The new season looms, and, as ever, I have nothing but unquestioning faith in the squad we’re assembling at Vale.

And within that, there’s always a new signing I convince myself will be the story. That player who turns draws into wins, whispers into noise; who’ll bring thunder, lightning and just enough chaos to set Vale Park alight. The one who grabs a game by the scruff of the neck and batters it into submission.

All before I’ve even seen him kick a ball.

It’s simple, really. Suspend reason, ignore rationale, and let blind optimism do the rest.

And this season it’s Oliver Lynch. The new Oli. He’s the one. A Vale legend in waiting. I can feel it. He’s been my whole world ever since his arrival was announced on social media yesterday. I’m not even waiting to see who else comes in. I don’t need to.

Oli arrives on a season-long loan from Luton Town. His experience is purely non-league. No League Two pedigree. No reassuring “he’s already done it at this level” footnote.

But he’s done the business in front of goal for both Hemel Hempstead and Tamworth over the past couple of seasons – how many players can make that claim? I’ve watched about 30 seconds of a highlights video on YouTube, and somehow, that’s enough. More than enough. I’ve Googled him and everything makes perfect sense.

I’m all in.

Which, of course, makes absolutely no sense.

Falling in love with a player you know almost nothing about is one of football’s stranger rituals, especially when it’s a loan player. We’ve seen the ones who make the world a happier place, only to be cruelly snatched back by their parent club at the end of December. We’ve seen those “promising” loan signings too: the ones labelled raw potential, the ones who need time to adapt. The ones who never seem to adapt.

We’ve been here countless times before with Vale.

But here’s the thing: I don’t care. I couldn’t give a toss.

I happily throw my heart, my hopes, my better judgement at players who might end up at Kidsgrove Athletic, Stone Dominoes or even Greggs by the time they’re reached the age of 25. Why? Because I can. Because reality is overrated. It’s the illusion, the possibility that hooks you. That’s the romance, the thrill, the allure. Yes, it usually ends with a dagger to the heart. But that’s fine, I can live with that – because I know the next obsession is already waiting just around the corner. It’s a cycle that never really ends. And that’s the beauty of it.

But why? Why Oliver Lynch? What sets him apart from the rest – the mere mortals, the players who have arrived with the right experience, the right attributes?

I’ll tell you what it is. He’s got vibe. He’s got aura. He’s got jazz. And ultimately, that’s what counts. Technical ability doesn’t enter the equation. He just looks and sounds like possibility.

And guess what? I already know how his season will pan out. How? I’ve had visions. They appear uninvited, like intrusive thoughts – wild, vivid, strangely enlightening.

The scruffy debut goal comes at Swindon away, 1st September, evening kick-off. A bundled finish on 73 minutes, half instinct, half luck. A cheeky three points for the travelling Valiants. And so the prophecy begins.

Then the breakthrough at Vale Park, and, oh my goodness, it’s a beauty: Exeter at home, 12th September, the sky cloudless, the game drifting into nothing, it’s a dull affair truth be told – and then suddenly Oli’s there, he’s in behind! One touch, two, and a deft little dink over the keeper. Absolute limbs in the Hamil!

After that, the floodgates are well and truly open. Fifteen goals before Christmas, including a hat-trick at the Bescot. Goals bundled in off shins, goals lashed into top corners. There’s a one-match ban too, for the ‘improper’ gesture he sends towards Grimsby fans after a stoppage-time, 25-yard screamer seals victory. It seems a tad harsh. He had every right to get himself over-excited. I mean, who wouldn’t? Vale don’t fine him. In fact, Brady makes sure there’s a quiet little bonus waiting in his wage packet. All with Carol’s blessing, of course. Kept on the QT.

By December I’ve already rewritten history. It becomes impossible to remember how we coped before he arrived. Oli Lynch is the first name on the teamsheet, the first name chanted from the Paddock and Hamil, the answer to questions nobody has even asked yet. Need a goal? He’ll get one. Need two? Fuck it, he’ll get us both – it’s what he does.

Oli Lynch. The saviour. The poacher supreme.

And it’s his knack for crucial goals, for being in the right place at the right time, that has everyone talking in the pubs at Christmas. All of us trying to suppress that creeping thought: Luton will pull the plug. Try to derail us.

Brady, though, is adamant: he’s staying.

“Oh, that is wonderful – that is absolutely wonderful!” purrs the great Barry Davies, coaxed out of retirement, presumably from a quiet room lined with VHS tapes and mild astonishment, choosing Vale Park in January (FA Cup 3rd round) for his comeback, as Oli crashes home his 16th of the season. A hint of offside, perhaps, but the liner on the Lorne Street side is a yard behind play; he hasn’t seen it.

Phil Bowers, meanwhile, is as rapt as any listener, content to sit back and drink in this masterclass – picking up a tip here, a nuance there – even though Davies, the old sorcerer himself, has long since made no secret of his admiration for Bowers. Each, in his own way, a student of the other.

Beside them, match summariser Sproey (Legend. Stalwart. January 1988, he thumps home that second goal and a 17-year-old boy in the Bycars is delirious with joy, tears streaming down his cheeks) shifts uneasily, weighing up a choice between a Custard Cream and a Chocolate Digestive. “I’ve heard rumblings,” he mutters gloomily to Davies, Bowers, and the listeners on BBC Radio Stoke, “that Wrexham have approached Luton. They’re considering a bid.” He reaches for the Custard Cream, privately lamenting the absence of a Garibaldi or Hobnob. “I shan’t make a fuss about the biscuits,” he tells himself. “not in front of Barry Davies, any road.”

Will any of this actually happen?

Probably not.

But that’s not really the point. If I can’t sit at work and drift off into thoughts of Oli Lynch dismantling Crewe, Newport, Accrington Stanley and Barnet, then what exactly is left? What’s supposed to carry you through the hours? It’s the nonsense – the half-formed, irrational, hopeful nonsense – that keeps you sane. It’s these absurd trains of thought, constantly running through your head, that get you through the day. Embrace them. They’re the only thing that truly belong to you.

And besides, supporting Vale isn’t about calculated probabilities. If we wanted certainty, we’d have picked a different team a long time ago. No, we chose this path for higher reasons than success and silverware and all that bullshit. It’s about these little acts of irrational hope. These decisions to plant a flag in something fragile and say, “Yes this. This is the thing that’s going to matter more than anything.”

Of course, it doesn’t always play out how I want it to. Historically, emotionally, and more often than I’d care to admit, I’ve got it completely wrong.

Jeff Minton. Ross Gardner. Lewis Haldane. Kaid Mohamed. Paulo Tavares. Diamond Edwards.

Players I was convinced would light up the Burslem sky. Players who would bring nothing but joy until the inevitable, heartbreaking moment they were plucked away by a Barcelona or an AC Milan.

Maybe it is better to fall in love with a loan player. Maybe it’s easier to manage our expectations when we know they were never truly ours in the first place.

Oli hasn’t kicked a competitive ball for us yet, but this is the story I’m telling myself. He’ll score hugely important goals. He’ll drift through afternoons where nothing seems to come off for him, then suddenly, in ten-minute bursts, everything will. He’ll frustrate, he’ll surprise, he’ll disappear and re-emerge – and somewhere along the line, he’ll win us plenty of games.

Maybe.

And that’s the beauty of a new signing you know absolutely nothing about. For a brief, glorious window, reality has no authority. Hope roams free. Imagination takes control.

And that’s enough for me. It always is.