Sunday 2 November, 3PM kick-off. The Valiants vs Maldon & Tiptree. FA Cup 1st Round proper. This fixture that has become drenched in so much narrative it might as well be staged by Beckett and scored by Wagner. The Maldon owner’s been chirping away on Twitter, poking the Vale faithful like a man trying to tickle a sleeping bear. The whole nation will be watching, popcorn in hand, waiting for the punchline, waiting for our fall.

Everyone loves a cup upset. Of course they do. Schadenfreude – the sweet tooth of the masses. It’s the way the game works: the league side stripped naked by the much-loved stereotypical composition of the non-league side – that ragtag carnival of scaffolders, postmen, IT consultants, small-time ketamine dealers, all drawn together by the great lottery of life, several leagues below in the footballing pyramid, existing in some forgotten corner of England where the wind blows through empty car parks and nobody cares. We’ve all tasted that joy, haven’t we? That huge, big smirk when the giant stumbles.

We’re still shaking off the dirt from Monday night, that horror-show from under the lights, Sky Sports cameras capturing every single second of our humiliation. Stockport bullying us, and us letting them do it. Maldon & Tiptree would’ve loved it, would’ve laughed into their pint glasses. And now they’re coming, Sunday afternoon, coming at us with fire and brimstone, shock and awe. Every one of their players will run until their lungs burn, then get up and run again, because this is their shot at history. Their shot at immortality.

Do we go with our strongest eleven? Even though Monday night they gave us nothing? Do we stick with the names, the reputations, the safe bets? Or do we throw the doors open to the wild ones, the fringe dwellers, the misfits, the loose cannons, those with chaos in their veins —Funso Ojo, Rhys Walters, Jack Shorrock, Jordan Shipley, Mo Faal, all of them waiting in the wings. And what about Ben Waine, our international superstar, that man of mystery from New Zealand, that monumental disappointment, do we let him loose, let him run like a mad dog under the November sky? Do we let Marko have another go in goal? Would that be crazy? Let’s roll the dice. Let’s see what happens.

And here’s the thing: this is where it gets beautiful. We’re Port Vale. We don’t exist to play it safe. Never have. We dance with chaos, twist when the world is screaming ‘stick’, burn the house down instead of hoovering the front room. We’ll be there Sunday, embracing the absurdity of caring so much about something that means nothing. To defy the football gods, you’ve got to live in the madness, that ninety minutes of chaos, hope, dread and delirium.

We don’t choose the comfortable four-nil victories, no way, that’s not our gig, not our vibe, we need to feel the edge. We crave the rollercoaster – the one that plunges you into the abyss before hurling you skyward. Joy or pain. Death or glory. It belongs to us. It is our madness. We couldn’t exist without it.