likeable character, Brian had earned plaudits for returning Reading to the Premier League and won the manager of the month award for January, but was dismissed little over a month later after a nose dive in results. It was felt that Brian had proven credentials in pulling a mid-table squad to the higher reaches of the division and reaching the promised land.

What followed in the summer was an optimism largely out of character for the club and its fans. Ken Bates had cut all ties with the club, there was fresh hope in a proven manager and the club had made its first 7-figure signing in 12 years, with the arrival of midfielder Luke Murphy from Crewe Alexandra, for £1m. With Elland Road packed to the rafters with expectant supporters for the opening day, we got off to a winning start, beating Brighton with a last minute winner from the million pound man.

Without being massively consistent, we kept pace with the top 6, rarely not within a shout of breaking in and things were looking promising. And then it all unravelled. Amidst whispers the new board weren't particularly flush with cash- or running the club with any cash for that matter- and that they were beginning to interfere in squad selection, the team's fortunes collapsed once again. A shocking cup exit at Rochdale and a 6-0 thrashing at the hands of Sheffield Wednesday at Hillsborough greased the wheels for further discontent. The rot was setting again, it was all just far too familiar.

You could write a book of its own on Mad Friday. It was the January transfer deadline day and- as the name suggests- it was a Friday. We were due to play a Yorkshire derby on the Saturday, with fellow West Yorkshire side Huddersfield Town due to visit Elland Road. Over the past week, there had been rumours that Massimo Cellino- former owner of Cagliari and nicknamed 'the manager eater' in Italy for his high turnover of bosses- was due to take control of the club, acquiring a 100% stake from GFH Capital. In midweek, he had instructed Gianluca Festa- a member of the Cagliari coaching staff during Cellino's ownership- to sit in the dugout alongside Brian McDermott. Something was fishy. On Friday evening, a press release was issued to say Brian had been sacked. The club, still owned by GFH Capital, confirmed that while that had been the case, the deed had been done by someone without the authority to do so, Massimo Cellino. Ross McCormack, the club's captain and top scorer- who only 30 minutes before the sacking was announced had pledged loyalty to Brian- was now on Sky Sports saying he wanted to leave. Outside Elland Road, cameras and reporters gathered to witness the pure chaos unfolding. Fans had descended on the ground to protest the sacking, and were now chasing Cellino's taxi around the West Stand car park. Brian's assistant, Nigel Gibbs, took charge of the Huddersfield game, an astonishing 5-1 demolition job in our favour, and later that evening, it had been announced that Brian had been reinstated. As first introductions go, it was absurd. As 24 hours go, this was the club in a nutshell, a chaotic basket case, where events off the pitch were pure box office compared to events on it.

Make no mistake though, the team was thoroughly destabilised and it was showing on the pitch. Amidst the fallout from Mad Friday, it revealed GFH Capital had been financing the club with debt for which Cellino would publicly call them 'crooks'. It didn't stop him from dealing with them though and he ultimately took control amidst a debacle that saw wages not paid on time. The rot had truly set in, and in March we embarked on a run of 8 defeats from 9 games, including a 5-1 defeat against Bolton, a 4-2 defeat against Reading (both of those coming at Elland Road within days of each other) and a 4-1 humbling at Bournemouth. On a professional level, it was a extraordinarily long way from good enough, but there was no denying events at board level were helping nobody.

Yet the more things change, the more they stay the same. For all the unrelenting chaos that raged on like a biblical-scale cyclone at the club, Thorp Arch continued to do what it does best. In my first full season, a right-back two years my senior- by the name of Sam Byram- burst onto the scene and was near ever-present that season. He was a consummate professional, with positional intelligence way beyond his years and was a threat going forward too. During the 2013/14 season, Dominic Poleon and Alex Mowatt entered the fold. Poleon was an athletic attacking player, capable of playing up front or out wide, and on occasion dovetailed well with McCormack in the final third. Mowatt had the sweetest left foot I had seen at close quarters, and dinked an absolute pearler in the 5-1 rout of Huddersfield in the one game under Nigel Gibbs.

As for me, for all the mental strain of events at the club, I was hitting a real stride. Matchdays were an escape for me. For 90 minutes, I was surrounded by thousands who love Leeds United the way I do. There was a siege mentality, a period where supporters chose to support the team and not the regime. Every goal was a delightful rush of adrenaline, as people starved of any tangible success latched onto all of us, embraced us as their own. Whatever crisis the club was mired in, the fans stood tall and backed the players all the way. It made me feel 10 feet tall. It made it easy to not take the boos personally when things were going poorly. The fans knew that we as players were being failed and were trying our best. Sometimes it was directed at us, but it was hard to argue it was undeserved on those occasions, I'd be irate if I'd spent £30 to see us get an absolute sledging from Bolton too. But we went through it all together, and that's what I loved about this club.

So when the sun set on that day in the summer of 2014, I was mentally conflicted. I could have run down my contract and gone elsewhere. There were plenty of suitors. You only get one career and I'd never not support Leeds, did I want to forego the joy I could take from achieving things as a player by taking the double whammy of supporting and playing for a club going nowhere? But there was a 5-year offer on the table. A chance to continue to represent my people for another 5 years, to continue to pull on my club's colours and play at the ground I love more than anywhere else.

If I left, I'd walk out on all that, but I'd be satisfying my natural desire to prove myself on stages I believed I could showcase my talent on. If I stayed for 5 years, I secure a future at my club, but I make getting out if things get any worse immeasurably difficult. Realistically, I'd be there for at least another 3 years before anyone in the Premier League even sniffs in my direction.

I took the compromise. A two-year deal. It felt like a slap in the face to a club that had nurtured me since I was 8 years old, to be insisting on a deal that you rarely see signed off on by players under 30. But by 19, I'd seen things at the club most players wouldn't even dream of seeing over an entire career. I had to give myself an easy out. If I got a year in or up to the end and was still enjoying myself too much to leave, I backed myself to earn an extension.

But was it right? Only time would tell...