Saturday 6 September 2025

Vale Park, Burslem, Stoke-on-Trent

When it arrived, the kill was swift and surgical. Ninety minutes plus five. A careless surrender on the halfway line, a blur of movement — run, pass, pass, goal. It was not merely a defeat, but a moment of collapse. A bullet to hope, a knife to belief, a sucker punch to the soul. The naïve pugilist lies sprawled on the canvas, not just beaten but exposed. The theatre empties, the faithful of the Potteries drifting away in silence, while the victors from East London revel in their moment, oblivious to the metaphysical weight of what has transpired.

Played seven. Won none. Drawn two. Lost five. These are not just statistics — they are the contours of despair. We must stare into the abyss with eyes wide open. Lucidity is our only weapon. We are the team everyone longs to face, not because of our flaws, but because of our inertia. A slow, lumbering beast, staggering through the fog of its own confusion. Defensively, we are generous to a fault — not in quantity, but in the poetry of our collapse. Kyle John, a passive observer to the unfolding tragedy. Jaheim Headley, once again caught in the act of not acting. The winning goal? A study in hesitation. Two chances to intervene, to foul, to disrupt fate. But we, through Ojo and Hall, chose passivity. With thirty seconds left, why not embrace the necessary evil? Why not bend the moral arc for survival?

Were there positives? Yes, but even light casts shadows. Funso Ojo entered at half-time, a conductor in a symphony of chaos. Ruari Paton replaced the ineffective Mo Faal, bringing with him the boundless energy of an excitable puppy, always eager to please the faithful (Ruari could play every minute of every game until the end of the season and not give us five goals – he is not alone in this). We dominated the second half, yes, but domination without precision is merely noise. We are hod carriers, not artisans. We do not carve open defences with elegance; we hurl ourselves at the void, hoping it yields.

Devante Cole offered a glimpse of something more. A debut marked by contribution — an assist, a goal. A flicker of promise in the gloom. But even as we surged, Orient remained composed. No theatrics, no feigned injury. They knew. They had seen enough to believe. They waited, and they were right to.

So, can we find meaning in our suffering? Four defeats in a row. No wins from seven. The absurdity of hope in the face of relentless disappointment. But Amor Fati — our love of fate — echoes from the mouth of Nietzsche. Our suffering is not a curse, but a confirmation. To endure is to affirm life. To bleed is to be alive. Port Vale is not just a football club — it is our confrontation with the absurd. It is our resilience.

It is our refusal to ever look away.