There is definitely something happening, right? You can feel it under the skin now – a stubbornness, a resilience, a refusal to lie down that simply didn’t exist a few weeks ago. There’s fight again. There’s spirit again. There’s belief again. And for all the doom‑mongering, for all the muttering about League Two, it suddenly feels like next season might actually be something to look forward to. Jon Brady’s Vale might be a bit of fun.

Clearly, we’re going down – that part was pencilled into the script in November – but if we are going down, we’re going down swinging. Teeth bared, shirt torn, blood on the knuckles. And we cannot ask for anything more from these players. This is exactly what we needed to see.

But forget next season. Forget April. Forget the table, the mathematics, the anxieties. For once, let’s just enjoy the now.

Because last night we reached the 5th round of the FA Cup for the first time since those hazy, halcyon days of the 90s – John Rudge, Ian Bogie, Jon McCarthy, et al. A proper cup run, a real one, built on a magnificent performance against Championship side Bristol City. Both Bristol clubs chalked off this season. A West Country double. And Ben Waine – the man who seemed to be learning how to walk, talk and play football all at the same time back in August – doing the business in both games. We’ll get to him. There’s a novel’s worth of material on Ben Waine alone.

This has been coming. This better version of us. Instigated by Jon Brady. A group of players that has dragged itself off the canvas, spat out blood, and got back into the fight. Every single player grafted last night, not one passenger, not one spectator. Even those you want more from – and yes, Rhys Walters absolutely falls into that category. Walters should be terrifying to play against. He should loom. He should dominate. Sometimes it feels like he’s playing with the handbrake on. I just want to see so much more from him. And his distribution last night? It was really poor. I know the pitch is a state, but still. There has to be a better player in Rhys then what we are seeing.

But then there’s Jordan Shipley. His best game for us by miles. Yes, he still delivered the occasional dead ball straight into the keeper’s arms or out for a goal kick, but it’s improving. He put some genuinely dangerous stuff into the box. And he lasted 120 minutes without shrivelling. He looks invested. Brady has backed him, and maybe – just maybe – that belief is starting to pay interest.

Speaking of improvement; Gauci’s kicking. From sending the ball on long, mystical journeys into the stands, to somehow keeping more or less everything on the pitch. He seems full of confidence as well, it’s good to see. And Connor Hall – another great performance. A player who has looked so League Two for so much of this season he could’ve been carved out of meat and potatoes. But suddenly, for the last three or four games he’s been immense. Dominant. Adventurous. The form of his life.

And, Ben Waine. What on earth has happened there? In August he looked like someone who’d won a competition to train with the team. He looked so out of his depth it was untrue. I genuinely thought he’d be out on loan somewhere like Accrington by January, struggling to get minutes. I could not see a player there. Now? He’s electric. A menace. Pace, timing, relentless movement, all stitched together into this hyperactive, impossible-to-handle nuisance. He must be horrific to play against right now. Glorious.

The new recruits are beginning to look sharp too. Eli looks like he’s been here longer than he has. Tyler Magloire was solid, looked confident in that back three. And Andre Gray – I mean, that through ball for the goal? On that pitch? Witchcraft. Grant Ward, too, looked so much brighter than he did against Stockport. Little touches, little turns, little reminders that he’s still got some glory days left in him.

But let’s get to Onel Hernández.

Onel became my Player of the Season the moment he signed, and I’ll be completely objective here about his performance last night. He was magnificent. Not in the conventional sense. Not in the stat-padding sense. Not in any normal footballing sense. Look, it’s not always about these things.

So… in what sense do I mean?

Well, let me tell you.

Hernández has a vibe. He gave us one little shimmy near the touch line which for a split-second bamboozled the whole universe before he executed a near perfect three-yard pass to Grant Ward. It was sublime. The stuff dreams are made of. A moment of Cuban mysticism on a pitch usually reserved for long throws and existential dread. Is this not everything we have ever wanted?

Some may question what else he actually did last night. Some might say that he looked like the podgy kid who gets picked last, and that’s fine. You can see what you want to see, say what you want to say. The lad enjoys his food. So fucking what? The yellow card he picked up after the final whistle was the icing on the cake for me (which he had probably already eaten). Heroic. A man of the people. A man of appetite. A man of destiny. A revolutionary in black and white.

And I know – I absolutely know – he’s going to produce something outrageous against Sunderland on Sunday. A little cameo of chaos in the last fifteen. Just wait. It’s coming.

Sunderland next, then. The Black Cats. The Mackems. Mid‑table Premier League. Let them come with their confidence and their comfort. The pitch will play its part, as it always has in our little rebellions – so let’s give them the kind of surface that swallowed Spurs in ’88, no need to be gracious hosts. Hospitality is wasted on giants.

I’m not getting carried away with all this – honestly – but it did leave me wondering: what actually happens to the winners of the FA Cup these days? Do they even go anywhere special anymore? I remember the Cup Winners’ Cup, but that disappeared into the mists years ago, didn’t it? I don’t really pay any attention to the European scene.

That’s the thing, though. Europe always feels like something that happens to other people, the ones who spend May parading silverware while the rest of us are trying to work out whether 52 points will be enough.

I’ll be checking my passport, any road.

And Sunday? Whatever fate decides, whatever happens under that grey Burslem sky, we will sing. We will dance. We will swagger around those pubs and streets, soaked in hope or heartbreak, voices cracked and hearts pounding like they always have.

Because we’re Port Vale.

And this is our lunacy.

Not yours.