And down they went, their fans screaming and shouting and pointing fingers of blame. For a while, David Sullivan sat there and absorbed the hate, but before long he was gone from his seat, vanished, just like West Ham from the Premier League.
In the end, not even David Moyes could save this crumbled relic of an institution from afar. Not this time. And nor could a thumping win within the confines of their own home, rare as that was.
No, none of those factors could help. None of it could undo what had been done. None of it could keep the trapdoor from opening under the sheer weight of inertia and neglect from those, like Sullivan, who took ownership of a loved club many years ago and allowed it to fester into a cauldron of loathing and discord.
And hence the protests. And the chants we won’t repeat in this space, which ultimately served as the soundtrack for West Ham’s relegation after a 15-year stay in the top flight.
When that plummet was finalised, a cast of good, average and weak players fell to the ground. At one end of that scale was Jarrod Bowen, a scorer and flag-carrier on this day like so many, but at the opposite extreme were too many to name. Too many passengers, too many flops that cost more than their worth, and too many dismal replacements for the departed talents already sold off. Men like Declan Rice once roamed this midfield. Today? It almost seems cruel to make the comparisons.
And for that reason, a 3-0 win could not fix the indignities of a wretched campaign. Whether Nuno Espirito Santo is the man who attempts the correction next season remains to be seen. Likewise the future of Bowen, without whom this collapse would have happened long ago.
West Ham were relegated on the final day of the season despite beating Leeds 3-0
David Sullivan (left) briefly sat and took the hate directed his way until vanishing from his seat
Naturally, those scenarios are among the aftershocks of relegation, but at least this one was sealed with the minor joy of a victory, albeit against a Leeds side long assured of their place. By kick-off, the only external teams of interest to Nuno resided within the squads of Moyes’s Everton and Tottenham and Moyes couldn’t help.
If there is any consolation for Nuno, it is that when the time came for his own players to stand up, they delivered. Sort of. Not across the season, but in the final hurrah, which is to say far too late.
Their task was summarised by their form of three straight defeats and their form was summarised by Nuno in his programme notes. They read: ‘There are many things we could say about our last few matches… and it’s true almost none of them are good.’
The previous three games, lost to an aggregate of 7-1, would suggest he was right, but as a rallying cry it was hardly Churchill.
Nor did his team selection inspire any belated faith in the depths of such a bleak, unbalanced squad. When only a win would do, Callum Wilson was dropped, the defence was bumped down from a five to a four, and somewhere among the incoming for a restructured attack was Pablo, a forward responsible for one assist and no goals since joining for £20million in January.
That wouldn’t have sent a shiver across the pitch, let alone to north London. Contributing to the wider ambiance of doom was a malfunction from the stadium sound system – during its final playing of Bubbles prior to the kick-off, it slipped into a muddle of strange noises and needed to be restarted. A metaphor for the club? An omen for the afternoon?
Well, the game itself certainly didn’t commence how Nuno would have wanted. His guys were nervous, their passes loose, the touches looser. The saving grace was that Daniel Farke’s side were little better, meaning that when Axel Disasi was caught in possession after seven minutes, Lukas Nmecha was gifted a clean swing from eight yards and clattered the strike sideways off his shin. Half an hour later, Dominic Calvert-Lewin wasted a marginally better chance with a mis-hit of his own.
In between those moments of jeopardy, Mateus Fernandes mounted a minor assault against a gentle tide. Alas, his drive from 25 yards was saved pretty easily by Karl Darlow.
A cast of good, average and weak players fell to the ground when Tottenham’s result was in
Nuno Espirito Santo (centre) did his best to save the club, but it was too little, too late, and his team selection was weak here
A word on Fernandes. He spoke for many in querying this side’s lack of heart at Newcastle a week earlier and the sentiment echoed here for the entire first-half. West Ham’s desire was evident, but it was speaking in whispers when this was a time for screams.
And then a few came, but from the wrong place, because Leeds fans had heard that Tottenham had scored against Everton. West Ham’s response to such heightened peril? Nothing beyond a pair of threatening crosses with no recipient.
When the whistle went for the break, there were a few boos, of course, and then a modest cheer at the resumption when Nuno reversed his earlier thinking by bringing on Wilson for Pablo. That was progress, demonstrated when Wilson rolled Taty Castellanos into open air in front of goal, only for his team-mate to cushion his first touch with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
Across the next eight minutes, Castellanos would balloon a second decent chance wide and kill the threat of another by over-hitting a through ball for Crysencio Summerville. It was a struggle. For him. For them. For those who pay to watch this stuff each week in a stadium they have despised for 10 years and counting.
Nuno was pacing beyond the white markings of his area by that stage – the only line-breaker in West Ham colours. But then came a moment. A tremor of possibility. And from the strangest of places, too: Castellanos.
Rising to meet a Bowen corner that dipped viciously on an in-swinging path, he may have been helped by Konstantinous Mavropanos grappling Ethan Ampadu from his path, but the header was precise. Nuno punched the air.
But Spurs were still 1-0 up across town.
When Bowen raced ahead of Joe Rodon a short while later and rattled the second past Darlow, that more pressing situation hadn’t changed. Ditto when we got to the rare altitudes of a 3-0 lead, secured with the final contribution of the season and via a 20-yard rocket from Wilson.
For those allied to West Ham, the goals were worth cheering. You take the wins where you can get them. But those feelings will fade as the enormity of relegation beds in. One suspects the venom directed at Sullivan will persist far longer.
