Saturday 27 September 2025, 3pm.

Oakwell Stadium, Barnsley.

We rolled into Oakwell like pilgrims chasing absolution, minds heavy with the weight of August 5th, 2023 — opening day, opening wound. The sun was high but the memory low, seven goals like seven sins carved into our backs, Dan Jones the first to fall, the rest crumbling like old brick in a dismal second half.

We remembered.

We remembered the silence after the seventh, the way the away end emptied like a soul leaving a body. We remembered the red shirts swarming, the Vale boys lost in the storm. We remembered the shame, the ache, the long drive home with nothing but static on the radio and the ghost of that day riding shotgun.

But this time — this time we came not to play, but to purge.

The ball moved like jazz, erratic and divine, and every tackle was a prayer, every pass a psalm. Two goals, clean and righteous, like candles lit in a cathedral of revenge. Barnsley blinked, and we were gone— ghosts no more, but men reborn.

Oakwell, you tried to bury us. Today, we danced on your grave.

The floodlights flickered like tired eyes, the pitch a canvas of intent and misfires, Shipley’s boot a pendulum of chaos — one moment divine, the next a cruel joke. Jesse Deborah rose like a prayer, missed like a whisper. Garrity ghosted into space, calling for the gospel ball, but Shipley’s hymn was off-key, too heavy, too late.

Then came the moment – midway through the 2nd half – Devante Cole with the flick, Dajaune Brown with the burst, Jordan Gabriel with the slide, the net rippling like a curtain drawn back on a new act. Barnsley 0, Vale 1.

It got better. Croasdale, fresh-legged and full of fire, stepped into the frame like a man possessed, struck it clean, struck it true, the ball arcing like a comet into the far corner. Two-nil, and the Barnsley backline looked like they’d seen a ghost.

Our keeper, Aussie Joe Gauci, jazz feet frozen, a statue in gloves, a mere spectator today, looking like he needed nothing more than a pie, a coffee, and a warm, comfy seat. Barnsley – today a study of impotence. Battered, bruised and beaten.

And now those shoe heads of Northampton come marching, clattering their cobbler drums, dreaming of spoiling the party. Vale Park. Saturday. We stand tall, three wins deep, hearts full, boots ready. We expect four. We demand four. The rhythm rolls on.