It wasn’t a final. It wasn’t a derby. On paper, it was just another league match on a cold Tuesday night in Stoke. But it’s the game I think about most.
The rain started an hour before kickoff — proper English rain. Heavy, sideways, soaking through warm-up jackets. The pitch was slick, the kind where the ball skids faster than your thoughts. Gaffer kept it simple in the dressing room: “Win your battles. Keep it ugly if you have to.”
I wasn’t even meant to start that night. One of our regular midfielders pulled his hamstring in warm-up, and suddenly I was in. No time to overthink. Just lace up and step out.
The first half was scrappy. Sloppy touches, crunching tackles, the crowd right on top of you. I misplaced a pass early on and heard the groans. It sticks with you — that sound. As players, we pretend it doesn’t. It does.
Second half, still 0–0. Legs heavy. Shirts muddy. Then around the 78th minute, the ball broke loose just outside their box. I don’t even remember deciding to shoot. It was instinct. One touch out of my feet and I hit it low through the rain.
For a split second, everything went quiet in my head.
Then the net moved.
Not top corner. Not a screamer. It skipped off the wet turf and wrong-footed the keeper. Ugly goal. Perfect moment.
The roar in that stadium — under the floodlights, rain pouring down — that’s the feeling you chase as a footballer. Teammates jumping on you. Mud in your mouth. Fans singing your name when twenty minutes earlier they were groaning.
We won 1–0.
It wasn’t about the three points. It was about proving to myself that I belonged. That when the chance came — unexpected, uncomfortable, messy — I could take it.
People remember trophies. I remember rainy Tuesday nights where everything could’ve gone wrong… but didn’t.
That’s football. And that’s why I love it.