By Trisha Ghosal in Leeds
There’s something about conversations in cabs. Especially when the driver turns around, eyes twinkling, and asks, “Are you a journalist?” That’s how my Leeds story began, during the India-England Test. I was in the UK covering the Indian men’s, women’s and mixed disability tours, and the first men’s Test in Leeds brought me to this city of rich rivalries, grumbling skies and generous hearts.
Yakob was the first cabbie I met. He saw my accreditation and grinned, “So you’re here for the match?” Before I could respond, he fired his first volley:
“Why did you let Virat Kohli retire? He was the best man.”
Then a pause.
“But I like Rishabh Pant. He is fun. His batting gives you kick.” He burst out laughing. “I wanted my son to become a cricketer like Ben Stokes. You like Stokesy? He has done incredible things for us. But my son wants to be a footballer now. We got too much football in England.”
Coming from India, a country where “too much cricket” is a national refrain, that line stayed with me. “Too much football”—what a curious problem to have.
A few days later, on a lighter work day, I found myself outside Elland Road, the home of Leeds United. As a multi-sport journalist, football stadiums always carry a magnetic pull, and that day it became more than just a detour.
Rohan, my colleague, was chatting with Deborah Hitchen while I found myself chasing her three-year-old grandson Lucas around Bremner Square. As I dodged toddler tackles, Lucas’s granddad leaned in and said, “You know I call Lucas Dennis, because he is the menace. He’s one of the biggest Leeds United fans. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
I smiled. “He’s just a kid.”
“Exactly,” he said, “but once you’re a Leeds United fan, it runs through generations. You support the team with full vigour. Lucas has so much energy—he’ll cheer louder than anyone from the stands.”
There was pride in his voice. The kind of pride that isn’t about trophies, but about belonging.
Back near Headingley, just outside the stadium, a small cricket goods shop had set up a stall with souvenir jerseys and memorabilia. That’s where I met Will. On the final morning of the Test, while waiting for our live show to begin, I struck up a conversation with him. The turnout was surprisingly low for a potential England win.
“Most people here have football club passes,” Will explained. “Cricket tickets? You need to buy them. And the weather forecast said stop-start. Plus, school day. And the road’s one-way now because of some work. It’s all football here. All year round. Too much football, for my liking.”
Then, without warning, he switched to Indian cricket: “Your fans are too negative. Is it because you’re spoilt for choice?”
“They have their idols,” I replied, “so they don’t like the others.”
Will chuckled, then confessed, “Don’t mind me, but I hate seeing Rishabh Pant bat.”
“Because he scores against you all the time?” I teased.
“That’s fine. It’s just—how he plays. That’s not Test cricket. All those dances down the track—irritates the old-school fan in me.”
“But your team plays Bazball now!” I protested. “Joe Root was reverse scooping.”
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Will shook his head. “Not a Bazball fan either. I could watch KL Rahul bat all five days. See the ball, leave it, grind, drive—that’s Test cricket. Rahul needs his due. You guys keep messing with his batting position. Did you watch his innings yesterday? Pure music. Like someone played the perfect symphony.”
It was oddly endearing—the way he spoke about KL Rahul with such genuine admiration. For a moment, I almost forgot that Rahul’s innings had come against his team.
Later that day, with England closing in on victory and wickets refusing to fall, I walked a nervous lap around the stadium. Hunger took me to a food stall where Josephine was flipping burgers like she’d done it all her life. I asked, “Who do you think is winning?”
“I don’t care about cricket,” she shrugged. “I’m a Man United supporter. Football is the real game.”
“Hey! Me too. Glory glory,” I laughed.
She cracked a grin. “Football is tougher. Cricket is for the elites. My brother Chris wanted to be a cricketer once, but we couldn’t afford it. Too many things to buy. Football—one pair of shoes and you’re good to go.”
“Does he play football now?”
“Everyone in England plays football,” she said matter-of-factly. “But he’s not into it anymore. I only like cricket matches at Headingley ‘cause they increase our sales. More matches, more money.” She winked.
And now it’s time to leave Leeds.
In an hour, I’ll be heading out with my team—next stop Birmingham, then Nottingham, and then back again to Birmingham for the second Test. The venues will change. The match situations will too. And before long, the scorecards will be archived, forgotten, replaced by newer headlines.
But conversations—they don’t get archived. They stay on. Like a line of commentary, you never wrote, but always remembered.
Too much football, just enough cricket—and more than enough heart. That’s Leeds for me.
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