Dare we dream. Dare we start believing. The road is long but yesterday – for the first time in months – we felt the engine catch. A spark. A rumble. The first steps on a mission everyone else has already written off as impossible. We entered the new year with a bang. A statement of intent.

Funny thing is, for 45 minutes it was the same tired tune, the same dance we’ve been stumbling through since autumn. That 3‑5‑2 that feels like walking with stones in your shoes. Going behind again. Creativity locked behind some invisible door. The same old same old.

And then the moment – the catalyst – a straight red. James Husband flying into Ryan Croasdale, catching the ball first maybe, but in this modern game it’s the follow‑through that writes the verdict. We’ve lived that frustration ourselves at Burton, felt the sting of injustice, but the old days of the ref waving ‘play-on’ are gone. The game’s changed. Responsibility matters. Think before you leap.

Second half, though – ah, that was different. That was Vale stepping out of the phone booth in a fresh suit. George Hall and Ronan Curtis on as genuine wingers, the shape shifting to a clean, honest 4‑4‑2. It’s all a bit old school but it suits the players we have. Suddenly the pitch opened up. We were rampant. Byers conducting the whole thing like a man who’d found his baton again. George Hall with the swagger. And the goals?  Stockley, rising like a lighthouse in a storm, nodding in the equaliser. Cole, cheeky as you like, robbing the full‑back with a cute little nudge to gift Byers the second.  Headley, finishing a move painted by a gorgeous Shipley pass – Shipley, the eternal enigma, but glowing in that second half.  Cole with the fourth, Curtis sweeping home the fifth after Hall’s clever work, the whole thing humming like a band in full flow.

Yes, it was ten men. But how often do ten men become a wall, a fortress, a team reborn in adversity. Not this time. Blackpool folded like a cheap deckchair in a seaside storm.

And then the whistle. And then the walk – that sacred, rain‑slicked pilgrimage down Hamil Road. Cold wind biting, puddles shining under the streetlights, but hearts warm, lighter than they’ve been since September, optimism in the air.

The Bulls Head. A Titanic Porter. A double brandy. The old bones thawing. An Uber from St John’s Square to Tunstall. A couple more pints to celebrate the new year.

Barnsley next. Sunday. Another chance to keep that rhythm, that second‑half rhythm that felt like life returning. Nine points from safety – just nine. A small number in a big world.

This is not beyond us. Not yet. Not while there’s breath, belief, and a team willing to run the long road with us.