Where we end up this season, it’s all down to the back line — the last stand, the trench, the place where dreams get mugged in the alleyways. Defending. It’s not been great, has it? Not great at all.

Ok, we are five games unbeaten, 13 points from 12 gigs, we have steadied the ship after that start of no wins from seven – there’s definitely no two ways about that. But – but! – we really could be in such a better position. Those mistakes at the back are getting punished every time. Every single time. The difference between League 2 and League 1.

Saturday, Wimbledon — the scene of the latest stumble. Heneghan and Hall, dancing like drunks in the penalty box, chasing ghosts instead of clearing the ball. From the away end it looked tragic, from the TV lens it looked biblical. Add it to the horror reel: the two goals conceded at Rotherham, the two conceded against Stevenage, the one at Reading, all three slammed past us by Leyton Orient. Nine of the eleven goals we have conceded this season have big red question marks hanging over our defending like neon signs in a noir flick. Our Achilles heel. Our cracked foundation. Imagine the table if we just had some standard League One steel.

Summer came and went, and we didn’t stack the centre-back deck. Just Cameron Humphreys — smooth operator, class act, a saxophone solo in a summers breeze. But we needed another. Heneghan, Hall, Jesse Debrah — the jury was out, the jury was nervous. But Jesse, Jesse’s found his groove. Saturday he was here, there and everywhere – even popping up on the wings, throwing down some serious McCarthy-Guppy vibes, like a beat god with boots on.

Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t a hit piece on the back line, no sir. But the themes, the motifs, they keep recurring like a bad dream or a broken record. Points slipping through our fingers like sand in an hourglass.

And the wing-backs — the army, the cavalry, the wounded. Kyle John, Mitch Clark, Liam Gordon, Jaheim Headley, Jordan Gabriel (maybe out, maybe not, I would be surprised if he isn’t after Saturday). Only Jack Shorrock left standing, and Moore’s not digging his tune. Injuries, recurring themes again — Clark, John, Headley — it’s like a curse, back for a few games then back to the physio room. Recall Sam Hart from Falkirk? Seriously? Wild move, but pure Vale. Sam Hart, resurrected, crown of thorns, feigning injury like the Messiah in a Shakespearean fever dream. Or maybe not. Who knows?

Still, we took a point at Wimbledon. Should be happy, right? Dominated possession in the first half, dug ourselves in for the second. Played the rhythm game. George Byers — the metronome, the heartbeat. George Hall — lightning in boots. Devante Cole — the predator, the hunter. Jayden Stockley — guile, presence, the cool breeze. Mo Faal — cameo king, flicks and tricks, saving the day with a header off the line like a lighthouse keeper in the storm, refusing to let the light go out.

But the spotlight, it keeps swinging back to our penalty area, our defending. Hesitation. Indecision. The ghosts of goals past.

Next stop: Wigan. Town of pies and Rugby League, the Pier and the Casino, soul and verve. We roll on.