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Choose Leif. Choose the left flank. Choose bombing down the wing like your lungs are made of pure Suffolk brass. Choose overlapping runs at 90+4 when everyone else’s legs have turned to wet cement. Choose whipped, fizzing deliveries into the corridor of uncertainty. Choose an assist tally that makes actual wingers look at their shoes. Choose tucking inside. Choose an inverted run that confuses the opposition midfield and delights the tactical analysts. Choose a crunching sliding tackle on the touchline to rattle the away winger into next week. Choose jumping straight back up, wiping the mud off your knees, and demanding the ball back immediately. Choose high press. Choose relentless tempo. Choose running yourself into the turf for until the North Stand is roaring your name. Choose back-to-back promotions. Choose taking the game to the elite with zero fear and a wicked left boot. Choose set-pieces. Choose the corner flag. Choose swinging in that dipping, wicked ball right onto the forehead of a charging centre-back. Choose pure energy. Choose blue and white stripes. Choose running until your hamstrings scream and doing it all over again next Saturday. Why would I choose a sensible, low-risk back pass? I chose not to choose safety. I chose something else. I chose Leif.
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