Tonight the balls will rattle in the bowl and the ghosts of giant-killings will lean in close, because the FA Cup 4th round draw is upon us and Vale are still breathing. Skin in the game, knuckles scraped, after a turgid, anxious, often eye‑wateringly worrying one‑nil win over Fleetwood Town on a freezing Friday night in the Mother town.

First game in charge for Jon Brady. The wheel handed over mid‑storm. A man tasked with keeping this ship afloat in League One waters. Ronan Curtis has chipped. Vanished down south to be with Tolaj. Jack Shorrock and James Plant summoned back to base camp, while tomorrow we take the road to Bolton for the Vertu Cup, the cup that barely registers a pulse. Saturday we travel to Mansfeld, slayers of Sheff Utd yesterday, for our latest absolute must-win. Lots going on.

Friday night at Vale Park. The cold gets into your bones and refuses to leave. I wanted to see us carry on where we left off against Blackpool. I wanted excitement and chaos. A riot. Venom and violence. A statement. I wanted Fleetwood strung up as a sacrificial offering, the ground shaking under a declaration: this is the resurrection, this is Brady’s Vale, and we are back.

But football rarely gives you the script you want.

Fleetwood came and played, really played, matched us stride for stride and should be disappointed they didn’t take us beyond ninety minutes, or even nick it outright. Their football was, for large periods, sharper, more coherent, right up until the moment they stepped into our penalty area – then something strange happened. A fog. A vertigo. Whatever it was, they just stopped functioning. Lucky for us.

Joe Gauci was back between the sticks. Maybe Villa aren’t calling just yet. The usual Gauci performance: magnificent handling paired with kicking so wild it borders on performance art. Feet like jazz hands in a thunderstorm – once he unleashes the ball there’s no knowing where it’s landing, least of all him.

Jordan Shipley got the goal. Won the game. Lit the internet on fire with a celebration that apparently required a panel discussion and several court filings. Honestly, who cares. Gestures, interpretations, faux outrage, it’s all noise. We shouldn’t be worrying about these things. The truth is much simpler and far more uncomfortable: we spent seventy-five minutes huffing-and-puffing, then fifteen minutes hanging on against a League Two side who are not exactly terrorising their division. Brady will be under no illusions about what’s on his plate.

Ronan Curtis moves on. A player who gave us moments, real moments, last season – late drama, last‑gasp salvation, but never consistency. Maybe that wasn’t his fault. He’s a winger. We didn’t use wingers. Darren Moore signed him and Darren Moore didn’t play to his strengths. Football eats irony for breakfast. We can only wish him well.

Shorrock and Plant are back in the building and Brady wants eyes on everything he’s got. A couple of years ago I’d have sworn both were bound for bigger things, bigger grounds, brighter lights. Now? I don’t know. Futures have a way of shrinking when development stalls. Smaller clubs beckon. Maybe even non‑league. That said, Jack is still young, still learning – and football has a short memory when talent suddenly catches fire again. Rico Richards? Maybe he’ll be back. Not getting many minutes at Walsall, which tells its own story.

Tomorrow it’s Bolton, in the cup that pretends to matter while quietly admitting it doesn’t. Let’s hand it over to our fringe players. A couple of academy lads. A chance for some to shove their hands up and say loud and clear I belong in the escape plan.

And then there’s the FA Cup.

It could be nothing. It could be everything. A cold trip, a dull afternoon, forgotten by Tuesday. Or it could be Anfield or the Etihad under the lights, a visit to ST4, another battle with Arsenal, Wembley shimmering in the distance like a foolish dream.

The league comes first. It has to. Survival is the only currency that matters right now. But on a dreary Monday, sat at work, we’re allowed a slice of romance. Just a little. Enough to get us through the day. Think Spurs, think Everton. Pragmatism returns on Saturday. Today we can dream a little dream.